His words twisted the corners
so right curved into left,
and truth bent sideways,
making me believe
I was going the wrong way.
Hedgerows grew tall,
and thick with argument,
until they swallowed the gas lampposts,
turning pathways into shadows.
I walked blind and barefoot
through the thick of it,
earth damp, worn thin as my breath.
Was I supposed to find the center?
Was there ever an exit?
There was no map,
just whispers in the leaves,
and his voice,
ringing in my ears,
a compass spinning
from asking too many questions,
and doubt,
folded into my own pocket.
My soul became blistered
from chasing after ghosts of
wanted apologies,
so I kissed the ivy,
hoping the walls would soften.
but they spiraled,
a boa constrictor handcuffing my legs.
I took a sharp turn,
desperate,
crawling on my belly,
a soldier avoiding fire,
fingertips clawing into the red clay,
and found the center,
where a red lip-sticked mirror stood,
half cracked, words still whole:
"you're not the one who's lost"

When it's time,
let me know.

I'll be there,
whether it's now,
or in 24.

We're all fools in love,
'till we're actually fools.

But life just goes on for me,
and for you too,
despite the way you,
break,
          break,
                     break,
                              my heart.

Like it's yours,
to have and to hold...
because it is yours,
to break and to take,
I'm yours.

the gorilla in
the room is spanking my truth
side ways upside down

The Scarlet Refusal


The box. The chains.  
The absolution.  
“It ends the pain,” they say.  

But what is there for me to gain?  
My shackles long slipped the rein.  
It’s your box, your chain, that detains.  

I abandoned that game.  

“It sticks,” they say.  
“It rebels,” they voice.  
A bright red ‘A’.  

But no heed I pay.  
I light my illuminate blaze.  
Not an arsonist—  
Just someone who is unlevered.

Everyone likes the wind until it turns into a storm.
Everyone likes black color until it comes to skin.
Everyone likes others until they speak for their own welfare.
Everyone likes to become great until they realize what hard work is.

I am not broken; the world is.
Every day, it’s a new trend, whether worthless or rich,
Whether Black or white, dull or bright.
Every day is a new battle, a storm in a sea of dreams.
Dreams which get lost among the crowd of mindless bees.

The unfortunate truth is, the world favours aesthetics.
Whether in your work or in your deary beak.
Each day it’s a new goal, whether money, happiness, or ******,
But I ask, where is the genuine, the giddy, and the fulfilled?
Lost in the wildfire of fleeting faces and smoke-choked dreams?

Where are the joyful, the dreamers, and the poets?
Lost in the world of the weary, the cynic, and the skeptics?
But finally, I see the truth, the infallible truth—
Hidden behind the layers, lies, buzz, and noise,
That I am not broken; the world is.

She Forgot to Shine*

She watched from shadows, their laughter so bright,
Drawn to their glow, mistaking it for light.
Their crowns gleamed gold, their steps so proud,
She shrank in silence, lost in the crowd.

She painted her face in their borrowed hue,
Wore smiles not hers, masked what was true.
She mimicked their walk, their giggles, their grace,
But nothing she did could win her a place.

She dimmed her glow to mirror theirs,
Traded her truth for secondhand stares.
Ignored the whisper, soft and low—
“Your light is rare, let it show.”

But she wanted their warmth, their golden stage,
So she silenced her fire, caged her rage.
Fed on envy from morning’s first breath,
Planted deceit, reaped hollow death.

O’er—what a sorrowful, sorrowful soul,
Plunged into the very image of perfection,
Drowning in the fleeting fame,
Choking on praise never meant for her name.

She wore their shine, but it burned her skin,
For light not yours won’t glow within.
Now alone, in a mirror she stares,
At a girl who vanished chasing glares.

A ghost of hope, a shadowed shell,
Trapped in a dream that felt like hell.
Her own light waits where she left it behind—
But not all stars get a second time.

Some stories end not with silence, but with a flicker too late—
And a light forever lost to a path never meant.

The tongue once lived in sweetest lands,
Where honey dripped like golden sands.
It danced through syrup, soft and wide,
With velvet dreams it could not hide.

Beneath the sky, a sugared sea,
Where flavors danced in harmony.
And every taste, and every sip,
Was joy that melted on the lip

Around it spoke of flavor rare,
Of something rich beyond compare.
“They call it truth,” the voices said,
“Then why’s it left so dark, unsaid?”

The tongue fell still, its sweetness thin,
An itch began to burn within.
“If there is more,” it thought, “I must
Let taste decide what I can trust.”

Curious now, the tongue grew bold,
To chase the myth the whispers told.
With trembling hope, it reached and tried
To sip what others left denied.

But what it found was not delight —
A taste that burned, a wound of bite.
The sugar fled, the silk was torn,
Its buds were seared, then split and torn

The sweetness slipped beyond its reach,
No golden drip to calm or breach.
What once was rich now felt so thin,
As bitterness crept deep within.

It searched again for something sweet,
But found no sugar it could meet.
Its buds, once soft with joy and light,
Now knew but ash and endless night.

The others watched but turned aside,
Their mouths still sweet, their comfort wide.
They offered nothing—not a sound—
Just stayed within their sugared ground.

It whispered low—no choice remained,
To taste the bitter that none had claimed.
Its sweetness gone, the wounds run deep,
Still, tongue must sip — no rest, no sleep