i did it.
being done means a lot.
so why does it never feel finished?

Looking outside the window at tree, it sways gently
There is something soothing about it’s rocking motion.
Peaceful, it doesn’t worry.
Something slips through the cracks, as if the rocking breaks the mould.
The force in which some words come out, the spasm in an eye.
A head dips when praised, to hide the pressing of their lips.
Why must it feel this way?
Can one not rock just enough, never always ‘too much’.
Seizing forward with the rocks, grabbing onto threads to try stablise.

I don't hate you,
I could never hate you.
                                                 I envy you.

I envy the way you look so free,
the way you could be called confident,
in the clothes people would call me bold for.
The way your good at so many things,
that I lay in your shadow,
yearning for the spotlight.

I wish I could love you,
or even just like you,
but, I can't.
Because your beautiful,
your kind,
your loved,
                                                  your perfect.
While, I'm just....
well, me.

So, I'm sorry.
Just know,
I don't hate you,
I could never hate you.
But,
                                            I'll forever envy you.

once you dig the razor in too deep
you know youve crossed a line
in more ways than one

physically;
youve cut deeper than
you ever have before

and then
mentally;
you cannot go back now

Is it all too much when I ask for nothing?
Just for you to say 'hi' in the halls,
And ask if I'm okay when I'm crying in the corner,
But it's all too much for you.

Is it all too much when I say a word?
Just one single word about myself,
And even when the words are ones you should care about,
It's all too much for you.

Is it all too much when I hang around?
Just to be there and not be lonely-stricken like I am,
And have someone to keep me accountable,
But it's all too much for you

Because even when I'm sad, and down,
Even when I stay up late for your wallows,
Even when I need to rant because then I'll scream,
And I listen to all of your creations without a second thought.
Even when I'm just there; silent, invisible,
You'll still push me out.

I know that I'm weird, a mess—different,
But so are you, and that's what makes us fit.
But now you glare at me from down the hall,
So I'm sorry this can't mend,
But that's alright with you, isn't it?

Unlit Hours

Late nights—
they’re the worst for me,
bringing out the worst in me.
Mind racing,
like it hurts to think.
Not a moment of peace—
fighting myself just for a second.

Fighting peace like—
there is no hope.

I wish I could help,
but it’s hard—
when I hate myself.
Can’t stand who I am.
Lately,
the only relief I find
is in causing—

more pain,
more defeat.

These late nights,
they make me feel
like I’m not worth it.
When I get love,
I throw it away—
feeling undeserving.

Cold, alone, I shiver
at the thought
that night is coming.
It knows how to find me.

Dark thoughts consume me—
every night.

I don’t want to die,
I just want relief.
But I can’t have it.

I’m a broken record—
but I let it play.
I’m used to this feeling.
Is this what I was meant to be?
How I was meant to feel?

Every morning, it’s me—
looking through the glass,
waking up in this body—
wanting to throw it away.
I sell myself lies
that things are getting better...

and I still buy them.
But they’re running out of stock.

Knee-deep
in the darkness that I made—
of my own actions.
The night controls me,
makes me feel worthless,
hopeless—
I hate myself.

Like there’s no daylight in sight.

You're growing tired of me.
I can feel it in the spaces where your silence has started to settle.
I feel it in every breath you don't take around me anymore,
I feel it with how every laugh feels further away than it used to.
You don’t say it outright, but I see it in the way your eyes move past mine,
like I'm something you’ve already looked at too long
and you’re just trying to be polite.


I loved you so hard I still can’t sleep.
My mind keeps pulling your name apart and folding it back into maybes and ifs,
and I replay it all, the quiet moments, the almosts, everything
until I start to think they mean more than they should.
You should know I never stopped loving you, not even for a second.
But I don’t think you’ve figured that out
or maybe you have,
and you’ve just stopped loving me.
The thought of that sits heavy in my stomach, like a second heartbeat.
Some nights I start thinking up versions of myself that might’ve been easier to love
ones who don’t wear their sadness so visibly and so meanly,
ones who wouldn’t make you feel like staying is a chore.


You're growing tired
of all the things I won’t say out loud,
the feelings I edit out of every sentence
because I’m scared of tipping the balance
between “close friend” and “too much.”
So I swallow the aches before they rise,
tie my thoughts into neat little knots
so you don’t see how messy it really gets.
How messy I really am.


Sometimes I think about telling you everything
you are the only person who’s ever made me feel like I can, but I still can’t.
It’s all too tangled.
I want to know how it feels to sit beside you and want nothing
except to be held like I mean something
held like maybe I mean as much to you as you do to me.
Yet I stay quiet, again, like I always do,
because if I spill it…
won’t it drown you too?  


I miss our hugs, where in that moment our souls blurred together.
I miss our cuddles on the couch, where everything felt right, felt safe.
I miss how being near you made the hurting stop, even just for a little while.
But now it’s been so long.
All I have left is the ghost of your warmth,
And now, your touch feels too heavy,
like something I’m not sure I can carry,
cold in a way that makes everything feel distant.
like your warmth has faded into something unfamiliar.
It’s not that I don’t want you


I do.
But this isn’t you.

I’m a walking insult.
I’m a *******.
I’m a ******* mistake.

No, that felt too dignifying.

Is that more than what I deserve?

Did that make you laugh?

Your jokes describe me too well.

I nod with every letter said.

I feel my face flush scarlet

So ashamed I change —

real defining clue of myself —

like a snake skin sheds.

I want to be dehumanised.

I  want to be violated

I want them to forget me.

I want to be an empty vessel.

I want to slit my throat.

I don’t want your warm affection.

Now my dreams echo hollow.
Every night, my head against the pillow,
revising every morsel I swallowed,
hoping there is no tomorrow —

As I walk to join the hanging bodies in the gallows.
They laugh and frolic in the sun with their slim waists.

You say I’m kind. Considerate,

but I just want your validation.

I’m a narcissist to the core.

Hope I’m not the bile in your throat,

or the acid that burns your hollow heart.

Did that make you laugh?