I am realizing that the times you spent with me,
Were more of a worry than they were any reprieve.
I guess hindsight is twenty-twenty,
I wish I had seen it sooner so that I could leave.
Now I’m questioning,
Did it mean anything?

What defines a friend?
What separates them from an acquaintance?
I don’t know anymore;
The ones I thought were my friends are strangers,
That I’ve never met before.
Perhaps, there were good times,
But they’re clouded in the grey.
Now I’m left with ambiguity,
To haunt me for my days.

Those times that you laughed,
At a joke I didn’t understand.
Dividing us further by our clear differences.
This lone wolf was meant to hunt on his own,
Dancing with solitude in the comfort of his home.
But the lonely monarch grows tired of his throne,
He’s frozen with fear, for he doesn’t know where to go.

So, what’s next?
How does the second chapter open?
Would it be simpler to just forget?
Or act bitter and broken?
I walk the trial-heavy road,
Of finding new friends.
I wish I were a bloodhound,
To sniff out genuine people,
Who could invest in me.
Authenticity is a rarity,
Amidst all of the fallacies,
Filled to the brim with irony,
And patronizing apathy.

It’s a painful search,
That leaves me questioning my worth,
But I won’t stop looking,
Statistics assure me,
That there’s at least one friend out there, somewhere.
I just have to find them wherever they are.
A friend is as rare as a perfect pair,
And they can be covered with fool’s gold.
How is anyone to know?

If I’m a walking lesson,
well, you never learned to read.
We waste away the hours,
you just take and take to feed.

You claim that I am guarded,
all traps and tricks to test,
but you charge ahead so reckless,
never slowing, never rest.

You bleed against my defenses-
spikes, blades, and trap doors.
Yet instead of asking questions,
you argue who hurts more.

If I’m your greatest lesson,
the one you won’t discern,
is it that you fear to stay here,
or to leave and ache, and yearn?

Envy tells me a story,
One, he was told by my friends.
He tells me about their happiness,
And how it never seems to end.
How their lives seem to be so perfect,
While I’m crumbling apart.
I wish Envy would leave me,
But he’s adamant to break my heart.

Envy whispers triumphs,
Another crushing defeat.
I should feel happy for them,
Instead, I feel weak.
This world is passing me by,
While I stand frozen in time,
Perhaps my chance to shine,
Passed long ago.

As I look in the mirror,
Envy tells me my inadequacies.
He points to the acne,
And the glasses on my face.
He isn’t kind to me,
And he calls me a disgrace.
I beg him to stop,
But he only laughs at my expense.
Oh, how Envy hurts me,
But, oh, how it makes sense.

The snare of comparison is tight around my neck,
It won’t come loose, it’s like a noose,
Except wrapped inside my head.
Like a rabbit in a trap, I’m trapped,
With no way to break free.
On those days, I feel, oh, so lonely,
I guess I have my good friend Envy.

Am I a horrible person,
To feel this way?
This envy is constantly darkening my sunny days.
I’ll just look at my word search, as I search,
For the words to say,
And how to say them.
While Envy watches and lurks,
With a subtle smirk,
As I break.
Oh, I envy…
I envy them.
My joys seem,
Arbitrary in comparison.

Envy keeps telling me his sweet stories,
As I consistently demean myself for not being so lucky.
He’s a poet, too,
And he knows what to do.
He never feels restrained or contained.
Envy, he’s crazy, but so captivating,
Showing me what I am missing.

A boyfriend,
I hope it goes well,
And doesn’t meet a bitter end,
Like many stories tell.
Junior year,
Only two more left to go.
When our paths veer,
Will I end up alone?
Envy’s torturous words,
Uttered with malice,
Gathered together like herds,
Feeling inadequate.
Like a knife in my back,
A personal attack,
Against myself,
Highlighting what I lack.
He paints me a portrait,
Of things I’ll never have,
Throw it to the fire,
And watch it burn to ash.
Gather all the remnants,
And add it to the stack.

Pain, heartache, isolation,
Stirred to the surface due to one emotion.
Outsiders might say I have no reason,
But this envy is just like an ocean.
Its waters are so frigid,
Not even Posideon could stand it.
Occasionally, there are ripples,
From little tiny drops.
They’re let out,
And it’s hard for them to stop.

Envy’s villainous gaze,
Would turn Medusa to stone.
I’ll be the lonely monarch sitting on his throne.
I’ll watch from my tower,
As people live in the world below.
Envy by my side, all alone,
In my merciless, envious home.

So, I’ll envy…
A fleeting sense of control.
I’ll envy,
The noose taking hold.
Envy,
My sweetest friend.
Envy,
The one who’ll stay till the end.
I can’t help but envy my friends.
He’s whispering again,
His voice overtaking my head.
I envy…
Oh, I envy them.

It’s hard to stay away
When she keeps
Crawling back
Building this up
From the ground
Only to tear it
Back down
Light it on fire
And say I ruin everything

I never went all in
Just stuck to the small stakes
Kept my bad habits running
Even when I felt destroyed
Like a car running without brakes
I don’t know if its only you or a selected few
Maybe some of the **** I didn’t see through
And
I don’t know if I lacked compassion for all of my partners,
Or everyone I ever knew
But I feel stuck when I’m awake
Running when I’m asleep
The hill I need to climb to get back to myself
Feels way too steep
And while I’m waiting for the final break
Maybe I’m already in too deep
I feel addicted to heartache
Because I can’t let go of this heartbreak
Please just fall asleep

In every field of roses,
There is one that is golden.
It shimmers and glimmers in the light,
From the Sun in the morn, and the Moon at night.
Its petals are glamorous.
Sometimes they reside inside a forest.

There’s always a bee,
For every golden rose.
The hive sees nothing,
Only the chosen bee knows.
A game played since time began,
The game of love, where few seem to win in the end.

He had found his golden rose,
They had grown rather close.
Her golden hair sparkled in the light,
Whether throughout the day or at night.
She was…glamorous,
And they bought a house near a forest.
Life seemed to be going well,
He had her and never thought of anyone else.
But sometimes bees cheat at fate’s game,
And the golden rose was a victim of this plague.

The bee came home one night,
Light emanated from the bedroom.
The bee opened the door,
And he lost everything that he could lose.
His golden rose was with another,
They had been together all night.
Evidence all o’er the floor and the king-sized bed.
They were in the bathroom,
Showering with the new, pristine shower head.

The bee had been played for a fool,
False gold covered the rose he was devoted to.
All at once, her shimmer faded away,
Her petals wilted as they decayed.
The rival bee held onto the rose,
As he kissed her on the nose,
The fool had been planning to propose,
To his supposed…golden rose.

For every bee there is a golden rose,
But there are many fakes, covered in fool’s gold.
They crush the bee, make them lose their wings,
And leave nothing but heartache that stings.

A gift to make my day
Grace me with your presence
Then take it all away

Well, if that's all you can do
Then you can keep it
Because I've dealt with so much worse
Than just your ******* silent treatment

Built-up frustrations and transgressions have come to a head,
You’ve decided that enough is enough.
You carry your newly filled gasoline cans,
Can’t believe that this is how it ends.
You pour the gasoline,
All over the wooden, fractured planks.
And as you douse the bridge with kerosene,
Some of the boards groan and even break.
You light a match and stare at the flame,
Contemplating everything.
How your friends stabbed you in the back and ran away,
How they treated you like dirt, but you took it anyway.
How you were desperate, and it caused you pain.
How you never felt like you belonged with them either way.
So you flick the match,
And listen to the satisfying crackle of the flames.
But don’t feel bad,
Sometimes bridges burn, and that’s okay!

Content Warning: **
contains themes of emotional abuse, trauma, gaslighting, and healing from toxic relationships.
_______________­_

There was a time I called it love—
that swing between cruelty and kisses.
One moment, silence like a storm held in the throat,
the next, a necklace left on my pillow,
an apology wrapped in gold.
I learned to flinch at both.

They pulled the pendulum
with hands that always smiled.
I lived at the center of its swing,
never falling, never flying,
just suspended—
believing pain must be earned
and kindness, a prize for obedience.

Love came in riddles.
It said: “You’re too much,”
then whispered, “Don’t leave me.”
It said: “No one else would want you,”
then bought roses by the dozen.
It told me I was broken,
then demanded I stay whole.

I shrank to fit their moods.
Measured my worth in how still I could stay,
how quiet I could be.
There were days I swallowed my voice
like it was poison
and thanked them for the silence.

I learned the language of gaslight—
how to doubt the bruise even as it bloomed,
how to question my own reflection.
Was I too sensitive? Too cold?
Too easy to anger?
I asked myself so often
that even the mirror hesitated to answer.

They called it love.
And I, desperate not to be alone,
called it survival.
I stayed.
And in staying, I disappeared—
faded… slowly,
like a photograph left in the sun.

When I cried, I apologized.
When I laughed, I waited for it to be taken back.
That’s what trauma teaches—
how to build walls so high
you forget which side you’re on.

And then,
you arrived.
Not like a savior—
but like a quiet thing.
A question, not a cure.
You didn’t ask for my ruins.
You brought no blueprints.
You simply climbed.

You climbed the walls
with patience and small kindnesses,
spoke gently to the ghosts I had mistaken for myself.
You didn’t rescue me.
You reminded me I was never the fire.
Only the one who walked through it.

You never promised healing.
You never called me beautiful
when I was unraveling.
You simply sat with me
in the rooms I had locked from the inside.

And somehow,
without ever asking me to trust—
I did.

Not all at once.
But enough to believe
that love doesn’t have to ache.
That it can be a steady hand
and a soft place to land.

I still remember the pendulum.
But I do not live inside its arc.
Now, I walk.
And someone walks beside me.

I no longer flinch when the door shuts.
No longer shrink to be held.
I have learned the sound of my own name
spoken without sharpness.
I have learned silence can be soft—
not punishment,
but peace.

There are days I still brace for the swing.
Old ghosts don’t disappear,
they just stop steering.
But now I meet them with open hands,
not fear.
I say: I see you. I survived you.
And they leave a little quicker each time.

Some nights I still wake
waiting for love to hurt.
But then I turn
and find it sleeping next to me—
unchanged, unthreatening.
Not a weapon.
Not a promise.
Just a presence.

And I,
who once mistook survival for love,
have begun to choose differently.

I write my own rules now.
I raise my voice,
not to defend—
but to declare.

I am not the bruises I forgot how to name.
I am not the silence I once begged for.
I am not theirs.

I am the story after the fire.
The garden that grew in the ash.
The voice that returned, hoarse but certain.

I am not healed.
I am healing.
And that is enough.