i was small when you chose me.
a ribbon tied beautifully around my neck,
shaking in a box
the sun too bright for my eyes.
you smiled,
and i mistook it for kindness.
my forever home.

i learned quickly
that love can wear faces.
that hands can come down hard and still call it discipline.
that food is not promised, even if you sit.
even if you beg.
even if you try to be the best boy.

the chain outside never rusted faster than my hope did.
i stopped barking for help when no one came.
just curled tighter,
colder,
quieter.

you taught me fear by name.
it was yours.

when i peed on the carpet,
it wasn’t defiance.
i just couldn’t hold it anymore.
you never let me out.
but you held my head down like my lungs were made to drown.
and i thought,
maybe this is what love feels like to monsters.

you forgot to name me.
so i named myself sit.
so i named myself stay.
bad dog.

i chewed the furniture once
not to destroy,
but because no one left me toys,
and my teeth ached with the loneliness of growing.

do you remember when i licked your hand after you hit me?
i do.
i thought maybe if i gave you all of my love,
yours might finally stay.

they say dogs are loyal.
but what they mean is:
“we forgive the unforgivable
with our tails still wagging.”

i would’ve died for you.
but you made me live like this instead.

and now i sleep in silence
a small grave behind the shed,
where no one visits.
where no one remembers.
but i remember.

i remember everything.

and still,
i hope your next dog knows only warmth.
and that if ghosts have teeth,
mine are dull.

because i only ever wanted to be good.
even if you never said i was.

What power you yield
in the voice of one—
to say to the world
“something must be done.”

What power you have
in the hands of two,
to do what you said
someone else should do.

Playing ball
with a sack
full of words,
I nod along
as you set up.
Clinging to my drink
as if my bones
were connected,
I trace my pocket
over and over again.
Until finally,
your voice slows,
and my hands catch
your words.
As they reach
to toss back
a response,
I’m relieved
to have something–
anything–
to do with my hands.

Blessed hands that held the brush so fine,
Spoke of stories yet untold in line.
Fingers that danced with vibrant hue,
Whispered secrets, as the canvas grew.

With every stroke, a tale unfolded,
Of passion, fire, and emotions bold.
The hands that painted, spoke of love,
As colors merged, sent from above.

In gentle touch, they shared a sigh,
As petals bloomed, and sunsets lit the sky.
With firm grasp, they told of might,
As mountains rose, and night descended bright.

The artist's hands, a language true,
Spoke of dreams, and all they'd do.
If you let them, they'd tell their tale,
Of beauty born, and emotions unveiled.

Their whispers echoed, as the art took shape,
A symphony of color, a heartfelt escape.
The hands that painted, spoke of soul,
A language universal, making us whole.

I’ll walk up to you, barely soft-footed
At the back…
Don’t turn round! I beg you! Don’t move!
For God’s sake!

I’ll nuzzle my wet forehead
Into your back.
I’ll put my hands on your shoulders.
They’ll press pack.

I’ll stick to you all over!
With whole body!
Even if they’re down on me and think,
It’s *****.

I love you greedily, endlessly! Whole,
Not half!
Asking nothing instead, recklessly ruining
Myself!

He taught me how to wield
the weapon made of words—
a blade that kills,
now saving lives,
like it once saved mine.

My own work
pulled me back from the edge.
And in it,
he lives—
my teacher,
the man behind the lines.

Words—
once carved deep in the mind—
outlive the flesh,
outlast the hands
that once shaped them.

His words stopped me
from falling
to the hundred voices
that came to ****.
They caught my train
just in time
as I stood on tracks
with no will to run.

He never held me,
never came near.
But light can shine
without a hand,
and grace can guide
a demon back
from its final breath.

He never said : “Stay.”
He never said : “Don’t die.”
He simply lived
in such a way
that I believed—
perhaps, this world
can be heaven
for someone.

And that was enough
to make me see
the hell I’d made
and the rat I’d been,
crawling through tunnels
thinking no one
ever looked down
with love.

I was sinking to the bottom of the ocean
I hoped you hadn't pushed me
I looked at you with tears in my eyes
I hoped you didn't see

I was waiting for you
Waiting for you to return
I was waiting for you to call
I hope one day I'll learn

I saw you choose your friends over me
But did I cross the line?
And I saw blood on your hands
I just hoped it wasn't mine