I am the draft in the hallway,
the door that never shuts quite right.
You step inside,
but the warmth slips away—
I cannot hold it.

I paint the walls in vibrant hues,
yet when I turn,
the colors are already fading,
peeling into cracks
I can never seal.

I fill the rooms with furniture,
trying to make this place ours,
but I drape them in white sheets,
leaving them to gather dust.

You open the windows wide,
and I pull the curtains closed.
You knock at the door,
and I cannot always let you in.

And sometimes I fear
I’ve trapped us in this hollow place,
when you deserve a home
and not these half-lived walls
between here and nowhere.

I wonder if one day
you’ll walk these empty halls
and decide not to return
because I never learned
how to make a house a home.

I find my generation incredibly blind.
Eyes fixed on small glowing glass,
forgetting about the endless beauty
of the world before us.

It is a generation of poison.

So I ask to be left with my flowers,
to stroll through botanical gardens.
Leave me with the song of a bird
and the conversations I hold
with the moon.
Leave me to sit beneath a willow tree
for hours, observing the world go by.

Let me write love letters for people
that I will never send,
and for places that touched my heart.

Let me long for a time that existed
before I did. For a time where
everything was real and alive.

A time when the world was
not ignored,
but witnessed.

thought i was better
days roll heavy on my chest
i’m alone again

say i'm too stressed
eating my teeth
the math isn't adding up
voices keep multiplying
say i should learn to relax
but you don't understand
i've never known the feeling

i was playing pretend
mind medicine overdose
listen, i was wrong