Oh a girl,
my age too,
she wants to be friends…

But maybe
she’s laughing,
behind some screen,
showing her friends
how stupid I sound,
how quickly
she was able
to deceive.

Or maybe—
she’s not even
a she.
Maybe it’s
a man.
Old.
Watching.
Preying.
behind a mask
of stolen pictures
and sweet words.

Or maybe,
I’m talking
to a ghost
a shadow of what’s
never existed
not here
or there
maybe not anywhere,
a figment of AI’s imagination.

The world lies serene from up here,
bright blinding lights
seem dim,
people like insects, crawling
insects like dust, clinging
and scuttling to their dark corners.
A place above all
where I can forget.
As I watch my feet swing
over the edge,
I'm not scared nor sad,
not thrilled either,
Just am.

they say don’t judge a book by its cover
but sometimes
you start reading
and the words just
won’t resonate with you
they won't
make you think
or feel

but remember
you don’t have to
force yourself
to finish
a bad book

I sit next to this girl
who plays the bass
like it owes her something,
head hung low
with chipped black fingernails
and untamed curls
that unfurl around her face.

I hear iron maiden playing
through her headphones
as she taps her fingers
to the beat.
She never seems to smile,
though she has the most beautiful
kohl rimmed brown eyes.

But back home,
she smiles at her little brother
and spins him around.
She takes song requests
on little sheets of paper
from sticky hands,
and she’ll play them all
just for him.

She writes him stories of
heroes and hope,
then tucks him in tight,
and disappears to her room
where she’ll write all night,
the things
she’ll never
say out loud.

Have you ever felt a love so strong
that your chest physically hurts,
because you long for it,
with the entirety of your being.

A love so intense
it scares you,
breaks you like glass,
bring you to the edge of destruction,

But you don't fall over the edge,
and you won’t,
because they’ve got you,
tight in their grasp
forevermore.

I’m bored now.
I don’t want the calm before the storm
I want the storm,
right now.

break me,
burn me,
do whatever,
I’m ready.

The countdown begins
Three whole weeks,
then one week,
now four days,
it’s tomorrow-
in three hours.

Until the dreaded hour comes and goes.
But it doesn’t end there.
It’s only the start
of my two weeks of hell.

My hands sweat and shake
as I frantically flip through pages,
what have I been revising for?
weeks of effort-
but the words blur into one
and… time.
Pens down.
I’ve messed it up.
Again.

Then comes results day,
Suddenly, sitting the exams seemed like heaven
compared to this day of hell
because I already know-
before I even open that little sheet-
my work probably hasn’t paid off

And…
I’ve messed it up.
Again.

Now I sit in front of my parents
and they ask
if I even tried,
but I did try
I tried for four weeks.
Eight hours a day.
Up to the very last minute.
I tried.

But they’ll never know,
because all they see is
that little white sheet
with the little black numbers.

all my hard work-
reduced to nothing
they can’t see past the percentages
to see me,
crumbling
before their eyes.

So I stand and sigh,
which nobody sees or hears,
pull out my textbooks of torture,
and let the current of words
and equations
and lists
pull me under…