You love the boy I let you find,
But he is made, not born, in mind
A crafted mask, a practiced art,
A ghost of self, a split apart

He smiles on cue, he speaks with grace,
But he is only in my place
An echo dressed in borrowed light,
A shadow playing at being right

Yet still you love this polished shell,
The tale I spin, the dream I sell
But if you saw what lies beneath,
Would kindness turn to ash and grief?

If truth uncoiled from under skin,
Would love collapse from where it’s been?
Would you still look me in the eye,
If I told you this “me” was a lie?

You’ve hurt me more than you may know,
But still, I’d never strike a blow
I took your pain, I wore your shame,
Yet dream of flames I cannot name

For what I dream to do, to say,
Would wash your peace like stars away
A wave no surfer’s strength could bear,
You’d drown in tears, stripped raw and bare

You cry at oceans—I at stars,
At nebulae and bleeding scars
Your grief is deep, but not like mine,
I’ve swallowed time, and called it fine

I am not Earth, nor built for ease,
Not shaped by gardens, sun, or trees
I am a moon of Saturn’s brood,
Born of ash and solitude

Among her moons, I spin and burn,
While others freeze and never yearn
They orbit close with silent pride,
I flare with longing none can hide

I am the ember in her ice,
A misfit fire in rings precise
I circle like the rest must do,
But always dream of something new

My gaze is fixed beyond her light,
To Earth’s pale moon in endless night
That single sphere in velvet black,
Whose face reflects the love I lack

I ache to break this orbit’s bind,
To find a home more like my mind
I gaze toward Earth, where one moon glows,
Faint and familiar, through the cosmos it shows

For if I left this frigid ring,
What would my solemn Saturn think?
If I, the ember in her shade,
Defied the path tradition made?

Would Saturn weep, or would she rage?
Would guilt confine me to this cage?
Or would she sigh, and let me fly—
To chase the moon that caught my eye?

This week, I remembered how to hold things gently-
how to sit in a sunlit room with laughter
and not flinch at the brightness.

I made time.
Not borrowed, not stolen, not carved from guilt,
but real time-
offered with open hands
to people who make me feel like more than a body on a schedule.

There were hours that didn’t apologize for passing,
moments that asked nothing from me but presence.
I gave what I had, and still had something left.
Even joy. Even peace.

This week didn’t ask me to survive it.
It let me belong to it.

And now,
at the edge of it all,
I’m quietly afraid-
that I will look back on these days
from some far-off place
where time slips like water,
and wonder if this was just
a rare breath
before the drowning begins again.

I said your name last night,
to no one—just my shadow on the wall,
softly, a suggestion of a whisper,
pretending it didn't hurt at all.

I carry you like bruises,
and although I swore I wouldn't beg,
here I am, on my knees,
inside every text that I don't send.

It's not the act I fear,
but the breath before the yes—
as our worlds begin to unravel
like silk, shredded by violence.

If I break, please, break with me,
let's fall apart together now,
let's cry, as we burn to pieces.
I expect you to break me right.

These thoughts we have that swirl around in our head,

Sometimes all they do is hurt us instead.

All I want to do is embrace you in my arms, but I must say I find it hard. 

Perhaps in another time, in another life we should, be everything that I know we could.

I know how you feel, I feel it too.
But what your partner think of you.

This is written with love because you know I care
Please tell me what I should do, because I know it's not fair.

My little sister called me tonight.
Her voice cracked before she even said hello.
She saw the heart I typed,
and thought I was saying goodbye.

She shouldn’t have to live like this—
bracing herself
every time I answer too slowly,
learning to read my silences
like warning signs.

She’s just a kid.
My baby.
The one I used to tuck in
and promise monsters weren’t real.

But now I am the monster.
Not to her.
Never to her.
But to myself.

I am the nightmare she can’t wake up from.
The danger she can’t punch away.
The reason she checks her phone
like it’s a lifeline
and a bomb
at the same time.

And I hate it.
I hate that she’s learning
to live on edge
because of me.
Because I might break
and take her with me.

So maybe—
maybe the kindest thing I could do
is just end it.

Once.

Not again and again
in panicked calls and whispered fears
and “I love you”s that sound too final.
Not in sirens or hospital beds
or birthdays where I couldn’t come.

Just once.
One clean tear through the timeline.
One scream.
One silence.
And then nothing.

She’d cry,
yes.
But she’d stop being afraid.

She wouldn’t have to wonder anymore.
Wouldn’t have to scan my messages
for signs of collapse.
Wouldn’t have to carry
this slow, rotting dread
that her sister might be dying
in a place she can’t reach.

Maybe grief
would be easier than fear.

Maybe heartbreak
would feel like freedom
after years of holding her breath.

I think about that a lot.

How maybe
the kindest thing I could ever do for her
is disappear.

You’ve given me grief, you’ve given me pain
You’ve made me meek, you’ve made me vain
I should hate you, should crave ****** revenge
It’s insane that I miss you to no end.

Youve screamed and yelled and made me forget
My dreams and wills, the futures I’ve set
I’m finally free yet now I still ship
Notes over seas that I bet you just skip.

It’s not only me that you’ve given pain to
Lots of my loved ones you’ve also made blue.
It makes it much worse to me that I still
Love you this much against my own will.

Once a day, thoughts of QUITTING,
It was ages before or is it just me who aged?
Hearing whispers—
"Oh girl! Don't overthink, you're just a child."
But... how did this girl learnt to feel this way?

Back in days, this messy, inactive Angel…
She made mistakes and advancements at the same time.
Following her years with Covid-19,
Grew an ache of anger with a belief that—
The world was completely against her.

Then that day, when tears fell…
Wait—were those the thoughts of the overthinker me again?
And that was the time I recognised
Myself, with numerous talents to shine.

Today, an orator, poet, painter—she transformed.
But never gained the courage to own the title of best person.
She changed me, my young self, but…
Why is it me writing all these things as a memory of guilt again?
Maybe… it’s just me who aged—
Not my guilt.

-Parisha