I’m always watching myself
watch the world.
Even in love,
I’m already narrating the ending.

I turn silence into stanzas.
Affection into evidence.
Every kiss, a metaphor.
Every absence, a motif.

People think I’m honest.
But really,
I just edit well.

Half of what I write
never happened.
The other half
happened too hard.

I’ve written the same heartbreak
fourteen different ways.
Gave it a new name.
Gave it better dialogue.
Made him softer
so the betrayal feels worse.

I say I’m writing for me,
but I’m always picturing the line
someone might underline
and send to their ex
at 2:03 a.m.

I’ve performed pain
like a dress rehearsal—
highlighted the devastation,
downplayed the shame,
cut the part where I begged
and called it pacing.

There are poems
that made people cry
and replies I never opened.
Because if I read them,
it might mean
I was never alone in it.
And I don’t know
if that would feel better
or worse.

Some nights I write
like I’m searching for proof
that it happened at all.
That he said it.
That I felt it.
That I was the kind of girl
someone could ruin
on purpose.

And if the writing is good enough,
maybe I don’t have to go back.
Maybe I don’t have to forgive him.
Maybe I just have to
survive it beautifully.

So I sharpen the line.
I fix the form.
I leave the ending open.
I publish the ache.

And I tell myself
that counts
as closure.

The betrayal was real.
The good lines were mine.
And maybe closure
doesn’t come in paragraphs—
maybe it’s just a quiet night
I don’t turn into a poem.

The way
I love you isn't perfect-
it's probably not the way
you dreamed of.
I imagine you thought
someone would understand
you more,
not be so volatile
maybe even less of what I am-
show
and
give.

I'm sorry I can't give you
the things you deserve
or the way you deserve to be treated.
That the stars hang low
not low enough to touch
but near enough to tease.

I want to be more for you,
in ways that I struggle.
I wish on those same stars
that they'd fall
softly
one by one
to comfort you
gently,
kiss you
slowly
and burn at a pace
that's suitable
for a gentleman
such as yourself.

You deserve
every
thornless rose
and a vase
without holes
that keeps the water in
not drip
by drip emptying it out.
not to question if the
vase is still there
or wonder where
the cracks are.

You deserve someone
who can dedicate
beautiful poetry to you.
One who can hold a candle to
your own.
Not someone who
fumbles with words-
can't string together
a metaphor
or misinterpret
your brilliance
for whiskey
without a little water.

I love you
the only way I can.
Like butter
that over-saturates
toast, that's straight
from the toaster
with no chance to cool.
As mud is born with dirt
and soil.

I love you with all
my darkness
in every shadow.
Behind the front door
with a gun
locked and loaded
safety
still on.

I love you to
where my pride gets
stuffed down an old
Christmas stocking,
not with trinkets
and sweets
but with
coal.
I want more
of you
less of
myself.
So I can be
satisfied with your stillness.
Your own starfish
deep down in the depths
of a forgotten sea
that has
no name.

Let it all take me
into your arms
in your teddy bear embrace
with doe eyes
and a silent song that sings
only for me.

and as I struggle to end
this so-called poetry.
I'll put out this cigar
sink into my quicksand bed
kiss your sleeping lips
and hang my crown
on the tombstone.

See me for me,
not who you want me to be.
See my cracks,
don’t consider them as lack.
See me.
See the dreams of how I want to be.
Build with me.
Help me to achieve.
Look at me.
See my flaws.
Accept them as more than loss.
See me for me.
Appreciate me as me.
See my imperfections as a part of me,
and not a mistake in me.
See me for me.
Help me rearrange the ick in me.
Realize the pain in me is not a crutch to me.
Trust in me.
Don’t judge me for things ****** upon me.
Just please-
love me-
as I am-
for me-
not an image of me.

If we're being honest,
Not every day is a good one,
You can't make 'em all good,
Otherwise none would be good enough.

Sometimes you just can't fix a broken day,
You just have to take a deep breath and go to bed,
You've got all of tomorrow left.

I often speak in silence,
when words are too loud,
and the world around me feels
like too much,
a symphony of voices I can't tune out.

"You’re more than you know,"
you said.
But the mirror doesn’t see
what I’ve hidden in the corners
of my own heart—
the fear,
the longing,
the doubts that won’t stay quiet.

“I miss you,”
you whispered,
and it felt like a promise
I could barely hold onto
but still wanted to.
How do you love something
you don’t believe you deserve?

I wear a mask,
my smile is too practiced,
my laughter just a little too loud
to drown out the questions,
the insecurities.
“You’re everything I could have wished for,”
but what does that mean
when I am still learning
how to be enough for myself?

In the quiet, I wonder
if I could ever be
the girl you see me as,
so strong,
so sweet,
yet I break in places
no one can see.

“Take my hand,” you said,
but I’m afraid my own hands are shaking.
How do I give you the world
when I am still trying
to understand it myself?

“You’re breathtakingly amazing,”
but I wonder if you see
the cracks where I am still
a little girl,
waiting for someone to tell me
it’s okay to be both beautiful and broken.

“I miss you even after just a few hours apart,”
and maybe,
just maybe,
this time,
the love I feel
can be enough
to fill the spaces I’ve let empty for so long.

Take me at my word,
Or don't.
To me, it's nearly the same.
But don't expect
Should you neglect
To accept me being forthright,
That the same expression
Should cross my face.
You mistook honesty for lie,
Biography for farce,
Stand-up not discussion-
It is yet tragedy but comedy.

Reckless unlucky poor wretch
She’s roamed much. She’s suffered much.
And no matter what happens around her,
It’s all the one – she is still such.

She was in any way kind to world.
She never had any blackhearted thoughts.
She trusted much, dissolved in love.
She gave herself with no second thoughts.

She slipped away into her love.
She was sure no poison was there,
No rude and mortal human drafts.
There was only the truth! And nothing else never!

But there was a lot of dirt in real,
A lot of stiffness, a lot of falsehood.
She gave her love with no doubt an’ fear
And they in reply only croak of crows.  

She’s so panny plain, naive and homely
And she still live against the odds.
She roams the world and dumbly shuffling
Forever forbids herself to love.

In the quiet dawn, where shadows fade,
Truth emerges, unafraid.
A beacon bright, it lights the way,
Guiding hearts through night to day.
In whispers soft, it calls the soul,
To seek the light, to find the whole.
Through veils of doubt, it pierces through,
Revealing paths both old and new.
With every step, the spirit soars,
Unbound by lies, it freely explores.
For in the truth, we find our wings,
And rise above the earthly things.
So let us cherish, let us strive,
To live in truth, to feel alive.
For truth inspires, it sets us free,
To be the best that we can be.