I carried shadows, dense as night,
through hollow streets of quiet pain.
No light, no shape, no depth or day,
just a blank and endless ache.
I drifted—lost in the gray,
tired of hope, sick of longing,
too weary to wish for another way.

In my hands, the weight of years—
every fault, every tear—
held tight, till it became a part of me,
a second skin, a burdened heart.
I thought this was life:
a slow fade,
an unmarked grave.

But today, something called,
soft as dawn, sharp as truth.
A small voice—maybe my own—
whispered of more, dared to say:
You don’t have to stay here.
And for once, I listened,
leaned in close.

With trembling hands, I reached for light,
not knowing if I’d deserve its warmth.
The step was heavy, a mountain move,
but still I took it,
trusting in things unseen,
in a love I hadn’t earned,
a grace I’d long denied.

It feels like a freefall, yet grounded,
like stepping into air but finding earth,
and I wonder:
can I be loved like this,
found whole from broken parts?
Can I let go, hands wide open,
of the burdens I made my own?

I’m afraid, but somehow, that’s fine—
I am carried, lifted high,
by a strength not mine.
And it terrifies me, this boundless peace,
the way my soul begins to breathe,
feeling lighter, every layer shed,
every shadow given up and left behind.

So I walk on, step by step,
into this unknown brightness.
It’s hard—yes, harder than I’d dreamed,
and I stumble, thinking of turning back.
But even as the doubts rise,
I know this is my path,
a promise kept, a fire fed.

Here, in the light, I’ll stand—
fragile, unsure, but free.
And maybe I’ll waver, lose my way,
but I’ll remember the warmth,
the voice that called, the step I took,
and I’ll find my way back.
No burden, no shame, only grace.

I walk to be held, to be known,
to a love that claims me whole,
and though I once felt undeserving,
I know now—
I am wanted, seen, saved.
Today, I chose to live.

I have seen the world change,
its heartbeat quickened by fear,
its warmth eclipsed by suspicion.
The streets hum with hurried steps,
heads bowed, avoiding eye contact—
not out of shame,
but out of survival.

Kindness feels like a relic,
a whispered legend
too fragile to bear the weight of this age.
We wear our pain like armor,
every scar a shield,
every bruise a blade.
But in this battle,
who are we fighting
if not ourselves?

I admit,
there are days
when kindness slips through my fingers,
when the weight of my own story
makes it hard to reach for someone else's.
There are moments
when bitterness feels safer
than vulnerability,
when I can't bear to offer softness
to a world that feels so sharp.

But then,
in the quiet of my own mind,
I find a truth—
one that whispers like a forgotten friend:
You are your own sanctuary.

To be kind to myself
is not indulgence;
it is survival.
It is looking into the mirror
and saying,
"I see you. I forgive you. I will not turn away."

Because if I cannot soften my edges for myself,
how can I hope to offer warmth to others?
If I cannot cradle my own grief,
how can I console the grief of the world?

So I begin again,
each day, each hour,
with small mercies:
pausing to breathe,
allowing my shoulders to relax,
speaking to myself with the tenderness
I crave from others.

And when the world claws at me,
demanding pieces I cannot give,
I remind myself:
I am not here to break
so others can feel whole.

Kindness is not a finite resource.
It begins at home,
in the soft spaces of my soul.
And as I learn to carry it within,
it spills over,
quietly, gently,
into the lives of those around me.

The world may be unrecognizable—
a stranger cloaked in shadow—
but I refuse to let it turn me
into a stranger to myself.
I am my own companion,
my own healer,
my own hope.

And so, I will be gentle,
even when the world is not.
Especially when the world is not.

There’s a comfort in the way
thunder rolls across the sky,
a rumbling lullaby of rain
drumming on rooftops,
filling the air with the scent of earth
turned wild and electric.

I press my hands to the window,
watch lightning carve silver veins
into the bruised sky,
feel the deep hum of the storm
settling somewhere in my chest,
like an old melody returning home.

In this darkened dance of sky and rain,
I am small but somehow whole,
washed clean beneath the storm’s gentle fury,
wrapped in the beautiful chaos
of thunder's steady, echoing heart.

When I was young, life seemed like an open sky,
endless and blue, gentle as a whisper,
with sunlit mornings, warm and golden,
and nights that folded softly, never too dark.
Back then, we believed in heroes, in kindness,
in happy families, in laughter
that spilled freely across the dinner table,
in parents who kept us safe, tucked in tight,
shielded from storms, untouched by the world’s weight.

But now, with eyes open wide,
I see the jagged lines,
the fractures hidden behind closed doors,
the rot that’s seeped into every corner,
of homes, of hearts, of the earth itself.

I see a world teeming with cruelty,
where broken things are shrugged off,
where pain is passed around like an old family heirloom,
where wrong is worn like a second skin,
something we’ve all grown used to, too tired to shed.
So many are hollow, hiding unseen scars,
walking through days that cut deeper than we’d admit,
haunted by what the world took from them,
hearts shattered, lives upturned, faith crumbled into dust.

Once, I thought love was unbreakable,
that families held tight through the years,
but I’ve watched the vows unravel,
seen love grow tired, thin as paper,
and trust fracture into tiny shards
that can never be pieced back together.

Mental battles rage in silence,
quiet wars fought in the shadows,
the weight of it all hidden behind polite smiles,
as we march on, as if nothing is wrong,
as if we aren’t bleeding beneath these layers
of what we show, of what we hide.
It’s as if the world itself has turned,
into something sharp-edged, unforgiving,
like we’re all just ghosts haunting each other,
too afraid to ask if we’re all this broken.

I remember a time, or maybe I imagine it—
when life was simpler, softer,
when even the wind seemed gentler,
and our dreams felt safe in our hands.
Was it real, that time before I knew
how people could hurt, could betray, could destroy?
Or was I shielded by the naivety of youth,
by some shield that faded as I grew?

Maybe the world was always like this,
a place that tears at the seams,
but I was wrapped in a bubble, too young to understand,
too innocent to see the cracks in the fabric.
Or maybe it’s the world that’s changed,
grown crueler, colder, hungry for pain.

Yet somewhere, deep in the shadows,
something small still whispers,
that not all light has been swallowed,
that there’s goodness hidden in pockets, in people,
a kindness that survives despite the ruin,
a hope that flickers, even as darkness swarms.

I’ve felt it, in the gentle touch of a friend,
in the warmth of a stranger’s kindness,
in moments so fleeting they’re almost forgotten—
but they’re there, small sparks that remind me
of a world not entirely lost, of hearts that still beat soft.

Maybe it’s foolish to hold to this hope,
to believe that something better remains,
but I can’t let go of it, not yet,
because if I’ve seen the good, if I’ve felt it,
then maybe others can too,
maybe it can spread, like a quiet rebellion,
maybe it can grow stronger than the hurt,
maybe it can heal us all, if only we let it.

I want to believe that life isn’t this cruel,
that the beauty I once saw wasn’t a lie,
that beneath this world’s scars and shadows,
there’s a place where love, kindness, and grace
still take root, grow tall, and reach toward the sun.

And maybe, just maybe, if we hold on tight,
if we spread what goodness we have left,
the world can find its way back,
before the darkness takes it all.

I’ve always carried your name
like a shield,
a badge that said,
I am my father’s daughter.
In my eyes, you could do no wrong,
and if they ever questioned you—
your strength, your heart,
your integrity—
I would burn with anger,
a rage too big for my small hands to hold.

You were my hero, my protector,
the one who stood tall when others would fall.
I was proud, so proud to be yours,
to walk with your shadow behind me,
to know that I was blessed,
not just lucky,
but chosen,
to have a father like you,
a love that so many
would never know,
a love that others
could only dream of.

And yes, I’ve tested you—
tested your patience,
pushed your limits
like a child who didn’t know when to stop.
But you never showed it,
never let the cracks of frustration show.
You kept your calm,
even when I saw
the faint lines of exhaustion
creeping into your eyes.

I know,
I’ve disappointed you.
You don’t say it,
but I feel it
in the silence,
in the moments when I tried so hard,
but it wasn’t enough.
Your complaints about
the things I left undone,
the duties unfinished,
the expectations unmet.

You expected more from me,
and I wanted to give it,
wanted to be that perfect daughter
you could hold up to the world
and say,
"She’s mine. Look at what she’s become."
But sometimes,
my best wasn’t enough,
and I could see the flicker of frustration
in your eyes,
hear it in the tone of your voice,
even when you didn’t mean to.

I know you didn’t mean to.

Still, I love you.
Even when your words
cut deeper than you intended,
when they left marks
that no one could see,
I loved you,
and I love you still.
When you pointed at the mistakes,
not the progress,
I loved you.
When you told me
what I could have done better
instead of what I did right,
I loved you.

Every harsh word
was another scar,
but still,
my heart clung to you
with every bit of its strength.
Even when the weight of disappointment
became too heavy to carry,
I bore it,
because you were my father,
and in spite of all that,
I loved you still.

It hurt, sometimes more than I could say.
Your frustration,
your anger,
it dug deep,
carved out places in me
I didn’t know existed.
Places where I held my breath,
waiting for your approval,
only to be met with silence
or a reminder
of what I still hadn’t done.

But still, I love you.
I always have.

I don’t blame you
for the way I struggle now,
for the way I sometimes feel distant,
cut off from the world,
unable to connect the way others do.
I don’t hold you responsible
for the way I’ve learned
to hide my feelings,
to bury them deep
so no one can see.

It wasn’t your fault.
It never was.

You gave me what you knew,
what you could,
and I took it,
even when it left me wondering
if I was enough.

But you were always enough for me.
Even in your imperfections,
you were perfect in my eyes.
I never needed you to be more
than what you were—
my father,
the one who loved me,
even when it felt
like your love was buried
beneath layers of expectations.

I know you blame yourself sometimes.
I can see it in the way
you look at me,
like you wonder
if you’ve done right by me,
if you gave enough,
loved enough,
protected enough.

But you did.

Even when your words
made me feel small,
even when I doubted myself
because I thought
I could never reach the bar
you set so high,
I knew,
deep down,
that you loved me.

And still,
I love you.

You are my knight,
my protector,
my shield against the world’s harshness.
You are the reason I push myself,
the reason I strive to be more,
to be better,
because I wanted to make you proud.

I know I’ve failed sometimes.
I know I’ve fallen short
of what you hoped for me.
But I’m still here,
and I’m still yours,
and I still love you,
more than I could ever say.

You are not perfect,
but you were perfect for me.
And I don’t blame you,
not for the parts of me
that feel broken,
not for the parts of me
that struggle to feel.

You did your best,
and that’s all I ever needed.

I love you,
always have,
always will.

Because in my eyes,
you are still the hero,
the father,
the man I looked up to
when I was small
and didn’t know what the world could do.

You are still my role model,
my protector,
my guide through the storms.
And no matter how hard it gets,
no matter what words have passed
between us,
I will always be your daughter,
and you will always be my father.

I just hope you know
that even when it hurt,
even when the scars you left
ran deeper than you meant them to,
I loved you,
and I always will.

Because in the end,
that’s what matters.
Not the pain,
not the mistakes,
but the love
that has always been there,
the love you gave,
the love I hold
even when it’s hard to feel.

I love you,
nonetheless.

I never thought I’d find it—
love, that thing people talk about,
like it’s the air they breathe,
as essential, as invisible,
but heavier,
a whisper on some days
and a roar on others.

I’ve always been in love
with the idea of love,
the way it’s supposed to
fill you with butterflies,
turn your cheeks pink,
make you feel foolish,
blind and reckless,
like you’re walking on air
but somehow ready to fall.

Or maybe it’s that quiet kind,
that steady hand
that presses lightly on your back
and tells you,
in the calmest voice,
“You’re safe. You’re never alone.”
It’s tender, peaceful,
silent but powerful,
like the moon pulling at the tides.

And sometimes, I wonder
if I’ll ever know either kind.
Because I’ve felt it,
that flutter,
that warm blush creeping up my neck,
that sense of calm, too—
a peace I didn’t know
I could crave.
But I’ve never really
fallen, not in the way
they write songs about,
because I know what love can do.
It can change you,
twist you,
leave you in pieces
you don’t know how to gather.

I’m scared,
scared of what love asks for,
the way it demands
your trust,
your hope,
your heart,
your dreams,
and the risk that someone
could break every part of you,
unravel you slowly,
or all at once,
without even meaning to.

And I think of myself,
how flawed I am,
how I push people away
just before they get close,
because I know
I’d ruin it,
or worse—
ruin them.
I see the way I shut down,
the way I can’t communicate,
how I sabotage what could be
something beautiful
before it even has a chance to bloom.

I know I’m not good
for anyone,
not when I can’t give up
the habits that keep me
safe—
because really,
I’m terrified.
Terrified of the giving,
the trusting,
the baring of souls,
and the weight
of holding someone else’s heart
in my hands,
the power
to break them
without even knowing it.

It’s a power
I don’t want,
a power that could ****,
not just me,
but them—
the ones brave enough
to love me,
or anyone else.

But when I see others,
those who have found it,
found love in all its forms—
the wild, the quiet,
the tender, the bold—
I don’t envy them.
I stand in awe.
I marvel at their courage,
the way they hand over
something so fragile
yet strong in its own right
to another person
completely.

It’s love,
in all its terror and beauty.
It’s the thing
that can change us,
scar us,
heal us,
make us feel alive
or break us down to nothing.
It’s more than a feeling,
more than an emotion—
it’s something greater,
something I don’t know
if I’ll ever hold
or even deserve.

But I know this:
I’m happy for those who do.

It began so quietly,
a shift I didn’t see coming—
like the way a shadow spreads,
slow and unnoticed
until you’re swallowed whole.
At first, it was just a haze,
days that felt like they were wrapped in gauze,
everything softer, muffled,
as if the world had taken a step back
and left me behind,
adrift in some forgotten space.

I’d look at my hands
and not recognize them.
Fingers, palms—alien,
like they belonged to someone else,
someone living through me,
someone borrowing my skin
and leaving me watching
from a place I couldn’t touch.
It was almost peaceful, at first,
the way nothing felt real,
like floating just above the surface
of my own life.

But then,
the edges started to fray.
People spoke to me,
and their words were colors,
shapes that didn’t make sense,
sounds too sharp, too bright,
cutting through the blur
in a way that made my bones ache.
I answered them,
I think,
but my voice felt wrong,
like it was coming from miles away,
and the words weren’t mine
but borrowed from some script
I didn’t remember learning.

I tried to shake it off,
to blink hard and clear the fog,
but the more I fought it,
the thicker it became—
like trying to wake from a dream
only to realize
the dream was waking,
and I was sinking deeper
into something I couldn’t escape.

There were moments,
fleeting and sharp,
when I’d catch my reflection
and feel a flicker of panic—
Who is she?
Who is this girl staring back at me
with hollow eyes and a face
that doesn’t feel like mine?
I’d touch my cheek,
trace the curve of my jaw,
but it was like touching someone else’s skin,
someone else's life,
and I was just a ghost
haunting the body they left behind.

The world grew distant,
not just in sight,
but in sound, in touch.
I’d brush past someone,
feel the warmth of their body,
but it didn’t reach me.
Their laughter, their voices—
they were echoes in a cave
I didn’t belong to anymore.
I smiled,
I laughed when it seemed right,
but it was all reflex,
a mask of normalcy
slipping over the hollow of my chest.

Days turned into nights,
and time became a blur,
a smeared painting of hours and minutes
that I couldn’t keep track of.
I’d lose myself in the spaces between seconds,
forgetting how I got from one room to the next,
forgetting if I’d even moved at all.
Was it Monday?
Thursday?
What did it matter?
It was all the same grey expanse,
a world I could see but not touch,
not feel.

And then there were the dreams,
the ones that felt more real
than my waking moments.
I’d dream of being awake,
of living my life,
only to wake up
and feel the crushing weight
of knowing that none of it
was real.
But the dream?
The dream felt more vivid,
more alive than anything I had
when I opened my eyes.
I began to wonder
if I was living in reverse,
if the moments of sleep
were where I truly belonged,
and waking was just the afterthought,
the shadow of a life
I wasn’t meant to claim.

I couldn’t tell anyone.
How could I explain
this slow unraveling?
How do you say
“I don’t feel real anymore”
without sounding insane?
So I stayed silent,
wrapped in the quiet dread
that clung to my skin like a second layer,
a film I couldn’t scrub off.

But inside,
something began to scream,
a low, distant wail
that built with each passing day.
The panic bubbled beneath my ribs,
tightening, squeezing,
as if the air was thinning
and my lungs forgot how to breathe.
I was trapped,
caught in a loop
of watching myself disappear
and being powerless to stop it.

And one day,
I looked in the mirror
and didn’t see myself at all.
Not even a flicker
of the girl I used to be.
Just a stranger,
a hollow thing
with eyes that didn’t shine,
a face that had forgotten how to belong
to a person.
It was too late,
too far gone
to pull myself back,
to fight the current that had dragged me under.
The fog wasn’t lifting.
It was consuming,
swallowing everything I had been,
everything I thought I could be.

I finally understood—
this wasn’t just a phase,
wasn’t just a passing storm.
This was my life now,
the endless drifting,
the constant distance
from everything and everyone,
from myself.
I was lost,
not in the world,
but in me,
in this body that no longer felt like home,
in this mind that had turned against me
and left me adrift,
alone.

And the worst part?
I’m still here,
still watching,
still waiting
for a moment of clarity
that I know will never come.
This is my reality,
and it’s slipping through my fingers
like smoke.