I wish I could cry, but I feel no tears.
I wish I could try—just slowly speak my mind clear.
I wish I didn’t have to explain myself every time I feel fear.
I believed those who know me would understand—
but that was a failure.

Here I am, sitting in quiet despair,
while a stranger understands my dilemma—
and no words were exchanged there.
                                                                   -Asher Graves

i don't like being stared at,
or glorified,
or looked at like i'm just a showpiece—
almost like a mannequin?
like i'm supposed to do your bidding,
or abide by your ideals.

i don't like being looked at
the way one would look—
when they're judging you for the smallest of hook,
the tiniest of details.
no, you're just aggravating—
there's nothing romantic about that stare.

kinda like—
the difference between being seen
and just looked at on the surface.
what is wrong with my brain,
why can't you seem to judge that?

i wouldn't despise it
if you were to give me the longing glances,
or the ones filled with care,
the kind where i know
they wouldn’t just drift top to bottom—
like fingers on a shiny sphere.

don't objectify me.
i know my worth,
even though i forget it sometimes.
it's a vulnerability
i intend to show.

i’m not the prettiest—
that still doesn't give you the right to know.
i hold the discomfort,
i hold my identity.
feels like shattering,
the moment a wrong glance or a finger
touches any part of my skin.

it's complex.
i don't think you'll understand it.
i'm a human—
not a model,
not an art piece
held up for judging.

you know they’d look at the one you love
the way you do at me right now,
when i tend to swerve.
the severity of it— you wouldn’t know.
what it's like to be criticised,
judged,
given looks everywhere you go.

i still don't understand
why i face them.
more than half come from lust,
and barely a few from the place of love.

i don't shake hands,
afraid of what i’ll touch,
what you’ll feel—
and later think about.
god, i shiver at the mere thought.
too much.

i could be worshipped,
held by the right hands,
but the wrong eyes,
and the wrong views—
they almost always
**** up this land.

can't walk,
can't talk,
can't laugh,
can't show.

if i'm to exist like a stone,
why can't i hurl back
and simply clone
all that you’ve done
and all that you’ve said?

i've got those stares creeping up my skin,
like slithering worms underneath my shin,
smothering me from the inside, like being smoldered in heat.
i feel like i might melt, or worse, fade away into nothing.
perhaps it wouldn't be so bad of a choice, if i'm to disappear.
for it is this feeling that sears, within and carries a scream.
sheer mockery, provided the serenity with which you return that gaze.
i hate you, i hate each one of you that's made me feel bare,
and not the way i'd want to be emotionally with the one whom i hold tender,
but the way— the way— the way—

oh please, let me just disappear.

don’t look at me
if you only wish
to see me as an object.

We met at the edge of a battlefield,
Hearts armored, but fingers reaching.
The silence between us was thunder,
Louder than all the things we weren’t teaching.

You said, “Let’s meet in the middle,”—but where?
Between your fire and my sea,
Between your fists and my folded wings,
Between the storm and what’s left of me?

I offered softness—you saw it as slight.
You gave control—called it love, called it right.
But what of the bruises we call boundaries?
What of the nights I cried out of sight?

A room with two chairs still leaves one cold,
When one keeps shrinking to fit the mold.
I bent till I broke, whispering “peace,”
But my voice became ash, my breath a lease.

You carved your truth in unyielding stone,
I scribbled mine in skin and bone.

Now I sit in the echo, quiet and raw,
Wondering if “halfway” ever kept the law
Of hearts that beat with uneven might
Or if we both just lost the fight.

So I ask, not in bitterness, but in ache,
Not in anger, but for memory’s sake:
Is there actually enough room for compromise,
When one soul drowns and the other survives?

My soul is dying
It's dying
I can hear it
It's crying

It's light is fading
It's being swallowed
By the dark
I plead

I yearn to find words
That truly belongs to me
I pressed my palm
Through the surface of my skin

Through my bones
And into my heart
Haunted by the fear
Of the nothingness inside

I bore my nails
Unearthing my flesh
Crying as I touched the mist
It's a hollow space, nothing left

I know there's something there
It's not missing, it's lost
I can feel its presence
It's calling me there

It's begging to be heard
It screams its struggles
Only for it to reach a void

I think
I've gone deaf
To my own voice

at the end of the day,
with my illusions at bay,
when bound to obey
a truth so gray —
i travel the depths
with sondering footsteps,
to see if they help
or merely cast a vignette
of eclectic readings,
and years of heeding
the lives preceding;
still bleeding —
like a pair of lips,
torn at the tips
in sorrow’s grips;
hardly equipped —
to deal with ‘the self’
blowing dirt off bookshelves,
too dry to spell  
the thought of oneself.

No time to carry the weight of their hate,
No space to kindle bitterness within.
Here I stand, wrapped in my wounds.

No words to unravel who I am,
No need to cleanse the stains of their judgment.
Here I linger, lost in my confusion.

No understanding do I seek from souls,
No gaze of sympathy do I crave.
It’s only me and the chaos I kept.

It's eating me up alive,
Or am I too rotten to be fed?
Alone, inside-out, my head—
Let me out of this horror fest.

Pictures became archives,
Of a repetitive, stagnant time.
Anger manifests itself—
Am I rotten enough yet?

A sharp pain in my chest;
I put on a smile instead.
Juices seeping out, blood-red—
Pages fill my medical files.

Is it supposed to be a crime?
I am my own target.
The old folks lied—
An apple couldn't keep me alive.

Words cut deeper than knives,
Wounds that fester in my mind.
Home to others, not myself—
Am I rotten enough yet?