#heartachepoetry
Breathing in your smoke is like heaven to me,
Clearing out my lungs of such anxiety.
Your crutch and your dependence,
An endearing call of resplendence,
I think I loved you.
You make me nervous.
To the point where my brain stops,
And my mouth keeps running
Without any indication of where
the finish line is.
Where I begin to speak too fast and too quick
To know what I’ve said, and quite possibly
For you to even follow each word that
Pours out.
Yet Your heart was longing for another,
You and I were not meant to be lovers,
And We were not made for each other.
Oh, how sad times swept away the positive possibilities and the “what if?” worries,
I thought I could only hate the month of August,
It seems I now despise of July.
Stress melted away within my tears as I wept,
Sadness left the residue of itself on my pillow where I slept.
The sun bleeding through my curtains closed,
And yet my room turns an ill ridden shade of yellow.
I thought the outcome would leave me with a feeling of euphoria
Instead I look to my mirrored self, reflecting a state of body dysmorphia
I do not like the way that I look,
Comparing myself to her and your feelings I mistook.
Straighter teeth and an older complexion,
While I hide away, she only craves the attention.
You only knew her for a day and you still went away,
With her on holiday to a place so far, I can’t stay
In this state of mind any longer.
Seeing her be the lighter to your cigarette;
The founding letters to the jumbled spaces in your alphabet.
I see I am only the ash that falls to the ground,
I am not within those letters which you finally found.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 6:25 AM UTC
I held his hand
as if I hadn’t felt the palm
hundreds of times before,
all of my words
interlaced
in our quiet fingertips.
I kissed those lips—
they tasted like mint and ***
stolen from his parents’ kitchen cabinet.
I kissed and kissed
until I could almost forget
how restless I’d become.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 9:06 AM UTC
Baby, if my clock had scars, every waking tick would cut me open
again, tiny wounds stitched into the seconds, as if time itself learned
how to bruise me. Swore I was right, but please prove me wrong:
if I were to die too young, how long would you hold on and cry?
When these flies keep me up, circling like thoughts over the grave
where I bury my sleep. I toss around in that dirt of old mistakes;
I can’t find rest, but shame always finds its place beside me like a
shadow waiting for a sunset.
Our lives have begun, and all we'll borrow is a tomorrow; a loan
from the universe we can’t afford to miss. Yet even tomorrow
feels unguaranteed, a promise written in pencil on a clock face
already smudged. But here I stand again on the threshold of my
doom, listening to my heartbeat echo against all of the hours I
wasted being afraid.
I scroll past a million icons, but none of them belong to you—
none of them stop the time the way you do when you look at me.
Wiping regret smoke off my fingers, leaving marks like cigarette
burns— small, circular reminders that love has its own way of
branding you. Dreams, life, hope—they flicker under your eyes,
and God, I found dreams, life & hope in your beautiful eyes.
Baby, you met me as the sinner long before I remembered how
to be the believer— and still, somehow, you warmed the cold
future inside my chest. When our eyes met, time finally exhaled.
I reached for your hand— not knowing whether I was reaching
for comfort, or another collapse. Was it a lust for living again, or
the fear of falling into a love that could remake me?
Because the last time I loved, my clock cracked— its face carved
with scars from every hour love betrayed me. I can feel the hands
of time hesitate… as if they’re asking whether my heart can survive
another touch, rather than keeping in touch with my regrets.
Nov 25, 2025
Nov 25, 2025 at 4:58 AM UTC