An olive branch,
in hot September,
on a bridge of embers,
entices the *** to stir.

But her table’s always empty,
even if food was plenty-
too broke, too broken
for any to gather around.

A med concoction,
from no other option,
except the great allure…

A barren planner,
hung on a sun faded wall,
by a nail ripping through
it’s cross-stitched heart.

This is what reminds her-
Reminds her she’s all alone.

Pieces placed on my palms
As I try to rebuild what I've broken
With glue as my conscience
Of never keeping anything altogether
My TOUCH
Being the wrong ingredient in a well constructed recipe
I never had to take accountability
Was deemed as the suspect already
Gave birth to my fear of touching anything
As my guilt surrenders to each piece of broken glass
And sometimes I wonder if I really love him
Or I found some sense of belonging within him
An expirement of my capability to hold something safe
To find closure in knowing that for once I'm not the danger
No sight of warnings signs
Upon the close proximity of my presence

As the sun goes down,
I find I'm staring with a frown.

I would be smiling wide,
If not for my lonesome,
All the tears the rain cried.

Though I guess it's just another human thing,
It's the lonely nights that make the moon spin round.

The room was cold
but the air was warm.
The room was filled with people,
and yet I still felt alone.

I sat in the corner, observing people:
the way they spoke,
the curl of their lips when they laughed,
even the darkest secrets they wished to hide—
fake smiles,
bitter tears,
toxic love.
I observed everyone except myself.

In the corner, it was dark.
My skin felt molded to the wall I leaned on.
All the chatter in the room,
thinking so much,
yet feeling so little.

I looked around the corner,
taking in all its qualities.
It was the only part of the room
where light didn’t seem to shine—
a prison,
isolated.

I couldn’t help but wish
people observed me the way I observed them.
Wanting to be seen is a dark feeling—
aching for love
without begging for attention.
In the quiet moments,
I realize I might be alone.

This corner is my safe space,
my shield from
fake people behind masks
and the dark jokes they laugh at.
But it is also my cage—
the reason I am concealed,
isolated from the rest.
Who knew my place of comfort
was also the cause of my loneliness?

I need to get out.
Five simple words,
but they feel hard to swallow.
This corner holds me back—
from experiences,
people,
hurt,
happiness.
I need to get out.

I muster the courage to stand.
I take a deep breath
and embrace my surroundings:
five things I feel,
four things I see,
three things I touch,
two things I taste,
one thing I want:
freedom.

I step into the brightly lit room.
The place feels unrecognizable,
a world beyond my isolation.
The people almost seem—
friendly?

I make rockets of my legs
and approach a girl.
Her name is Rose.
She has two piercings,
three friends,
four sisters,
five dogs,
and a million dreams.

She tells me her story.
I almost feel pity.
She struggled growing up—
two homes,
a loving mom,
an alcoholic dad.
But in her story, I find comfort.
Knowing others struggle too,
I realize sadness doesn’t like loneliness.

I glance back at the corner
I once called home.
Now I see it clearly—
it was a prison all along.

I don’t see you as my brother.
You cry for her,
you cry for her to be able to move in,
you cry for what she’s going through,
and how bad her mom and stepdad are.
You say she sees my parents more of a parent than her own,
you say she sees how good they treat me..
That’s funny.
She thinks they were always good huh?
She thinks they’re perfect to me?
Hell.
Even you think so, don’t you?
Must be nice to forget.
I bet you don’t remember those summers,
those summers where it was just me and mom,
where we fought everyday,
and I’d end up hurt.
I bet you don’t remember the night before my 14th birthday,
where mom beat me for not waking up from my nap to clean my room.
Where dad came out too and beat me too,
I had bruises and welts all over me.
I couldn’t wear my birthday dress because of them.
I had them for a month after.
Why didn’t you cry for me like you cry for her?
I know you knew.
Why didn’t you do anything?
That's when you stopped being my brother.
That’s when I stopped expecting from you,
that's when I stopped needing you.
That's when I became an only child.

“Right person wrong time”
I like to make myself believe that.
I like to come up with excuses or justifications as to why we left.

It wasn’t in a snap of a finger,
or overnight.
No..
it was a painful slow burn.
A fire you didn’t know you started.

It started through small actions.
We talked less,
hung out with other people.
We lost our connection.

Then was the second phase:
The realization.
When I looked back and realized I forgot our intimate jokes,
the road that used to lead to your house,
the roughness of your laugh.

I couldn’t control it.
I mean I wanted to.
I wanted us to go back,
I wanted us to restart.
But I knew it was inevitable.

Then I tried to remember you,
I learned all your favorite songs by heart.
I remembered your birthday,
I printed our favorite pictures together.

But when I came back,
and showed you everything I did for you.
I recognized,
you weren’t that same person.
That person that knew exactly when and how to make me laugh,
my favorite color,
or favorite song.

I took a step back for good.
Because I knew that no matter how much I try to deny it,
or justify it.
You wouldn’t come back.

But I’ll still remember
the person I used to know.
And every time I pass by your street,
I’ll cherish the times I had to drive you back after a long trip.

Every time I look back at our pictures I’ll remember them,
almost as if I had gone back.

I know we haven’t talked,
but just know I love you.
In every way I can.
In every drop of my soul.
I lay myself to you
a stranger I knew.

Maybe your stay wasn’t permanent,
but the mark you left on me was.
Because the people you least expect to
can change your life irrevocably.

My chest is heavy,
and my throat tightens,
Breathing ragged,
head light.

I punch you until my knuckles bruise,
I scream until my throat bleeds.

I shout ‘WHY’
as if you owe me an answer.
I beg for a reason behind this hurt.
‘I hate you,’
three powerful words,
but they barely scratch the surface
of what I feel for you.

I look up.
You’re just a person,
like me.
You have scars,
flaws that don’t fade.
Just like me.

Then I catch the softness of your eyes,
vulnerable, full of emotions I don’t understand.
I feel sorry for you,
in some twisted way.

I blink and realize—
I’m in front of a mirror.
Because the only person I can never escape from
is me.