I had a dream the other night.
I could lie and say it was about you.
But I was more entranced by the light.

The heat suffocated thick as smoke,
like a stove left on too long.
I choked beside you, gasping there,

The stone’s sharp edge pressed into me,
and your eyes—
slid soft, yet cut like knives.

"I like heat waves, sweat on my brow."
What a liar, I smiled. Summer dries you out.
You conjure storms in these times.

Yes, the weather choked me.
But do not mistake this for cruelty.
I would not use honesty to hurt.

I know dreams are like candies—
tempting, dangling in front of me,
summers I can never see.

I outgrew the sweater my grandmother gave me-
I would not let myself be rocked like a baby
in a dreamscape I can never call mine.

So I will think of sunshine,
how it burned my skin
more than you stained mine.

I can have more summers.
if I am lucky, even ninety-nine—
but not another you in my life.

For I had a dream the other night,
and I lied when I said it was not about you—
it was about the weather, burning bright
'

They're more than they seem
They hold the key to my heart
They know how I feel
They know what I want
They know what I'm thinking
I love them with all my heart
They're mine
Im their's
If they left i wouldn't know what to do
I love them more than anything
I love you so so much my love

I gave you my time, my thoughts, my care,
But you left me hanging, like I wasn’t there.
I tried to be patient, waited for you to see,
But I was always left with silence in between.

I reached out, I asked, I did my part,
But you never replied, and it broke my heart.
You were glued to your phone, always online,
Yet I was the one left waiting, every time.

Maybe you don’t see, maybe you don’t know,
The hurt in my chest every time you let go.
I’m tired of the games, tired of the lies,
Tired of waiting for something that never tries.

So now, I’ll step back, no more chasing you,
If you miss me, you’ll know what you put me through.
I won’t explain, I won’t make you see,
Because you should have known what you meant to me.

and if one day
you decide to stop calling
i’ll still be leaving my phone
with the sound on
for the night

No matter where I turn, you pull me in
A black hole wrapped in flawless skin.
Your face, a scripture I must recite,
Carved in the dark of my sleepless nights.

My heart is a beast with claws of need,
Thrashing, ravenous, starved for your lead.
When you're near, I cease to be,
A breath held tight, a wound set free.

When you are gone, you are never gone.
You stain the air, you stretch the dawn.
I see you lurking in glass and steam,
Flickering, shifting, slipping between.

I know your steps, your fleeting trace,
The ghosts you leave in empty space.
You do not see me, but I see you,
Devotion stitched in every view.

Call it hunger, call it fate,
A madness I do not wish to escape.
You are the altar, the prayer, the key
And I am the shadow that will not leave.

I think about how my body makes it impossible for me to love.
The truth is, I am shapeless—like a dropped clay ***,
shattered,
with pieces lodged inside my bones.
He called me a liar, but here I am,
telling another truth:
You cannot plant flowers in something that cannot hold.
I convinced my mind, with all its force,
that the Lord took apart your bones
and sculpted something flawless,
more beautiful than angels,
brighter than the morning sun.
And you are too high.
too pure,
to shine on something so lowly.
The truth is, darling,
You made me feel unworthy.
But I am sure she is a vase full of flowers—
worth more than sunshine that fades in two hours.
And I will crawl back into my dark cave,
convincing myself that light is something I no longer crave.

His hands seemed almost bizarre on the fork.
How can something so large handle something so small?
Did my mother's hand fit into his at all?
I wondered as he chewed up the dead pork.

"It does not taste right." He says as he takes another bite.
The blood is foaming from his open mouth.
"It is half-cooked and still fresh; the animal still tries.
to outrun his flesh. It is hard to bite and dry."

He tries to say as he swallows, even as it rots
He keeps just eating more. Then he slams the fork.
chants curses that would put a priest inside the morgue
I listen to him call God as I ponder about loving

In the black and white pictures, it existed.
where my mother's eyes still smiled
where her movements were not rehearsed
where she didn't have to keep the glass half full so it wouldn't burst

I see her in my reflection: a sad-eyed girl.
with a table filled with savory and sweet
But Mother, do we share this quiet rage when we eat?
You wish you could replace his head on the plate?

Mother, are you a good actress?
Do you keep knives under your dress?
Does your mind create images?
Where you pay off all the witnesses.

"Will you ever feed me something other than your tears?"
He shouts as he slams his fists.
and his hands make sounds
as loud as war bombs

We learned when to be quiet.
when to soak up all the silence
But, Mother, in your mind, is he still the head of the table?
Or just a head on the plate?

I never understood my mother.
She used to rest with a book in her hands.
She read novels about tragedies and stolen lands.
Skin-to-skin with my father

Why does she read books about fights and wars?
At her feet lived a real-life Hoplite man.
Already thinking about his phalanx plan.
How to conquer or claim forbidden lands

He never understood my mother.
Why bother with peaceful streams?
When in battle, steel swords gleam.
Crimson blood and gunshot dreams

Me on my couch with my Greek tragedies
At my heels rests my warrior, Achilles.
In his mind, he builds monasteries.
While I read about the conquered seas

I feel like my mother understood the thunder.
Whenever he had a moment with my father,
Maybe he had a glimpse of peace.
While he looked up at my mother's face

My heart beats faster when I see you.
It also does that when I’m scared, too.
And instead of pleasant butterflies
I feel like you are stabbing my insides.
Loving you comes in destructive waves.
Like a flood that drowns, our graves
Maybe you’re not worthy of pure love.
At trial, they judge you from above.
Hear a whisper: "You’re not ready yet."
More pain, you still haven’t paid your debt.
Want to scream "I’m not just bad timing."
Imbalances are all there is to lightning.
Like a raging fire can’t stop the ash
A speeding accident can’t stop the crash.
And a hurricane is just the weather.
like the freezing cold in December.
When an earthquake occurs, it's just a slip.
I'm not at fault; I’m drawn to your lips.
Fresh blood will be my ink when I rhyme.
And the thought of you will fade with time.
The cheerful laugh you faked when you hoped to die
Just thoughts on this page already dry
Poetry makes, "I’ll never love you."
Sound like honey and red wine; it's true.

She is a sculptor, carefully molding
And just as precisely, she is folding.
Digs through the earth in search of sapphire eyes
Rips the wheat for hair, just like she desires.
When it finally speaks, the voice is weak.
"Breathe life in me; feelings are what I seek."
Oh, how perfect her strangest creation!
Broken fragments of imagination.

"You’re my blank page, I can fill with stories."
"The low whisper to hush all my worries"
First, she teaches it to dance, then how to
Sing, shows the color of the sky is blue.
Secondly, she shows the earth and the dead.
Rotting in the ground below, blood is red.
Also, color of love: never worry.
Learn to appreciate all the beauty.

On the third day, it longs to be free now.
Searching the dark, it was shown for a way out.
It screams, "I don’t belong to anyone."
"I am free as birds that fly toward dawn."
"I made you, showed you the world; stay faithful.
There’s no breaking free; don’t be ungrateful."
Now it sneaks out at night through the back door.
Freedom and chains are falling to the floor.

She is like flowing rivers, tracing maps.
can even travel seven continents
sculpts her own path with wood and bleeding hands
knows that there are harmless and harmful plants
She wants to stick her hand in them to feel.
thinks it would be nice after it to heal
Still now the blood drops, the footsteps grow strong.
She is forced back into her hole by bond.

For a sculptor loves its creation dearly.
just wants to tweak and work on it daily
Shall the potter be regarded as the clay too?
In her road for discovery, did she grow?
Can she let go of what she created?
Or clip its wings and lock all the cages?
My dear sculptor, let it go; let her roam.
She might just be the future's next grindstone.

As God, doubtful of her own creation
What if what her hand makes can conquer nations?
Does it not deserve to sculpt just as she?
To shake like earthquakes, scream like a banshee.
Let her go, let her go, it echoes now.
She stands back, no longer a sculptor but a guide.
The chisel drops from her shaking hand.
as the marble moves and bows her head.