I break too easily.
crying at nothing,
shattering at everything.

The world calls it
too much,
too loud,
too fragile to be worth holding.

I twist in my own skin,
a mess of nerves,
a storm that never quiets.

Useless, I whisper to myself,
useless as paper in the rain,
melting, tearing,
never strong enough
to carry anything.

Even love cuts its hands on me
and I hate that,
hate that I ruin
what little I’m given.

So I play the part:
the hysterical shadow,
the one who feels too deep,
too wrong,
too endlessly broken.

But still,
under the noise,
I breathe.
Still here.
Even when I don’t know why.

The thought returns,
like a shadow leaning across the room.
It whispers endings,
neat and final,
like closing a book.

But writing it down
is lighter than holding it.
The page doesn’t flinch.
The words don’t judge.

And here I am still,
breathing through the ink,
choosing once more
to leave the last line open.

nothing works right here
doors swell shut
lights flicker out

I give it all,
still feels half-finished
like a song cut mid-chorus

the people I love
leave limping
like I’m bad luck
that rubs off

so I turn cold,
keep distance,
wear silence like armor

meanwhile my body
is a clock with missing gears,
ticks, stalls,
ticks, stalls

still, I drag forward
through the static,
through the rust,
through the weight

my house hums with broken wires
every plan short-circuits
before the switch clicks on

people touch me and spark,
burn their hands,
walk away smelling of smoke

so I stay ghostlike
pressing mute on every connection
watching the ceiling peel,
watching time drip slow

my body’s an old machine,
stuck between stations,
buzzing static where music should be

still, in the noise,
I keep tuning,
hoping one day
the song comes through

The house groans with my failures.
Every project collapses
like wet paper left in the rain.

People step close,
thinking they can hold me up,
but I’m a broken frame,
sharp edges,
too heavy to carry.

So I push them away.
Better they bruise at a distance
than bleed at my side.

My body won’t bargain with me either.
It runs on fumes,
bones creak like old stairs,
lungs dragging air like stones.

And still
I wake,
I move,
I make do,
inside this crooked life
that doesn’t quite fit.

I lost it all
at that table, that night
dreams, hope,
maybe even a bit of myself.

But that
didn’t make me a loser.
You lose
only if you stay.

I stood up,
quiet,
broke,
but free.

I didn’t come
to chase luck
I came to face it.

And when luck
turned its back,
I turned mine too
on that room,
that game,
that lie.

I walked out
to find a better way
to win.

One not built
on cards,
but on steps
I take outside.

seem to forget all the places I’ve gone, still remember
all those I’ve loved – while our dreams still attract my
imagination; dressed in your night gown.

the breath of a lover’s skin still tingles even after she’s gone;
yet it would be the older version of me, teaching the young –
that even the ones with a bag of ***, still carry their baggage;
that even with a bag of tricks by your side, a better man will
make your best love, seem so average.

trading paint over our skins; just to paint a picture of a future;
a man finds joy in knowing he’s the present suitor – though if he
can’t dress the part of her life, please don’t shed tears when she
finds one that suits her.

but maybe I wrote this for all the losers – perhaps, “you sir”

so said the man looking at himself in that mirror. third wheeling
their love as a chauffeur. he once took the financial risk of finding
love. an entrepreneur – yes, “you sir”

           didn't plan to lose her, but hey there, Mr Loser.