Adrift in shadows, hollowed by the night,
Yet gratitude still flickers, frail but bright—
A thirst for dawn, though weighed by whispered sorrow,
We clutch the fraying thread of tomorrow.

The ache of absence hums, a silent hymn,
Melancholy’s wine pools to the brim.
But in these ruins, treasures softly gleam:
A map of scars where longing dared to dream.

Our story trembles, ink on splintered wood,
Yet pulses warm where hopelessness once stood.
The thread, though thin, spills gold through vacant air—
A silken ladder climbing despair.

We’ll stitch the rift where darkness bleeds to blue,
And weave the tale our hunger dares renew—
For even fractured light still claims the skies,
And dawn persists in tired, stubborn eyes.

I write with uninhibited passion,
Drawing inspiration from the depths of my wounded soul.
The scars etched upon my chest,
Like riverbeds carved by a relentless force,
Serve as a constant reminder of my struggles.
My heart races like a war drum,
Creating a rhythmic cadence that resonates through the pages,
And reaching the very eardrums of those who dare to read the scriptures.

I write with the grace of a healer,
Smoking sage and smudging against the ramparts of my own mind. In this act of purification,
I strive to cleanse the filth from the membrane of my thoughts, allowing them to flow cyclically like filtered air—
Clean, pure, and easy on the chest.
I take deeper breaths, allowing my spirit to soar.

However, when praise is bestowed upon my efforts,
And the inkwell dries, I become chary of their accolades.
To captivate you in awe, I must bleed upon the page,
Pouring my heart and soul into every word.

Bleed out of black clouds
So I can drink the rain,
Turn into a tourniquet
So I can salve your pain.

No matter how the tide comes
The blackest skies, take away your shine
Show me the reason I can’t stop
Burning my eyes, watching beauty die
When I can’t stop, burning my eyes

Cut my throat wide
So I can smile again,
Let my soul spill
And paint me as you will.

No matter how the tide comes,
The blackest skies, take away your shine
Show me the reason I can’t stop
Burning my eyes, watching beauty die
When I can’t stop, burning my eyes

I can’t feel my fingers
Tendon’s severed and I feel numb
I can’t lift my fingers,
Picking at the palm at rusted nails,
I can’t stop burning my eyes

Fester like a wound,
Worm escaping the womb,
Burrow deep in the earth
Staring at the sky,
I can’t stop burning my eyes.

i wish youd let me go
so id stop hurting you

i wish youd let me go
so you dont have to see me in pain

i wish youd let me go
so you could get better

i wish youd let me go
so i stop hurting us

i wish you stay
so we get better together

I smiled so wide my molars got jealous.
Everyone said I looked stunning.
I said thank you in the voice I reserve for customer service and playing dumb.
That’s the closest I’ve come to a scream
this week.

I wore the dress that says: I’m over it.
(It lies.)
I walked like a question mark
straightened out with rage.

There was a man in the corner
making balloon animals.
He asked what I wanted.
I said surprise me.
He handed me a noose
shaped like a swan.

No one noticed.
Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself
to feel interesting.

Later, someone told a joke
I didn’t get.
I laughed like I was being watched.

The punchline wasn’t funny.
It just echoed
like something I would’ve said
before I got careful.

I stood in the kitchen
with a paper plate of olives and nothing,
holding it like proof
I was doing fine.

Someone spilled wine on the couch.
I said I’ve ruined better things.
Everyone laughed
like I meant it to be charming.
(I didn’t.)

A girl in white heels asked me
how I knew the host.
I said same way I know most people—
by accident,
and with the kind of premonition that wears perfume.

The bathroom mirror was cracked.
I counted the breaks like confessions
and chose not to atone.
The soap smelled like fruit
that only exists in dreams
you wake up crying from.

I reapplied my lip stain
like armor,
like alibi,
like an exit strategy.

Then I left without saying goodbye
because I couldn’t figure out
how to do it quietly
and still be missed.

old friend
my blade
once again
like before

theres this ache in my heart
it never goes away
not fully
only dulls

i tried to cut it out

that didnt work

i tried to burn it out

that didnt work

i tried drown it in pills and alcohol

that didnt work

so

at last

i tried to **** it

took out my blade
went to work with it
as i had many times

took out my bottle
and felt the familiar warmth spread throughout my body

and finally
took out the pill bottle

took them all within two swallows

and i decided that wasnt enough

so i took the bottle of cough syrup

chugged that

and went to bed

write letters adressing the closest people in your life
feel bad that you cant write them all letters
try to reassure them that it wasnt anyones fault
that it was bound to happen sooner or later
say sorry over and over again
tell them not to throw you a funeral
to donate your body
clean your room
and everything else you can
make sure there isnt any loose ends
give away your stuff
theyll need it more than you
hang out with them one last time
then
lock your door
lock everything and everyone out
you cry but you know you must do this
take the pills
every last one
no matter how much you gag, they all must go
turn off your light
turn off your phone
and go to bed
one
last
time

Should we just have never embarked on this Exodus?

Maybe then I wouldn't have to be present in a future enraptured by your absence.

I look for you in the unfamiliar, pleading for a chance to atone for the times I didn't love you the way your spirit asked me to; begged me to.

I think life is sort of funny like that.

It gives us grief and torment, undertoned by conditions of stability and commitment, still masked by peace and contentment.

Life won't tell you "This suffering shall be yours after you've given shadow and sin,
bones and dreams,
beginnings and unendings"

It will let you know however, that forever is a fickle concept.
An anomaly of truth. An unworthy penance.

Forever is today telling you tomorrow won't be guaranteed, yet you defer and let momentous pleasure consume you.

Forever is you right now, unravelled, unmade, wondering when it will finally be you.

Life won't tell you "This suffering shall be yours when you're left with answers to questions you were scared to ask".

You assume shame should be a stark reminder, that maybe grace and longevity weren't meant to have been breathed into your "always".

Or maybe loving him was the only way to afford a glimpse of misfortune; what could never be if the two of you had become.

But that's not you, is it?

For you shame is nothing compared to the cold indents in your waist where his hands once took residence.
Or the ache between your legs where  futures were built in the stillness of nights and raucous of mornings.

Shame is nothing compared to his words of adoration to another; unshakable dedication to another.

Shame is nothing compared to this emptiness

To these words.

To the forever that never was

i see how much pain i put you through
dont think i dont
i just dont know how
to not hurt
and hurt those
around me

i try to make myself smaller
hoping that
itll change something

and i want to tell you
to get clean
but how can i?
when i cant even do the same myself

and i love you so much
and i hate myself
for causing you distress

sometimes i think of letting you go
but i dont want you to do something rash

even though itd be better for you
to not have me

im selfish

and greedy

and i want you
in the most innocent way possible
i want you to hold me
to put me back together
to tell me that im beautiful
and i dont need to hide
that i dont take up too much space

that well both work on it
together

please.