I stand here, torn between two worlds,
love pulling me forward, but fear holding me back.
over and over, the doubts which whisper in my ear,
vows of safety that promises nothing,
every beat of my heart feels like a war

yet, her eyes calls to me, filled with unspoken hope,
only I’m trapped in the shadows of my own mind,
underneath it all, I want to run to her,
torn between the hope of love and the dread of loss.

every step toward her feels like stepping off a cliff,
still, my feet hesitate, heart pounding in my chest,
suffocating in the space between what I want
and what I fear.

I am a pathological liar.

I tell you I hate the winter time, yet I spend hours sledding down icy hills.

I swear I crave attention, but I’m always the one avoiding group dinners.

I profess my disdain for chaos, yet my desk is cluttered with half-finished plans.

I say I’m done with the past, yet I reread old messages like a ritual.

I call myself steady, but I change my mind every time the wind shifts.

I claim I’m tired of this city, though I’ve memorized the names of every street.

I promise I’ll let go, yet I still save receipts from years ago.

I contradict myself with a precision I can’t help but admire,
And maybe the paradox is the most honest thing about me.

It was only a door,
a frame of wood and steel,
hinges that whispered secrets
every time it swung shut.

But one night, it broke —
splintered by words sharper than fists,
its edges warped by the weight
of slamming, shouting, silence.

I patched it with care,
sandpaper and nails,
a veneer too smooth to betray
the fault lines beneath.

Yet the wind remembers.
It presses through cracks too thin to see,
a cold draft that lingers in rooms
I’ve since repainted.

Even now, when the house is quiet,
I flinch at creaks,
of shadows moving too fast.
The door stands still,
but I am the one that warps

It started with a spark — small,
barely a flicker. But I held it too close,
watched it bloom to flame.
The first inhale burned sweet,
a rush that filled the quiet, scary places

I swore it was control:
a habit lit only when the night begged.
But ash stains linger where fingers rest,
and my breath draws heavy,
pulling me deeper with each drag.

You ghost around me,
a haze I can’t quite clear.
Every exhale feels like surrender,
the scent of you clinging,
etched into my lungs like a vow.

I tell myself I’ll quit tomorrow,
but the pack stays within reach,
and your ember smolders in the dark.

in a single moment, the air shifted,
a pause divided us like halves of a whispered thought.
twice I looked back, unsure if the weight was mine or yours.
the path curved subtly, three strides into the unknown.

words gathered like constellations,
four faint stars too dim to guide me.
a breath fell, quiet as a fifth note,
lost in the unplayed melody of your silence.

shadows stretched their six-arm embrace,
holding nothing but absence,
seven steps echoed against stone —
I didn’t know whose they were.

time unraveled, caught between eight threads of memory,
fraying into a ninth and final ache.
by the tenth grace, i knew.
You had already turned away..

Stay.
Never say
you’d rather go.
Don’t pretend
this isn’t real.
I know
you care.
You’ll never leave

You flip my life upside down.

Leave.
You’ll never
care.
I know
this isn’t real.
Don’t pretend
you’d rather go.
Never say
You’ll stay.

The snow falls thick outside,
its quiet weight presses against the windows.
Let it snow, let it snow
but the cold feels heavier this year.

The fire crackles softly,
but it can’t quite chase the shadows away.
The tree stands tall,
but its lights seem dim,
flickering faintly like memories
too distant to reach.

Silent night
but the silence has a weight to it,
a hum that fills the room,
reminding you that stillness doesn’t mean peace.

The room is warm,
yet it feels like something is missing,
a hollow that the carol of the bells can’t fill.
We sit together,
but the distance between us stretches
like the snow gathering outside,
quiet and inevitable.

The snow falls quietly,
a thousand small promises,
each one different,
but all landing in the same place.
They rest on our noses,
soft as the moments we’ve shared,
melting away before they can be held.

There is something in the air tonight—
not the cold,
but a warmth that hides beneath the chill,
like the space between breaths,
where words are not needed
but understood.

You are the stillness of the evening,
the way the world quiets itself,
not because it must,
but because it knows.
I watch the snow settle around us,
each flake a kiss on the skin,
a touch that stays only long enough
to remind us
how fragile and perfect this is.

The light from the windows spills out,
but it’s not the glow of Christmas
that warms the space.
It’s the quiet love we’ve carved here—
not in gifts or decorations,
but in the way we exist,
like snowflakes in the dark,
falling,
slowly drifting,
landing softly in the snow.