i always tried to do the most with my time,
not anything productive- just something fun,
entertaining,
to cover up the fact that i’m mourning someone who still walks this earth.

my concept of “happiness” isn’t the usual one,
it might be rather depressing for some.
i think i wanted to say so many things, but said none.

living in eternal doom has become normal,
elders telling me to dress more formal,
acting like i’m just a doormat.

On this desk, years have been certain.
I cling to some people, let go of the rest.
The book’s pages are yet to be completed,
But I don’t want to.

There might be better places, better people, better everything.
The air around me, the living smiles everything is there.
The feeling, the racing heart, the excitement yet to be fulfilled.
But I don’t care.

Now, I don’t feel anything.
My body, my heart, my brain urge me to stop.
To stay in this state,
Where I’m numb.

The question is:
Where am I?
Why am I?
Or do I just need someone to ask,
How are you?

Honey its been a while but i know you exist between heartbeats — not quite joy not quite grief, just the long inhale before either arrives.
you lived in a house where silence carved the hallways out of not being chosen so i know that you wear sound like an armour,
for when the room goes quiet the ghosts start speaking in full sentances and you are left with no language to bury them.
you answer messages in your head, smile at texts you never send and mourn connections like you've buried them with your own hands — even tho they are still alive
just not with you.
you wage a war between
reach out
and
stay safe.
between
i miss you
and
don't look at me.
you stand still.
mid-sentance
mid-dream
mid-you.




your house is a mess- your head is worse
wondering if this is healing or you are just getting really good at pretending so you bolt the doors
and you don't dare let anyone come in.
your mother used to say that the cruelest is the hour when you must beg the stars to remember your name — you'd then say
that the pain is a fruit, bitten too soon
and yet so sweet, so knowing.
because you know you must remember everything
and overcome it.
for if you don’t overcome it, you will always be the child whose soul never grew, the woman who kept apologizing for needing too little, and loving too much.

Long are overdue the deeds you owe to yourself.

-V

fear is a feast,
my teeth stained purple
from eating bruises—
and i am always
carcass picked clean
by second thoughts.

love?
love is a butcher at the market,
smiling sweet
while weighing out a heart
i can't afford.
it's an executioner—
it asks me to place my own head
on the block—
to kneel before joy
as if it will not
tear me limb for limb
when it tires
of my trembling.

i am fearless among ruins,
skinning my knees
on broken chapels,
yet i fear hands
that thread stitches into my ruin
with the patience
of a surgeon,
and breath that curls in my mouth,
making me taste futures
i am too cowardly
to swallow.



i survive loneliness
like a vulture survives drought—
tight-bellied,
sharp-eyed,
full of memory.

but hope—
hope pours syrup
into my lungs
and calls it resurrection.

hope convinces me
that i want love—
but
only if it promises
not to break
what it finds.

Once upon a time, there were five children who weren’t really children.
They were neglected feelings wearing borrowed skin and convictions of no needs.

The first was a boy who felt nothing at all.
He walked through life like a ghost no one remembered dying.
They called him cold, but he was just tired
Of dripping in places no one would whipe.
Inside, he wanted someone to knock on the door he bolted shut.
But no one ever stayed long enough to try.


The second was a dog who was always smiling.
People passed by and said, “What a happy little thing.”
But they put a leash around its neck and called it loyalty.
It wagged its tail even when it hurt,
because someone once told it love is earned through obedience.
So he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
No one returns.


The third was a boy who swallowed his nightmares.
He thought if he ate them all,
they’d go away.
But they grew inside him like weeds—
and some nights, he screamed in his sleep,
his belly full of bells no one could hear.

The fourth was a hand—
just a hand.
It wanted everything.
It grabbed and gripped and begged to be filled.
But everything it touched turned into something else:
a kiss became a bruise,
a hug became a choke.
The hand never asked, only took.
And still, it was always hungry.


The fifth wore a mask.
A lovely one.
Shiny eyes, soft lips, laughter stitched just right.
She wore it so long,
she forgot who lived underneath.
When people loved her,
she wondered who they were loving.
So she smiled harder.
And disappeared a little more each day.

One by one,
they wandered into the Forest of Almost.

They didn’t mean to meet each other.
They were just looking for silence
that didn’t hurt.

They didn’t speak at first.
They only sat—close, but not touching.
Each one pretending not to notice
how the others looked like pieces of them.

The boy who felt nothing
was the only one who saw the dog’s leash.
The girl with the mask
was the only one who saw the nightmares blooming under the boy’s skin.
The greedy hand trembled when the smiling dog licked it gently,
as if even hunger deserved kindness.

And slowly,
they did what no one else had done for them:

They stayed.

Not to fix.
Not to save.
Just to be.

And maybe that was the magic.
Because in the Forest of Almost,
they didn’t become whole—
but they did become real.

And sometimes,
real is the bravest thing you can be.

life feels worse
but good with you in it

Don’t you ever
eat
out of tradition?
Like,
you are not hungry;
but not loaded either.
Your stomach is just
as numb as your heart.

But you still eat,
because food tastes good;
because they sat you down;
because you ought to;
because you’re used to the feeling.

Even when there is no joy
to the taste;
you eat.

Eat,
eat,
eat.

You did it so often
the action
must have lost all its meaning.

Semantic satiation.