I write of love, my words soft as blooming flowers, outshining the silence. They drink from my verses, offering praise, yet never seeing through hollow eyes. They trace my ink with their pens, searching between the lines, yet always missing the rot woven into the rhymes. I only ever meant to heal, to imagine a world that would never falter. But as echoes tremble and shatter, the voices grow louder in my wake. Hearts lie broken along my path, split and bruised, marked by both my hands and the words I chose. The tales I spun, the dreams I wove, just layers of silk concealing the screams of the past. Each whispered line, each lullaby sung, was a betrayal wrapped in delicate deception. I thought I gave my all, shining bright, yet I only ever left them shattered and cold. A poet’s sin, unknowingly blind. Now, the weight of it all is too much to bear, even my own hand too heavy to hold. The ink thickens, choking the page, my verses darkened by buried rage. I once believed myself gentle, kind, a guiding light for even the quietest of minds. But I was blind to the wounds I inflicted, to the trust I fractured, left to wither in the dark. Each tear they shed, I was the reason why. I swore I loved, I swore I cared, yet I was the reason they were afraid. I was begged to change, yet failed to see where the cracks needed mending. Blind to the truth, I led them further away. And now, regret clings to me like a ghost, whispering of what could have been, of a future where things might have been okay. Every poet holds a secret, buried deep within their lines, whether the ink glows faint as a whisper or bleeds dark as sin.

Hot water rains on my skin
The fog it creates holds me

Like you once did.

I breathe it in,
let it  travel   over     my           body
as your       hands          once            did
like I used to breathe you in
and the reminise our love left
in the air.

I close my eyes and let my mind float,
like the vapor,
to you and I
when we were still "us."

I loved you.
You loved me.
Why?

My hand detatches from the wrist
and turns the heat
up
        up
                  up.
Until it burns me.
Like you did, with your burning sweet caresses.

The steam fills the room
Fills my body;
an empty hot vessel without you.

This acid rain from my shower head,
It hurts so good.
Like our love.
Like before.

Now that we're you an I instead of we and our,
I’m just left longing
For the kind of hurt,
For the kind of love,
For the kind of everything that a hot shower can’t give.

If you had hurt me
I would be in bits and pieces
Still and all, I would have all of me,
But you shattered  me, you crushed me,
So unreservedly,
I am afraid I will never find all of me again,
yet still, you question “Did I hurt you?”
hurt? It’s too blunt, it’s too little
You obliged me to love you so much
I started hating myself
you made me hate being alive,
I got obsessed with digging my own grave
Yet, even now, it flatters me
The courage you had
To query, whether I was “hurt”
it still, does fascinates me,
how you walked away,
with a “sorry” without any chains
after you disoriented, discarded
shattered and scattered me..

monster dreams
and hides,

burning in my
bones,

melting the
doors,

finding ways
to survive
when it gets
cold.

words have
drained,
doused the
fires

outside.

outside, there's
this wilderness
I cannot
control —

how it eats
me whole,
tearing pieces
of my soul

until there's
nothing left
of me

but silence,
untold.

In my eyes you could see—
for every wound, salt was the remedy.
Forced to silence those thoughts that haven't been heard,
beating me down—it was absurd.

You lie awake,
Late at night,
Heart quakes,
And constricts you tight.
You get a text on your phone,
From a friend that you know,
Your feelings of being alone disappear.
They ask you,
“Wanna hang out on Saturday?”
The beginning of your doom,
As your brain goes insane.
You question whether you should go,
Dream up excuses to keep you stuck at home,
Yet, you wonder why you feel so alone,
Nobody’s fault but your own.

It’s the crisis of connection,
Those nasty thoughts in your head,
That make you feel like you’re too boring,
For a meaningful friend,
So you keep the superficial ones,
Those that fade,
In a vain attempt to save you from the pain.

You say you feel alone,
Like no one cares,
Yet when they try,
You let your fears control,
And hold you back,
And you know,
That it’s wrong.
You push them away,
You’ll hurt them first before they deal the final blow to you,
You’ve experienced it before,
And you don’t want to feel that way again.
So you build your walls too high,
Where no one can save you,
Cause you trapped yourself inside.
You hope it’s not too late,
To make a window,
So you can see their faces,
And try to change your fate.

It’s the crisis of connection,
That keeps you standing back,
On the sidelines,
Too afraid to attack.
You assume,
Perhaps you were just meant to be alone,
So you stay home,
With your mental contusions.
You don’t know where to go.
So you just stand alone.

You’re not afraid,
To take the road less traveled,
You never fit in anyway,
So why bother?
Just do what you do,
And see where it takes you,
The road might be lonelier than most,
Just hold onto hope.

Perhaps the crisis of connection,
Won’t seem so severe,
In time.
Perhaps building strength,
And faith,
To make self-corrections,
Is the way,
To cross the finish line.
Perhaps the loneliness,
Is a testament to your strength,
Just don’t give up,
Though it may hurt,
I know,
We will find our way.