Change the perspective
Like it's an elective
Chosen over the summer
To be my fifth period

Just say you’re happy
Be loving and sappy
Like a 90s sitcom wife
Who’ll never leave her husband

Do what you must do
Plan, not impromptu
Like a 2000s rom-com wedding planner
With a touch of OCD

It’s the deck you bought
The cards want you to rot
As if a deep dive on tarot
Could turn you into an intuitive genius

Mope like a poet
Standing strong like you know it
Like writing your pain
Isn’t still just performance in another font

Process and grieve
You’re so ready to leave
As if leaving my Crocs out of sport mode
Lets me linger longer

I laid down my rifle
a long time ago.
No more shouting from trenches,
no more pride in the mud.

I surrendered.

But she didn’t.

She’s still bunkered up,
hiding behind sarcasm and silence,
armed with old pain
and the ghosts of nights I didn’t cause.

So I get hit.
Over and over.
Sharp words. Cold stares.
Misfired memories that land on my chest
like shrapnel.

But I’m not backing off.

I’m crawling through barbed wire made of what-ifs
and landmines labeled “don’t go there.”

And I’m close now.
Close enough to smell the old perfume
beneath the wine and wilted willpower.

Close enough
to throw in a grenade —
not of anger,
but of love.

Pull the pin.
Say the words.
Let it explode in light
instead of fire.

Let it end this war
with something softer
than surrender.

Weighed tons as I walked stuck with it, the glue.
It was dyed blue, I must be well but can anyone cure this chronic flu?
No medicine there to fill that void like affection do.
I want to break the cycle of having no clue,
From this stuck pattern, turning it into geranium from that past navy blue.

Whether from arrogance or negligence, I yawn at their stance
Not a chance I’ll advance.

Science tends to disagree - research believes in therapy
As far as claiming it'd make me happy.

        'Have a 30-minute walk each day',  
She dares to say as I continue to pay.
        'You carry trauma from your childhood'
        'Navigate your thoughts and it’ll affect your mood'.

Sorry doctor, I’m lacking modesty -
I seem unable to take you seriously and seeing you hurts violently.
I could easily earn your degree.

Undoubtedly, people will say:
        'How can she expect to be okay?'
        'She's abusing of her sick leave pay'
        'In no way committed to her healing journey'.

To which I’ll roll my eyes at any day.

when the quiet breaks


i learned to love the silence
not because it felt like peace—
but because it never lied to me.

the noise left bruises,
every laugh a little jagged
every “i’m fine” cracked at the edges
and every promise wore someone else's face.

but silence? she didn’t pretend.
she just sat beside me while my hands trembled,
while my breath forgot how to stay.

people say healing is loud
but mine looked like folded laundry
and rooms i didn’t run from.





.

a book titled the comfort book
carries silver-tongued truths disguised as preachings offering some peace.
turns out reading what's already known
is like seeing the result on paper—
having exclaimed, i won't believe unless it's shown.

can i slip in, as a matter of fact,
the moon is suing me for emotional damage
and all the pressure i've brought upon it, forthwith, with immediate effect?

she left a letter this morning while leaving
to hide in her contrary's presence—
a cease and desist nailed to the door of my self.
she claimed i'd stared too long,
longingly enough she’d started to feel bare,
and seen me stark naked as i whispered my dire lies to the night air.
she felt used. perhaps i committed a crime.
so i admitted, and asked for apologies.

except i was sent a summon,
to present myself and the plead-not-guilty note.
the stars—she put as the jury,
the night sky her lawyer,
the sun as the judge—he held fury.

i presented myself, humor disguising my truth,
but when they brought the memories to the witness box,
i knew i was done for—eloquently misjudged and overlooked.

had to take an oath,
but they lied under it even.
promised nothing was wrong.
i saw right through their plotting.

i aimed for the time reversing,
pleading guilty, admitting innocence.
my shadow whispered secrets i haven't lived yet—
and they brought her to cross-examine:
no one else but my imaginary friend.

she was mad.
mad for being forgotten and left.

so i did the next best thing:
tore my skin, let her scavenge through the inside.
she felt for the way my veins pulsed,
and admitted i was right.
speaking the truth, your honor,
i smiled at the moon,
but felt guilty for not seeing it sooner.

the universe had glitched—
whenever i cried, it glitched,
sent down a star to wipe my eyes dry.
in doing so, the stars suffered,
and the moon, without her supporters, lost her glimmer.
she lost her friends, as i lost my own.
and no, she wasn’t angry—
just a bit tensed, for she'd seen what happened to my hope.

the lawsuit resulted in me being freed.
i stood up, walked over, and gave her a tight hug—
the trial of chaos, and of giving life to non-existent hope.

she handed me the book of comfort,
written in white on a black page.
it glistened.
the often misplaced truths hide in the bright.
so accept them as you may—
they could be sour, bitter, expired to taste,
but breathing in the venom is one way to make sure
you don’t repeat the same mistakes.

and so this was my tale,
held in the celestial court.
i missed everything—except that i was forlorn, not too long ago.
i still sit at nights and stare at her,
but this time, she lends her own shoulder.
the stars scribble it down:
surrealism meets emotional rundown.

ominous as though it might seem,
this fits like a verdict-stamped
"not guilty" in my very being.