Funny how love and your name both have four,  
I don’t like love, but with you, I want more.  
Hearing your name makes it feel real,  
Makes me crave something I don’t want to feel.  

I long to feel you, your warmth, your skin,  
The way you pull me in, where do I begin?  
I don’t want just texts, I want you whole,  
But I know you don’t care, you don’t feel my soul.  

Maybe if I was thinner, prettier, a little more bright,  
Would you see me then? Would you see me right?  
What’s wrong with me? What do they have that I lack?  
I give and give, but I’m always turning back.  

I love you, but you don’t even see,  
How can you be blind when it’s so clear to me?  
Am I a fool for loving you, for wanting this touch?  
Or are you playing games, knowing I care too much?  

I love you, I hate you, all at once in my chest,  
I hate myself more for putting this to the test.  
I try so hard, but you don’t even try,  
And I’m left here waiting, asking myself why.

This body, once mine, now feels estranged,  
Scarred and hollow, broken and changed.  
I look at it from somewhere far,  
As if I’m watching a distant star.  

Once, I loved this skin, this frame,  
It held me close, it knew my name.  
But now it feels like a cage, not a home  
A shell I wander, lost and alone.  

I live outside it, ghost-like and cold,  
No longer belonging, no longer whole.  
This body I hate, this body I mourn,  
Once familiar, now weathered and worn.  

I ache for the self I used to know,  
Before these scars, before this shadow.  
I drift, disconnected, silent and numb,  
In a body that no longer feels like my own.

If you asked me what I like about you,  
I’d say something simple, like, “your humor.“

Because saying,  
“I love how deep and emotional your eyes are,  
how they pull me in,  
make me want to uncover the depths of your thoughts,  
the words you’re too afraid to speak,”  
would be too much, wouldn’t it?  

Or admitting,  
“I love your lips,  
how every word they form  
makes me imagine their touch,  
the way they’d feel  
tracing paths across my skin,”  
wouldn’t that be even stranger?  

So instead,  
I settle for “your humor,”  
because it’s safer  
than confessing the truth.

You looked through me,  
and in that moment, nothing else mattered.  
You stood there, looking,  
as if there was something only you could see,  
something hidden even from me.

The way you smiled, the way I laughed  
it felt like a story we shared,  
like a hand reaching out in the dark.  
I thought maybe, just maybe,  
there was something there.

But now, only silence answers,  
days pass, and there’s nothing from you.  
Did I really feel something that night,  
or was it just the need to believe,  
to hold onto the warmth of your arms,  
to imagine your eyes told a story  
that was only ever mine?

He used to look at me,  
eyes meeting mine like secret words,  
quietly folding over our small world.  
A laugh, a smile,  
a glance that lingered just a little longer,  
like we were caught in a whispered story.

But now there’s nothing.  
Days pass like a dimming pulse.  
No messages, no mentions,  
just the cold echo of everything left unsaid.  
The warmth once here has slipped away,  
like it never even happened,  
a memory erased before it had the chance to stay.

I wonder if I imagined it,  
if the closeness was just a flicker in the dark.  
He’s here and gone, like a fading spark.  
And though I wish it would light again,  
I wait in silence, shadows,  
just the ache of where he’d been.

You looked through me,  
like there was something you saw,  
just ours, something alive in the spaces between.  
A soft spark, a language in glances,  
the way your smile felt like a hand to hold.

But now it's silence, sharp and sure.  
Days pass, but there's nothing from you  
just the cold weight of words unsaid.  
Not a call, not a trace, not a flicker,  
like you vanished with all that warmth.

Did I misread it all?  
Was it a story I made alone?  
Or did you simply forget  
to hold onto something small and real?  
Here I am, still feeling you there,  
a quiet that only I hear.

These poems I write
they're pieces of me,  
maybe the only real me.  

You read them  
without my knowing,  
stripped my intimacy bare.  

I showed you what I chose,  
but you wanted more,  
took more.  

Now I stand here,  
naked,  
exposed.

I don’t know how you did it.  
That day, out in the field,  
surrounded by so many faces.  
My eyes found you  
just you.  
And I never looked away.  

You weren’t extraordinary.  
Not the kind of handsome that stops the world.  
But there was something about you.  
Something I can’t explain.  
Like fate took my hand and pointed,  
Him. It’s him.

But nothing happened.  
Nothing ever happened.  
And maybe it never will.  

Yet here I am,  
carrying this feeling like a wound.  
I like you.  
No  
I love you.  
Too much.  
So much it crushes me,  
so much it feels like a sickness.  

It makes me sick to know you don’t feel it.  
That you probably never even saw me.  
That I’m invisible to you,  
just another face in the crowd.  

And maybe I’m not beautiful.  
Maybe the people who say I am  
are just being polite.  
But for you, I would have given everything.  

I’ll probably never see you again.  
But you’ll stay with me.  
You’ll haunt me every day.  
Because I can’t stop thinking about you.  
I’ve tried to leave you behind.  
I told myself,  
This year, I’ll forget.  
But I couldn’t leave you in 2021.  
Or 2022.  
Or 2023.  
And now, here I am,  
dragging you into another year with me.  

I guess we were never meant to be.  
But I’ll keep loving you anyway.  
Even if it tears me apart.

Today, I stop loving you.  
Today, I move on
that's what I told myself.  

But the truth sticks,  
like gum on my shoe,  
like your name in my throat.  

I realize now,  
you might not love me,  
and if you do,  
the way you show it is twisted,  
messed up.  

You don’t love me.  
I know that now.  
Not after the poem you showed me,  
the one that looked like love,  
but wasn’t.  

I felt hurt  
because I loved you.  
The poem I shared?  
That was about you.  
But I never said it.  

Now my friends tease me.  
Every time he sees me,  
he screams your name,  
and my heart tightens.  
It reminds me
I still love you.

He used to look at me,  
eyes meeting mine like secret words,  
quietly folding over our small world.  
A laugh, a smile,  
a glance that lingered just a little longer,  
like we were caught in a whispered story.

But now there’s nothing.  
Days pass like a dimming pulse.  
No messages, no mentions,  
just the cold echo of everything left unsaid.  
The warmth once here has slipped away,  
like it never even happened,  
a memory erased before it had the chance to stay.

I wonder if I imagined it,  
if the closeness was just a flicker in the dark.  
He’s here and gone, like a fading spark.  
And though I wish it would light again,  
I wait in silence, shadows,  
just the ache of where he’d been.

I wish I didn’t care.  
I wish I didn’t care so much.  
I wish I didn’t care at all.  

I wish  
I wish for too many things.  
Is it because I wish too much?  
Or because I care too much,  
Feel too much,  
Fall too much?  

Am I wrong for that?  
Was my mold broken  
When they were making me?  
Or am I just broken?  

Maybe I wasn’t meant to fit,  
Wasn’t meant to bend or blend.  
Maybe I was made to feel it all—  
Every edge, every crack,  
Every shattering,  
Every stitch pulling me back.  

If my mold was broken,  
Then I’m not a mistake.  
I’m just something  
The world wasn’t ready to make.