I once tried to become the sky.
Let the wind take what was left of me.
Let my only legacy be:
“The Girl Who Once Flew.”

I once tried to become the sky.
But heaven was heavier than I imagined.
I thought it would make sense—
I hoped the air would catch me,
that it would hold me as someone that meant something.

But gravity had other plans.
I didn’t fly.
I fell.
And I didn’t even realize I was falling until I looked up and saw I was at rock bottom.

Yet there was something grounding about falling.
It was satisfying to know
that I’ve fallen and couldn’t fall any more further.

Instead I laid there.
My legs and arms spread,
still bracing for a concrete I already hit.

I looked up at the clouds with envy.
Not because they floated—
but because they’ll never know what it’s like to fall.

I once tried to become the sky.
But I wrote this instead.
So I’d have something I left behind.

I bite.
Not with teeth.
with silence,
with sharp glances,
with walls built higher than your reach.

I’m not cruel.
I’m just tired
of being kind first
and torn apart second.

You call it attitude.
I call it armor.
Because being soft
never saved me.
It only made the fall hurt more.

So I speak less now.
Agree less.
Trust less.
I pull away before someone has the chance
to walk out first.

It’s not that I don’t want love.
I’ve learned that even “I care about you”
can come with conditions.
Even soft hands
can leave bruises
you can’t see.

I bite
because once,
I didn’t.
And it nearly broke me.

Not everything sacred needs to be born of suffering.

Not every acknowledgement needs to come from rock bottom.

My love,
you are allowed to feel peace.
You are allowed to live a joyful life.
You are allowed to experience softness and call it sacred.

So stop using your pain as proof of your depth.
It’s time to retire that narrative,
that your pain is the most interesting thing about you—it’s not!
There are hundreds of beautiful reasons for your existence,
but suffering isn’t one of them.

You can explain every scar.
But when it comes to healing?
You stall.
Because healing isn’t poetic.
It’s messy, boring, frustrating.

Peace makes you suspicious.
If things go too well for too long,
your brain starts poking at old wounds or inventing new ones.
You miss the chaos even though you claim to want peace.

But here’s what you need to know;
you’re still becoming.
You’re still growing.
You can still be profound without bleeding for it.

So allow yourself to heal,
and let joy into your life,
because the best version of you isn’t your pain,
it’s your rebirth.

Don't punish your body for carrying the weight of your soul.
You are meant to be alive.

I am afraid that if I pluck every single bad part of me, then I won’t be me anymore.

Maybe that’s just who I am.

I am all the bad parts of me.

Are there levels to this?
Is there a hierarchy for morality?

In some way I think we all are just as equally messed up.
Simply that some are less immune to it.

Maybe I am everything wrong with me,
everything I have done,
hurt,
bruised,
is just a sliver of my true nature.

Oh angel,
your wings are heavenly.
Handmade by God
in my eyes you’re the definition of perfection.

I wished you saw your own beauty,
you always used to tell me that I only saw you as beautiful because I loved you.
If only I had told you how wrong you were.

If I could,
I would tattoo every unsaid compliment strangers have thought about you.
Every
“I love her smile”,
“Her elegance is impeccable”.
My body would be a masterpiece you had created.

And if I could,
I would gauge out my eyes and ask you to wear them,
to look in the mirror and SEE.

But you stand before me,
in a long black silk dress,
and you say to me:
“I feel disgusting”.

Want to pound at your chest begging you to see your own beauty,
I want to scream “How dare you”.
But I don’t,
because no matter how hard I try
you never believe me.

I think the mirror lied to you,
when it told you that you weren’t enough.
If only you saw your worth,
not for what the mirror said,
but for what your legacy had built.

You taught me how to love,
give,
trust,
and that’s something not even the most beautiful person can fight against.

You’re beautiful,
in all your complexions,
I wish you saw that too.

⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️
(this one hurt to write)

I forgot the sound of your voice.
Yet ironically,
in a room full of people,
I’d still recognize it.

I forgot the warmth of your hug.
Yet once in a while,
I still feel the ghost of your presence
enveloping me.

When I still held you,
I begged to meet your shadow.
I wanted to understand
the pieces of you
that were hidden.

You, of course, denied.
“You’d despise it.”

My love—
why would I ever despise anything
that belonged to you?

Did I not prove to you
time and time again
that in all lifetimes, I’d say “yes”?
In all timelines and universes, I’d love you—
not for who you showed,
but for who you hid.

I beg you.
Tell me where I went wrong.
A river of why’s and how’s
floods my mind like a current
I didn’t have a boat for.
I drown
in the despair of questions.
“If I had done better…”

Please.
Tell me what I did wrong.
I beg—
could I have been enough?

I submitted myself,
entirely,
wholly.

I worshiped you
like a temple of sanctity.
Was that not enough?
I beg you, dear—
tell me.
What went wrong?

I wanted so desperately
to understand you,
to carve my skin
with every phrase you found
too insignificant to say.
Every
“I love you.”
“I see you.”

And if I could,
I’d rip myself apart,
piece by piece,
to make you feel whole.

You promised,
at the altar—
“Until death do us part.”
Why did you mean it
so soon?

If only you had told me
you were hurting.
I could’ve helped.
It might not have been enough,
but I would’ve done something.
Maybe then
you wouldn’t have jumped.
Maybe,
just maybe,
I wouldn’t have flipped down
your portrait that hung proudly
above the fireplace—
because it hurt too much
to see it.

Occasionally,
I still visit the bridge.
And it’s like I can still hear
the ambulance
as they drag you
out of the river.

And so I think to myself—
if only
you would have told me.

I would’ve found a way.
There are therapists,
resources,
help.
I could help.

But I won’t let anyone say
it was a shallow thing
you did.

You had finally found the source,
the cause,
and you just wanted it to stop…

You were pointing,
exclaiming:
“Here.
Here is where the pain is.”

From then on, I knew—
you would be gone
before I knew it.

Now your voice whispers
like a bittersweet memory
I swore I had forgotten.
Your sheets still smell like you,
no matter how many washes,
it’s still the same vanilla perfume you
begged me to buy you.

One last time,
darling,
whisper to me,
“I love you…”