Her  laugh  is the  chemical
imbalance in  my brain that
makes me want to run after
bats she left in my belfry.

And they  said  laughter  is
the best medicine.

A little girl with her dress
a better shade of purple,
hid behind a big boulder
in the shape of her troublesome troubles.

The little girl
curled up so small,
her knees snuggled
and hugged,
as the wind
twirled and twirled
red ribbons through her soft hair.

She shivered
and quivered,
her skin turning bluer,
and bluer—
the earth, soft and kind,
packed it warm beneath her tiny feet.

The sun,
full of worry and frowns,
pushed the clouds away,
and rested yellow swirls
and curves on her small shoulders.

Go away, go away,
the little girl hollered—
when you are here,
shadows follow my every way.

The sun sighed—silly girl,
with your dress so bright and so purple—
shadows are not here to hurt you—
they are just there to slip away
with a darker shade of you.

I move like
I am woven from twigs,
each limb bound
in quiet restraint.

The restless wind
stirs inside me—
tremors crack
through hollow joints.

Fire licks at my will,
slow and merciless,
burning away
what I was,
while I stand,
watching
the smoke rise
and pain turns
to embers.

The vines
have given up on us,
their fruit—
small,
sun-starved,
hard as regret,
refusing to soften.

We peel back skin,
bite deep into silence,
the taste withered—
unmoving,
and we are—
all tired.

Two cliffs face off,
their arms stretched but not clasped—
the river feels low
for every fallen stone
from a bitter split

My love
for you—
quiet
slow and kind.

It drifts
where thoughts
once slept.

Benign—
but I wish
no blade
no cure
just your love
left untouched.

It slips out
like a small pebble—
a sound
quick to settle
but sending rings
wide enough
to cause a shockwave

Not a word
that needs a door
or a window—
just floats in
soft as cotton
powerful as lint
finds a place
to lean against my heart

It is not the word itself
but the way it lands—
as if you cast a net
without asking
if I wanted to be caught

Devil in details—
you said love me as I am
then handed a list.

A wish
unwishes itself
at a wrong word
to become a wound

Affection—
that proud bird
perches or flees
depending on the breeze
of a reply—
an offer

I hold her light—
to earn her wings
willing to stay
willing to go
but never
both—
hoping she desires
my heart
as her nest

Lilacs in the breeze,
subtle scent fills the room—
spring flowers in bloom.

When you fall
you can always—
stay down and admit defeat
get back up
and fight your way
back to the top—
or just get up
cut your losses
and tell yourself
you tried
and be done
with all that

But there is another
thing you can do
that only few
dare try

Breathe
just breathe—
then
dance baby dance

The pale gray ghost of the Past
showed up at 6:57 AM
with a text from my mother I can't bear to read.
I sat at the edge of my bed crying,
wearing a hoodie I swore I had thrown out—
It smelled like guilt and morning breath
saying ''You promised her you would let her go,
have a good life, son, and let your mother go''
The ghost kept the receipts in his mouth—
spit them out in my face like a bad joke.
I can't argue for her life now that she's gone.

The ghost of the Present has very bad timing
and a morbid sense of humour—
always knocking when my ex is in mid-panic,
screaming into a fridge of expired groceries
and empty bottles of wine.

He doesn't believe in boundaries
saying ''You know the guilt is killing her—
she never got over what she did to you.''
He has the rest of the cookies and milk
and leaves crumbs in my self-worth
telling me how ghosts love to play with mirrors,
and how he gave my ex the same faith as my mother,
reminding me how my son gets to live
the same life his father did.

The ghost of the not-too-distant future
is somehow already disappointed in me.
He leaves post-it notes in my dreams
that say ''Nice try, we'll get the next one too.''
He wears heavy boots on hardwood floors—
every step pounding out the countdown
saying ''they tainted my stomach too''
just so I could share their suffering
''You better hurry, time doesn't wait,
it just runs laps around your faith.''
I beg the ghost to take me instead
he laughs like clocks sometimes do—
tick, tock, tick, tock, judging me softly.

They force me to have dinner with them—
ghosts of Past, Present, and Future
the Past forgets to eat too busy gagging,
the Present orders two bottles of wine,
laughing, ''I have a date with your ex later''
the Future just stares at the menu sighing,
asking what's left of desirable flesh à la carte.

I sit there, ******* fork and spoon in hand,
wishing for silence, knowing that these ghosts
will not leave until they have taught me a lesson.

I decided
to remove myself
from the race
and no longer identify
as a piece of meat
in a meat market
but as a quivering bowl
of Jell-O—
orange-flavoured
in aisle 7
bottom shelf.

Rain only on mine
harvest heavy in my heart—
for the sky was dry
where others stood waiting
mouths open to bitter wind.

The road bends like a drunk prophet.
I hear the wind murmuring my name,
through teeth full of gravel and tar.

Each step I take is a betrayal—
boots thick with yesterday's rain,
the mud holding on like it knows
what I have left behind.

My thumb rises, a hesitant blade,
cutting the air, asking not for mercy
but a push in the right direction.

In the trucker's headlights,
I am nothing but a smear of a shadow—
a shape too hollow to recognize.

Cornfields bow their heads in judgment,
their stalks rustling like gossip.
The wind slips a cold hand inside my head,
rattling the empty spaces
I've been trying not to regret.
It smells like rust—
like the kitchen light I try to remember
if I forgot to turn off or not.

I walk—
Each mile is a dare.
Above, the stars look sharp enough
to break skin, and I wonder
if they've ever fallen for someone like me.

By the time the road bends into darkness,
I've stopped looking for salvation.
All I want is the sound of tires slowing,
a stranger's voice to remind me
that I am still here, still real—
stitched together by the fragile need
to keep moving.

But the road keeps taking,
pulling me deeper into its endless ditches.
I walk until the horizon bleeds out,
until my hunger becomes a thin, feral thing
growling on this road to nowhere.

I know some care—
most don’t know how
some are too hurt to care.

Sometimes, it doesn’t matter—

I sat at the bottom
of the staircase that day,
blood dripping from my soul
to hurt to care,
to hurt to get up.

I wanted
to set fire to myself,
but for my son’s sake,
I set fire
to the world instead.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter—
except that some care.

The night shrinks—
spills
with heavy strains

The bass
is a slow bruise—
it swells
sinks
a past
you pursue for more
like a palm
on an empty glass

Bodies weave
thick as smoke
thin as whisky
A dance of scuffs
small disasters
and lover’s heels scraping
slow sad circles
on the floor

The song doesn't end—
it fades
a smudge burnt on skin
a stain left
for mornings
that taste like regret