Something clutches my chest—
a ghost-hand, tight as ivy on stone.
My heart, a trembling bird,
flutters at the edge of a storm.

The center of me burns—
a dying sun folding into itself,
pulling all light
into a single, aching point.

And there—
a tide of shadows calls,
dragging me down
where even dreams forget to rise.

A heap of waste may reek at first,
but even rot makes room for roots.
What begins in decay
can still rise in bloom.
There’s still hope—
quiet, maybe,
but steady like a seed beneath the soil.

And if the ship goes under—
don’t wait for rescue.
Swim.
Even if the sea is endless,
even if hope is a whisper.
Better to reach with burning lungs
than to sink with “what if” in your chest.

She never met his eyes.
it was not intentional,
Yet she knew it was not right.
Perhaps she was afraid
That once he saw the trellis
To her mind, he would climb inside
and realize she was a fraud.

A moth ate my clothes
But I didn't really mind
'Cause he said he was a butterfly

sometimes i feel invisible
either like everyone looks through me
like i'm not there
or like they see my appearance
and don't look further

i am a person too
my identity matters
see me for me
see me in the room

i feel like an outcast
a social pariah
like i'm a wallflower