between red flames,
you bloom
a shadow kissed by moonlight,
soft velvet on a whispered breeze.

you do not shout like the scarlet crowd,
nor chase the sun’s fierce gaze
you thrive in silence,
wrapped in the hush of stars.

your petals fold like secrets,
darkness woven with the scent of rain,
each thorn a guardian
of the beauty you wear like a crown.

beneath you, shattered glass
catches the world’s broken light
edges sharp with crimson,
like memories that bleed but don’t fade.

in the fractures,
a thousand tiny suns ignite,
glimmering like whispered dreams
caught between pain and hope.

you are both the wound and the healing,
the silent song sung in twilight,
a delicate rebellion
wild, rare, and endlessly alive.

she bloomed
in the hush of night
where the sun dared not reach
and the wind whispered secrets
no red petal could keep.

they called her strange
a shadow among flame—
but she stood, velvet and midnight,
thriving
where silence kissed her roots.

among the red,
she did not wilt—
she shimmered.
not in gold,
but in obsidian grace
wrapped in the perfume of grief
and galaxies.

she was not less.
only different.
a hymn of thorns,
a waltz of ache.

the roses around her
spoke in bright laughter
but she sang
in echoes—
in lullabies
dripping from glass edges
still stained
with the stories of those
who held her too tightly.

there was beauty
in her breaks—
shattered, yes,
but glinting with stardust
and crimson.

she had bled
where no one could see
and still
she stood.

not because she was untouched
but because she was unclaimed
by ruin.

she was not born to belong—
she was born
to remind the world
that even darkness
blooms.

We are nonbelievers
Our skin sparkles in that light
We glow from past mistakes
And trauma fuels our fight

Never speak of pain
Or wear a wound on our face
We're better than that, mature
Mentality-a constant race

Emotions are a betrayal
Hints of suffering in our eyes
Pain dusted across our face
Lives being woven through lies

I am a nonbeliever
And with that, I stand tall
But a part of me decays
Every time I see another angel fall

I hate roller coasters.
Their bumps loops and drops.
I go on them to fit in,
buy I always want to stop.
My friends are scared.
They scream and need comfort.
I pretend to be fine,
because they need help not me.
My hearts just quietly thumping.
I ***** every time.
But still I must ride.
I smile and say it’s normal.
But it’s not I feel horrible.
They make me sick and nauseous.
But still I ride them.
Because I can’t be the one to disappoint.
So I’ll keep pretending I’m fine.
But deep inside,
I hate roller coasters.
I never want to ride them.
But I do for my friends.
Because theirs no other option,
I can’t be the wimp.
So I’ll just smile and then cry.
I hate roller coasters.
Please don’t make me ride.

I’m being watched by everyone,
and everything.
But still I’m alone.
Left in the dark,
being watched by the monster that is me.

Every night,
I think back to the time.
When we were still friends,
and I miss our late nights,
but it got toxic.
And I got scared.
So I left,
and you screamed.
That was unfair.
I blamed you for a while,
but I realize it was me to.
I was so scared,
that I bailed,
and I wish
I could go back.
Because I miss you so much.
And every night I cry,
thinking of why,
I left you.
It all just happened,
in the blink of an eye.
I want to apologize.
And say I’m sorry.
I would ask you to forgive me,
but you wouldn’t anymore.
And I understand.
So instead ill just say I’m sorry,
for everything I’ve done.

I hate talking,
and the public.
I’d prefer to be alone,
left in my room
to rot on my own.
People ask to go out,
and I say yes.
But instead wish to drown.
It’s not that I hate you,
I just hate social stuff.
I get nervous from a call,
and when I text
I always have to double check.
I can’t speak without wanting to leave,
and I always pray for a way out.
Please don’t speak to me.
It’s not that I hate you,
I just don’t like interacting.
I’m antisocial and fowl.

Did you hear about the stark raven?
A conspiracy they got to know.
Heard of the lonely crow?
****** killed what was alone.
The orphan doe?
A stag that grew antlers.
Hog runt of the litter?
Boar of the bog - grew tusks & got a bit bigger.
The tiniest elephant?
Trunk like a trumpet, ivory like horns.
The smallest hummingbird?
Sharp as a dragon in precision, quick as a griffin.
As for the prairie dog?
Town; coteries & clans a̲r̲e̲ the wards.
Of the marmot?
A burrow whispers of whistles.
The tortoise galápagos?
Variability shines spectrums of different rays -
Amid waves, like amber will age.
The Axolotl?
Regenerative & able to metamorph -
Like a phoenix.

Adaptation is their wisdom.