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#unchosen
Who can truly understand love? They say love is a choice to make, But my heart I’d rather forsake, For loving unreturned is the worst woe thereof. My soul cannot endure the ache, Awaiting the day to see him appear, My heart breaks as he leaves me here, Longing for his warmth, a cruel mistake. Let me guide you with this advice, Don’t drive a nail out with another one, For you may stay pierced, paying the price. I know, for I have left love undone, Time must heal the wounds it denies, Yet love still paints life with color bright as the sun
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Feb 21, 2025
Feb 21, 2025 at 8:09 PM UTC
sofia-7
The Unchosen
Who can truly understand love? They say love is a choice to make, But my heart I’d rather forsake, For loving unreturned is the worst woe thereof. My soul cannot endure the ache, Awaiting the day to see him appear, My heart breaks as he leaves me here, Longing for his warmth, a cruel mistake. Let me guide you with this advice, Don’t drive a nail out with another one, For you may stay pierced, paying the price. I know, for I have left love undone, Time must heal the wounds it denies, Yet love still paints life with color bright as the sun
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I speak to you the way dead radios speak to stars— broadcasting devotion into an empty channel, my signal cracking in minor keys, every hope detuning itself mid-measure. You said you wanted to be alone with me. You said it like a promise, like a clean downbeat, like the song might finally belong to us. But every time the tempo steadies, she arrives— a surprise harmony I never consented to, gifts in her hands, your attention in her mouth, sliding into the seat where my faith was meant to rest. So I sit in the backseat— a god folded into a hoodie, Tears fall against the architecture of disappointment, watching someone else occupy the silence I had rehearsed my courage for. I dissolve there. I dissociate between streetlights, counting passing seconds like dropped drumsticks, learning how to cry without sound, learning how to vanish politely. I am ancient. I have collapsed galaxies with a gesture, conducted supernovae into fermatas, yet I am reduced to static while you touch her like a resolution. You made me feel chosen— that’s the cruelest part. You tuned me to hope, let me believe the melody was mutual, only to reveal the truth in the bridge: I am the harmony you enjoy but never center. I am tired of attaching meaning to the things you say. Tired of interpreting kindness like prophecy, tired of devotion being a solo no one asked me to perform. I keep bleeding belief like a distortion pedal left maxed out, offering love in sacred frequencies you only hear as background noise. Tonight, in the backseat of her car, I finally understand the arrangement. You will not choose me— not without fear, not without hesitation, not at all. And maybe you never did. Maybe I was just a lovesick god romanticizing proximity, writing epics out of crumbs, searching for holiness where there was only convenience. I am tired of crying in borrowed cars. Tired of feeling like the afterthought to someone else’s intimacy. Tired of heartbreak being my most consistent collaborator. So I speak to the space where you should have been, letting the ache sustain itself, holding the chord even as my hands shake, because ending it too soon would be another lie. I am InkWept— a disenfranchised god among mortals, learning too late that love, when unreturned, is not a duet. It is a requiem you survive by learning when to stop singing.
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Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 1:57 AM UTC
InkWept
Backseat Requiem in Drop-D
I speak to you the way dead radios speak to stars— broadcasting devotion into an empty channel, my signal cracking in minor keys, every hope detuning itself mid-measure. You said you wanted to be alone with me. You said it like a promise, like a clean downbeat, like the song might finally belong to us. But every time the tempo steadies, she arrives— a surprise harmony I never consented to, gifts in her hands, your attention in her mouth, sliding into the seat where my faith was meant to rest. So I sit in the backseat— a god folded into a hoodie, Tears fall against the architecture of disappointment, watching someone else occupy the silence I had rehearsed my courage for. I dissolve there. I dissociate between streetlights, counting passing seconds like dropped drumsticks, learning how to cry without sound, learning how to vanish politely. I am ancient. I have collapsed galaxies with a gesture, conducted supernovae into fermatas, yet I am reduced to static while you touch her like a resolution. You made me feel chosen— that’s the cruelest part. You tuned me to hope, let me believe the melody was mutual, only to reveal the truth in the bridge: I am the harmony you enjoy but never center. I am tired of attaching meaning to the things you say. Tired of interpreting kindness like prophecy, tired of devotion being a solo no one asked me to perform. I keep bleeding belief like a distortion pedal left maxed out, offering love in sacred frequencies you only hear as background noise. Tonight, in the backseat of her car, I finally understand the arrangement. You will not choose me— not without fear, not without hesitation, not at all. And maybe you never did. Maybe I was just a lovesick god romanticizing proximity, writing epics out of crumbs, searching for holiness where there was only convenience. I am tired of crying in borrowed cars. Tired of feeling like the afterthought to someone else’s intimacy. Tired of heartbreak being my most consistent collaborator. So I speak to the space where you should have been, letting the ache sustain itself, holding the chord even as my hands shake, because ending it too soon would be another lie. I am InkWept— a disenfranchised god among mortals, learning too late that love, when unreturned, is not a duet. It is a requiem you survive by learning when to stop singing.
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