(The involvement of catchlessly in the piece “silent rage” signifies the non-existent nature of an error awaiting attainment)

And the race is within me, encircles me, captures me, slits my throat open for melodies, but oh, you won’t find rhythm—just an echo
my dear, just an echo.
I am running breathlessly, catchlessly, deliberately but oh my friend, drowsiness can’t be blinked away—drowns me, ruins me, devours me.
The finish line is where I stand, my golden boy. Don’t teach me the phrases you have learned recently. The finish line is where I commenced from subsequently.

Today when I held the pen to cast a spell upon this empty sheet, I found myself getting defeated from the world that surrounds me.
With innumerable wonders around me, I find my words trembling seamlessly,
And as I look for my muse, I find myself neglecting the exceptionally aligned nature, just a dewy view.
Stars that aren’t as pleasing as before,
Prosaicness that gathers me makes my heart sore.
This mundane night isn’t as poetic as it was yesterday, just an empty soulless ray.
This ink doesn’t cast a beam, this sheet can’t make my eyes gleam.
Those swaying trees which resemble the approaching spring aren’t the cause for the poetry I bring today.
Because my shaky hands are making my pen stumble today, maybe my heart had only this much to say.

And I guess there is a truth
in what they say.

That you will break my heart
in many ways.

And you did, so well,
in rhythmic tunes.

You have broken my heart
too good, so soon.

Ah, the perfect poem.
Does it occur when you are sufficiently ******?
Or when the agony begins to bloat?
Or when in cherry blood, joy floats?
Lies eloquently disguise truths.
Truth promenades as lies.
Poetic words speak to the roots that keep us alive.
Should it provoke intricate questions of the soul?
As landmines of resonance fill our holes.

See through their souls
And the things they like,
Write like they want to read it.
The writing style that according to them
Shall be successful.
Make it more simple,
More complex,
Whatever they like,
Make it realistic,
Or dreamy,
Happy
Or sad.
Tell a story
They would tell themselves.

Verse 1
Took the wrong bus on a Wednesday
Wore the skirt I swore I hated
Had a blister and a sunburn
And the sky was drained and jaded

Sat by a woman with a bag of peaches
One rolled out and hit my shoe
She laughed like my aunt who died in April
And I almost said, “I miss you too”

Pre-Chorus 1
Joy didn’t knock, just drifted through—
Like a memory dressed in something new.

Chorus 1
I got sunburned in my silence
Skirt too short and pride too loud
Joy just slipped into the backseat
While I cursed at every cloud

I’m not healed, just unbothered
By the mess I’ve started to miss
I flinch at kindness lately
Like it’s something I can’t resist

Verse 2
The driver missed my stop completely
But I didn’t say a word
There’s a silence that feels sacred
When you’re scared of being heard

My phone lit up with nothing
And it still made me smile
I’m the patron saint of letdowns
But I stayed soft for a while

Pre-Chorus 2
Joy didn’t ask if I’d moved on
Just slipped back in like nothing was wrong

Chorus 2
I got sunburned in my silence
Skirt still short and ego bruised
Joy slid in like she owned the place
Like she knew I’d already lost the ruse

I’m not healed, just out of stories
So I smile and call it wise
Now I host my hauntings sweetly
Like the ghosts were always mine

Bridge
I practiced detachment like a prayer
Burned sage, lit candles, grew out my hair
But it still smelled like him in July—
Like sweat, and shame, and cherry pie

I told the moon, “I get it. You only show half,”
Then cried so hard I think I made God laugh

Mascara on my birth certificate
From rewriting who I was
Tried on forgiveness like a costume
But forgot what size I was

I kept rewriting the ending
’Til the story started biting back
Guess healing is just hiding
In a dress you thought you packed

Final Chorus
I got sunburned in my silence
Skirt still short, but now it fits
Joy returns like clockwork chaos
Pulls up laughing, never quits

I wasn’t healed, just hungry
For something I didn’t have to chase
And for once, I didn’t flinch
When the world looked me in the face

Outro
I told the moon, “I get it.”
But I was really talking to myself.

When there is nothing left to say
And you don't know what to pray--
God knows what's in your heart,
The Spirit did He impart.

I’m always watching myself
watch the world.
Even in love,
I’m already narrating the ending.

I turn silence into stanzas.
Affection into evidence.
Every kiss, a metaphor.
Every absence, a motif.

People think I’m honest.
But really,
I just edit well.

Half of what I write
never happened.
The other half
happened too hard.

I’ve written the same heartbreak
fourteen different ways.
Gave it a new name.
Gave it better dialogue.
Made him softer
so the betrayal feels worse.

I say I’m writing for me,
but I’m always picturing the line
someone might underline
and send to their ex
at 2:03 a.m.

I’ve performed pain
like a dress rehearsal—
highlighted the devastation,
downplayed the shame,
cut the part where I begged
and called it pacing.

There are poems
that made people cry
and replies I never opened.
Because if I read them,
it might mean
I was never alone in it.
And I don’t know
if that would feel better
or worse.

Some nights I write
like I’m searching for proof
that it happened at all.
That he said it.
That I felt it.
That I was the kind of girl
someone could ruin
on purpose.

And if the writing is good enough,
maybe I don’t have to go back.
Maybe I don’t have to forgive him.
Maybe I just have to
survive it beautifully.

So I sharpen the line.
I fix the form.
I leave the ending open.
I publish the ache.

And I tell myself
that counts
as closure.

The betrayal was real.
The good lines were mine.
And maybe closure
doesn’t come in paragraphs—
maybe it’s just a quiet night
I don’t turn into a poem.