I choke my vape,
lungs burning, multitudes
of tears droning — bees,
hummingbirds, all their
beauty spilling nectar...
                          
I’ll never taste it.

If this is a song,
it’s an instrument playing
itself, strung out on instincts,
but struck without melody.

And still—
this feeling ******* stinks.

Your eyes say forever,
your silence says fleeting.
You chain me with your touch,
yet leave me doubting
what name to give this fever.

I would surrender—
life, body, soul—
if this were love.
But if it is only desire,
then I am nothing more
than a flame you’ll let burn out.

Still, I stay,
hoping you’ll call it love.

It hurts in places
I never knew existed.
Like how my fingertips ache,
and a mournful scream
lives in the back of my throat.

There is a black hole
where my heart once lived,
dense and ravenous,
swallowing light,
devouring warmth,
collapsing joy
into nothing.

Some days,
the void feels large enough
to consume me,
completely.

But still,
I wake.
Still,
I breathe.

And somehow,
without noticing,
I’ve grown strong enough
to carry it.
Not because the pain has lessened,
but because it’s changing me.

Sometimes,
the pain wants to cry out
I love you
loud enough
to reach you.

But those words
would fall into a silence
you no longer fill.

I wish I’d said them
a thousand more times
when they still had
somewhere to land.

I wish I could say
I love you
instead of
I loved you.

But if this grief
is just love
with no place to go,
I will ache
in all these new and strange places.
Willingly.

And I will wake up every day,
and breathe, one breath at a time.

Because this pain
is simply love,
wearing a different skin.

"In certain hard moments, not even your
comfort food,
favorite perfume,
healing music,
that one comforting conversation,
a peaceful walk in nature,
or a joyful outing can bring you back to normal."

Moments of love feel almost medical—
but my patience for it is cold, clinical.
I never meant to overdose, just chasing
comfort in a heavy dose of someone new,
to help me cope.

I try to build a house from broken pieces—
too many to count. I am the empty echo
of a heart still full, but far too loud
to be heard.

Echo...
  Echoes
     fall between the silence of our words,
two awkward breaths apart—trying
to keep it innocent, just as friends,
while our primal skins just want to skip
to the part of just having ***.

It’s the risk of falling in love—
that makes us stumble near the edge.
It’s beautiful. It’s ******* stupid.
It hurts. It’s love.
Whether it finds you first, as the one
you need— or shows up last, as the one
you never really wanted.

"It's hard to live in a place where your existence feels more like a burden than a responsibility."