i spill like ink on a torn page
veins whisper stories
     i don’t remember
          writing
the floor drinks my silence,
a quiet agreement between
    blood and breath

who was i before the cracking?
before the splitting of skin
         and thought
before my name became a stranger
    i barely dare to call

the weight is a lover
     i never chose—
pulling me into the hollow
   of my own ribs,
where echoes curl like dying
          embers,
where i used to be whole

maybe it’s time to enter
          a white asylum,
surgical, controlled, safe—
     where no one can find me
perhaps my demons will fly away
     on black wings,
perhaps the walls will swallow
    my name

fingers press together scraps,
wet with glue, wet with something red,
but the edges won’t meet,
    the lines won’t hold

i am an afterthought,
    i don’t deserve love

step wrong and it all shatters—
the pulse, the breath,
       the brittle calm
i fake so well
how long does it take to disappear?
how long before the fire
     stops pretending
          to be warmth?

into the
   glitter of
your own
               (un)holy
                       shimmer—
            a reckless
   riot of
jo(y)
       that burns
too bright
          and leaves
   you hollow
   like a house
after the
          storm

   oh!
to feel alive is
   unbearable
       (the world
sings)
          in your veins
   a song
           you never
   learned to hold
     (the weight
of breath)
          like a
     broken elevator
   plummeting
into the dark
               basement
       of you

“i’m fine,” you say
                     “this time”
       (you promised)
but here you are—
   back in the
      hollow,
           dragging
the weight
        of your
    own
   lies

it tastes like
rust, regret,
      (the blackness)
sleeping feels
like sinking—
   how do you tell
them you’d
        rather not
   wake tomorrow?

“i’m sorry”
        sticks in your
throat;
they want your
           light
but you’re out,
   out like
   a flickering
candle
          (the itch,
   the need)
to chase the
   next high,
               a needle,
     a prayer—
and still,
    it spits you out
           again,
this cycle,
   this sickness,
        this burden
      no one asked for

you sleep, hoping
to find a softer
   somewhere—
far from the
      endless climb
and the crash,
   wanting to rest
forever,
         but you wake,
            again.
and again,
   and again.

in the heart  
   of the earth  
where shadows weave  
      and whispers flutter  
like light on water—  
i stand  
   a solitary figure,  
yesterday’s weight  
   melting away,  
a cloak of memory  
   unraveling at the seams  

the sea sings  
   a lullaby of blue,  
secrets breathed to the wind,  
while grass—a tapestry  
   of green—  
bends low, cradling  
      truths,  
soft echoes of love  
   unspooled  

i gather remnants  
   of dreams,  
fragments like shells  
   on the shore,  
each a promise,  
   a sigh,  
caught in the web  
   of what might have been,  
lingering like haunting  
   melodies  

was it quiet surrender  
   that opened my chest  
      to the sky...
was it freedom,  
   unshackling  
the heart from chains  
   of desire,  
that led me  
   to this sacred silence...

and still, colors sway—  
   a riot of life,  
the world unfurling  
   in wild bloom,  
and i, a traveler,  
   grasping  
at threads of existence  

the grass bends,  
   humble witness,  
never breaking,  
   always yielding,  
teaching me the art  
   of resilience,  
the gentle dance  
   of endings,  
woven with new beginnings’  
   promise  

here, at the horizon  
   of my soul,  
i learn to embrace  
   the ebb and flow,  
to let go, to surrender—  
for in the quiet,  
   i find life’s pulse,  
and understand every farewell  
   is but a breath  
away from hello.

He found me,
in my abandoned castle,
chasing the dead.

Dancing with despair,
in the daylight.
as it had me in chains,
at night.

My fears,
befriended my sins.
And this medley,
got me twirling to its rhythm.

Amidst this ill-lit feast,
I saw a face.
I stopped,
To get a better glimpse of him.

I fell on my knees, weeping.

All this time,
he has been waiting for me.

Each of my teardrops,
turns into a snow-white pearl,
in his hands.

Then,
he gently,
put them in the pockets,
of his holy tunic.
And I looked at him in awe!

He smiled and said,
Pearls made of tears,
always reminds me,
of my strongest warriors,
on earth.

Growing old
is nothing more than
the lengthening
of one's shadow
as it
stretches into
eternity and
is seen no more