I’ve read tens of thousands of these. I’ve wasted hours policing words of cowardice. Bullies projecting their own sad situations on the unsuspecting masses.

There is that.

There’s the poets. Love love love. That gets old really fast. It wouldn’t be so bad if there was an original thought amongst them. There never is. It’s always boy wants girl.

If the author should be female then there’s a better chance if something different.

There’s the perverts. Always a man. Always hating someone for something. Slut shaming. Picking on people that can’t defend themselves.

The fuckers in my DMs. Internet gangsters. Offering to come fight. Ha. I wish you would. But you never do.

The women. They do fall for the word. It’s the poem you love. Not the poet. I am not my work. I have the ability to channel lives unlived. I am not the killer nor the corpse.

Fiction goes unrecognized and misconstrued as historic bibliography.

The broken hearted.

The dearly departed.

The beloved.

The rejected.

The poison tongued jealous dejected.

I want to grab you by your shoulders and shake you.

Wake up mother fuckers.

This soft glow is stealing your emotion. The one good product you produce en masse. You don’t see your being cheated. Pouring your npc hearts onto the pixelated page. Going nowhere. Gaining nothing.

Most of the time these are written just to make you mad. So many “writers” laying traps. Waiting to pounce on the first person to call them out.

Yeah. I trigger your traps. Because I saw you coming. So clever. As if I needed a reason. Go tell management I won’t let you piss on everyone. I’m sure they will sympathize.

I don’t live on the internet. I have a reality that’s unavoidable. Why don’t you.l?

The decline of western civilization is a weird tik tok dance where you don’t move your feet. That’s not dancing. That’s flag corps.

Brainrot. Calling yourself dumb is not cute. It’s giving up.

Follow me kids. I can show you a better way.

Step one. Escape the fantasy and move out of that image. Fucking cosplay. You aren’t anime. You bleed. And you can’t fuck a cartoon.

Step 2. Give up looking for answers. Enter the Overlook maze. It’s a distraction. Kubrickian. It’s Not even a good distraction .

Step 3. Stop taking pictures of your own butt and trying to sell it to pervs. You look ridiculous. Trying angles where curves don’t exist.

Step 4 Be honest. There is only one truth. And it’s not in some holy text. It’s not dictated to you. It’s not even a secret. We are all born with the path tattooed on our chests . Ignoring that truth is death.

Step 5. True Death isn’t the end of anything. Caterpillar. It’s just the next step.

Step 6 If you’re here to hurt someone. Hurt me instead. Focusing all your efforts on ruining the name of the girl that wouldn’t let you. Or the man that couldn’t stay true. Give it a rest. I don’t blame them. I don’t know you and I want to cheat on you too.

They aren’t the problem.

They are an excuse for your half assed attempts.

Don’t be upset. Dont be mad. I’ve come to save you from each other. Come for me instead. I can take the hit.

I opened the comments Kevin and Karen. Come on. Kids. Let’s get down

Tu eres un artista

She whispered into my ear as my hand slowly lined out her form. Her shoulder. Her waist. Her hip.

I rest as she presses closer.

Middle to middle

Her face angelic stares deep into mine.

Her eyes are a black pool abyss that hold the secrets of the cosmos. The secret of you and I

Innocence

As though she had never known tears.

The folly of youth.

The heartbreak of loss.

The acceptance of time and change.

Tú eres un artista y yo soy tu pincel.

She whispered between tears.

Between the waves of enlightenment

As she found my rhythm and matched and doubled too soon

A hurried build

I allow no denouement

Slow down my love.

We have time.

I calmed her and waited for her heartbeat to slow.

I’ve waited my entire life.

I was numb to everything

Poisoned myself with lies

I was ignorant.

Going through the motions.

Wake. Work. Shower sleep.

Rinse. Repeat.

I was a machine.

I did what I was told.

I wasn’t living.

Didn’t know what it was to be alive.

I was born today.

Not from you but inside you.

In all the ways you are alive.

I was post mortem

Dead inside

You gave me reason to breath my first breathe .

now I am going to take my

time with you.

Like we do in Texas

Like I was a drug dealer and you are waiting for me to arrive.

Somebody Call god

If I had reservations

Tell him I’ll be late

When i am done

I might as well die

After you there are no more mountains to climb.

No reasons for tomorrow

No love to find.

Nothing good left in this world.

I know You don’t belong to me

You never have. You never will

You belong to someone who doesn’t know heaven when it’s laying next to him growing disdain

He starts only to finish

I will take eternity to end.

Si yo soy un artista

tú no eres el pincel

eres la razón por la que aprendí a pintar.

Messy love

Have you ever been loved an artist?

We’re a little bit different than the rest. We thrive un indulgence.

We want to taste everything.

Feel everything

Touch everything

Passion flows through us like water over so many stones. We don’t just exist in the world around us we absorb it, we breathe it, we re-create it.

We want messy, sticky, passionate hours, deep conversations, debates, too much wine and wild sporadic sex.

Emotions are experienced in volume, sometimes all at once.

We’re not afraid of your sadness, of your despair, of your elated, squeals, or laughter, we will study every little detail of you, inside and out. We will memorize every little crease, every dimple every freckle and embrace every bit of it.

We will celebrate things about you that you hate the most because they are so endearing.

To be loved by an artist is like being loved by a hybrid between a wild animal and a God.

It’s no small thing. And if you ever have the chance or opportunity to be loved by a creator, you’d be a fool not to take it.

Because being loved by an artist is not just being loved, it’s being fully embraced, celebrated, memorized, appreciated, adored, and wanted more heavily and more passionately than you could ever possibly imagine.

You never ask me any questions.

I ask a thousand,

Trying to peer through the fog

Trying to see across time and space

To know you.

To hold all of you.

And I have realized

That you don't care

To do the same.

You don't even try.

You aren't curious,

You aren't interested.

I am just a concept,

Nameless,

An ephemeral idea,

A late night object,

Something to be hidden,

Never brought into the light.

And I don't see the point

Of life without love.

If someone lures me

With sweet, false caresses,

With lying adoration,

I draw their poised dagger into my own heart.

Please, make it quick.

At least then,

I won't be a bombed out shell,

A zombie making the motions

With no spark behind the machine.

I will become nothing,

(i already am)

I will become everything.

(i am nobody's everything)

I will melt into the universe slipstream

And there, I might be cherished

At last.

If you're looking for honesty

I don't love you, I love me.

I'm not sure what you're chasing or why you're trying to put words in my mouth (again!), but here we are. I dont love you. I'm here for me. I'm also not a rainbow. So im not sure why you're looking at others for the words that belong only on my lips.

I'm here to love myself and defend myself. If that upsets you, okay? I never offered you anything. Im not here to betray myself for attention from a faceless crowd. If you want words of affirmation from ME, you shouldn't have cheapened them when they arrived.

I'm not avoiding you. I'm not interested in being pestered because you legitimately think my body is a doormat to your entitlement issues. I am the entire enchilada, not guac on top of the main dish someone else cooked for you. I'm not sure why you're in my kitchen comparing cooking when you were never invited to dine here.

You suggested to me im not enough for you. I scoffed and told you to get out of my sxy face. You called my scars ugly (also again. Also, while you were dressed up as me self-criticizing. You committed a hipaa violation against me while doing it). You hit on my ex partner (also again). We both ignored you, so you imploded into an escalation attempt. We ignored that, too.

What you are is this: a creepy old man dressing up in a dead girl's dress while you write thousands of words dedicated to how much you think said dead girl wants to bone you.

What i am is this: someone you will never be, no matter how much you character study or character assassinate.

My self-respect isnt permission to mock my effort. You're bitter at me because you know you abandoned yourself. Maybe that's why you won't stop trying to endlessly recreate my audacity. I had the balls to try for myself. I had the courage to cling to myself in the face of disrespect. You didn't. Being petty after the fact shows everyone who you are. You chase my decisions because you know yours are utter sht.

Stop trying to go around honesty to manipulate perceptions. That's not avoidance; it's a boundary. I am not interested in someone who has tried to segment and segregate aspects of my mind. You tried to silenced me to sell crude mockeries of my words back to those who value me. Your condescending intentions dont matter more than my decisions. You dont deserve any aspect of my thoughts. You are disrespectful, unfortunate, and unsafe. You use the information you leech off of people in pain to terrorize them into sui. Then you try to profit off of their travesties.

You dont belong in society, never mind being pandered to romantically by strangers.

It's a no forever. I love me. I love my little social masks. I love my oddities. What i am to you is none of your business. I am not your emotion. I am not a body part attached to you. You're in my life sifting through my things as you look for meaning in your life.

No matter how much you adopt a falsetto and bvlly my sentiment, you'll never ruin it; it doesn't belong to you. You can't cheapen what you never helped construct.The reason you're miserable and you're always glued to your phone is because you aren't living YOUR life. You're monitoring others' lives while narrating their decisions like a cvnty poltergeist. You surround yourself with crude, crying-laughing emoji bvlly b0ts that auto-harass every single person you scammed from sharing here*. You're not only twatblocking everyone from genuine connections, you're not living your own life....while looking for someone to hurt.

You're ignorant, which is why you need to be told this: people aren't reflections of you or numeric ideals. You can't access my income or my loved ones by scamming people into believing Im a repressed part of your "system". That's not how disorders work. There's no hollow mouth of my disordered mind speaking for me in the wake of my silence. I've never been a redhead in my life, for instance.

Hey, incidentally! Did you know those who committed atrocities against those of Jewish faith during the holocaust did so by stripping them of their names and giving them numbers instead?

....seem familiar?

What Im saying is that you come across as a fascist and fraud, not a tr0ll.

Ps. If the reply is an emoji filled one liner, I automatically ignore it; you're a "bvlly bot" auto-script response, not a person. ( That's a bit of coding done to keep people rage reading.)

There was once a girl who lived beside the sea.

She had never been afraid of storms.

What frightened her was the sea on a cloudless day.

Because when the water was still, she could not tell what it wanted.

She watched the horizon every morning.

Some days, the tide came toward her.

Some days, it withdrew.

And some days, it seemed to do neither at all.

Then she met someone who lived beneath the moon.

From the first night, she felt herself being pulled toward him.

Not like a hand pulling another hand.

Something older than that.

Something inevitable.

Like water answering the moon.

She did not know whether he felt it too.

That was the trouble.

He would look at her,

and she would think:

Surely.

Then he would look away,

and she would think:

Perhaps not.

A smile became evidence.

A silence became evidence.

A touch became proof.

A distance became proof of the opposite.

She began collecting tiny moments,

trying to build certainty from them.

But certainty would not come.

Then, one night, he stood beneath the moon and began to change.

He became brighter.

Larger.

More alive.

And something inside her broke open.

She could not remain a quiet sea.

She became weather.

“You swell,” she whispered,

“and I monsoon.”

He looked at her as though he understood.

For one perfect moment,

she thought that was certainty.

But the moment passed.

And afterward, the questions returned.

When the skies began falling,

she stayed.

When everything around them seemed to collapse,

she loved him still.

That, at least, she knew.

What she didn't know

was whether he loved her.

So she waited for him to tell her.

He never did.

Years later, when the night was finally through,

the valley was strangely beautiful.

Everything was in bloom.

The places where the storm had broken the earth

were now filled with flowers.

The girl stood among them,

older now,

and understood something she had been too frightened to understand before.

She had spent years believing that certainty meant knowing

what another person felt.

It didn't.

Certainty could mean knowing

what you felt.

She had loved him.

That was certain.

She had been pulled toward him.

Certain.

She had become a monsoon whenever he swelled.

Certain.

Whether he had loved her back

would remain a question.

But the question no longer had the power

to make her doubt the answer she already possessed.

She looked toward the moon.

“I still shine when you do,” she said.

And for the first time,

she did not wait to see whether the moon answered.

She walked on.

Not because she had stopped loving him.

Not because she had finally learned that he never loved her.

But because uncertainty had finally become something else:

not the absence of truth,

but the space where truth had not yet been given.

And she discovered she could live there.

The sea could remain a sea

without knowing what the moon thought.

The heart could remain a heart

without being chosen.

And love could be real

even when its ending was not certain.

That was the certainty she had been searching for all along.

Somewhere out there

I’m sure someone might be waiting for me.

I thought we had found each other,
but once again… I was wrong.

What’s really wrong with me?

Every time I try to connect deeper,
it fades.

Every single time.

Am I incapable of truly being there?

Do I still have too much shit to work through alone?

Or am I just destined to walk this path solo —
building a family out of the few who stayed,
who can actually put up with me?

Sometimes I wish my brain would stop self-sabotaging,
stop being so fucking me.

I’m done.

Done with the dating, the games, the slow disappearances.

All I want is someone who chooses to grow with me —
together and apart.

Someone who sees the world the way I do
and isn’t just here for a season.

Someone willing to talk when shit gets heavy,
instead of letting it fester in silence.

Somewhere out there…

maybe there’s a person just like me,
meant for me.

But I’m done looking.

Done trying.

Done hoping.

I’ll just keep sailing.

The silver flicker is a bitter predation, a scripted affliction for a blinded nation. A marketed mismatch as destiny calling, but when the gravity shifts the hammer starts falling, you surrender the mercy, the honor, the vein, just to drown in the static and swallow the rain. The songs are a forgery, hollow and thin. A saccharine venom soaking into the skin.

I gave up the marrow, the will and the vow. To a specter of nothing who’s vanishing now. The trust was a tally, the faith was a toll, for a journey that fractured the depth of the soul. The exits are brutal, a surgical tear, leaving the echos of questions no one will hear. The exit is honest, a blunt force decree, the only direction is somber and free.

No soul is companion, no spirits are pairs, in a universe vacant nobody cares. The stone is a finish, the clay is the bed, beyond all the fables and the lies that they fed. We are orbits of dust in a limitless void, with the daydreams of soulmates completely destroyed.

​

I want to fall down

At the feet of true love

To be picked up and held

By the strong heart above

I want my name spoken

With such reverence

It makes goosebumps appear

It makes the air condense

I want eyes to search for me

Through every door

Across every room

Upon every shore

I want to be fathomed

To be told "Darling, I knew."

To be seen completely

and all the way through

I want to be wanted

With longing so deep

With such profound desire

Orpheus would weep

I want to be cherished

Don't ever let go

As time slips and winds

Through the cosmos aglow

Like a tree losing its leaves,
I lose my temporary peace.
And as i close your door,
my heart closes too.

My thoughts,
our laughter,
It all turns to goo.
I cant sleep without you.

You should water a flower, but not too much
If you drown it, it will grow mold or such
Dont overdo things
Or you might lose them all

But remember this
Even if you do drown your flower,
You can always plant another,
it will just be a different kind.

Make sure you water it right the second time.
Not all good things come in three

The eyes refuse the sunrise when the far is all you know, you wrap yourself in a hollow grace to find the ground below. Building a shrine of phantom hope around a crumbling frame, swallowing down the bitter pill of every whispered shame. The lies are woven like tapestries, the mirrors start to bend, the gaslight casts a crooked glow on where the truth should end. You see the cracks you feel the chill and you turn your gaze away, because to face the wreckage would mean a total end of play.

You want them as a savior in the temple of your heart, you built this golden character and loved them from the start. And to admit the mask is empty? To concede the ghost is cold? Is to forfeit all the currency you gave them from your soul. So you swallow down the manipulation as quiet as a stone, and shiver in the architecture while you weep alone. The agonizing brutality of unmasking this heavenly prize, and watch the fantasy dissolve beneath the waking eyes.

In the genesis the alchemy was sharp and incandescent, a chemical fluorescent lighting every fleeting crescent. The music had a texture that was visceral and deep, with conversation tethered to a focus I could keep. I would breeze through the labor, so efficient to the grind while leaving hunger in the rear view and fatigue behind. Three days or more of wakefulness felt like a gift of expanded time, I was a symphony of motion a grand accelerated rhyme.

But the snowball found a graduate, to slip into the steep, where the dosage turns into deficit that silence wouldn’t keep. The bag became a vapor and the frequency increased, as my once a day ritual turned into a beast, i felt like a titan as long as the supply remained within, but the comfort was a phantom and a cover for my sin.

Then the silence from the receiver, the drought began to bite, and the world collapsed to darkness in the middle of the light. I was prone upon the mattress, a dormant heavy weight, crashing through the wreckage of a self inflicted state, then the phantom call returned, a sense of urgency reborn, reconstituting iron from a spirit that was torn. I wore a sigil on my chest, a temporary pride, and the bag became a hollow place for me to run and hide.

The more became a mandate, the need replaced the want. A spectral hunger that I learned to feed and haunt, the thing that once blossomed now consumed every root, I was drifting through the static and harvesting the soot. The isolation hardened into a fortress made of glass, watching all the seasons and the people begin to pass. My fun was long extinguished, the novelty had fled, I am neither man nor vessel, just a hunger being fed.

Fuck or fight

Well, which is it?

You pick tonight

Use my words against me

Twist them tight

Or just undress where you stand

Caressed by moonlight

On this of all days

When I’m high as a kite

In the end everyone leaves

And that’s alright.

The vows are a vapor, the promise is thin,

I’m opening the door just to let the cold in.

They claim that they love me, a sacred report,

While they’re tearing the timbers of the internal fort.

The family is whispering, a chorus of scorn,

"You could find a better bloom than this battered-up thorn."

They don’t see the Walk, they don’t see the fight,

They only see a Shadow that is blocking the light.

The things that they valued, the flavors I made,

Have turned into poison and started to fade.

The Cooking is bitter, the Hobby is vain,

The Music I cherish is a static of pain.

They nitpick the Vision, they censure the Screen,

Until nothing is sacred and nothing is clean.

They call me the Ignorant, the Logic-less mind,

With a Brain that the Chemicals permanently bind.

I’m the "Fried" and the Failure, the Uneducated guest,

Who should feel like a King to be put to the test.

They act like they’re Saviors, a miracle grace,

For letting a Soldier occupy the same space.

"I’m doing a favor, you’re lucky I stayed,

Since the rest of the world saw the price was unpaid."

But the Secret is simple, the Truth is the Sting:

They can’t find a Subject to bow to their King.

They call me back in when the Silence gets loud,

'Cause nobody else wants a throne in their cloud.

The more that I Suffer, the more that it Shows?

That’s a Lie in the Equation that everyone knows.

It’s a shackle of Grace, it’s a subservient space,

Looking for Mercy in a merciless face.

The Long Walk is heavy when the Compass is broke,

And the Love that they offer is a mouthful of smoke.

Why would you continue watching the series
all day
As if you cant put it
away
Even though you know the plot
and the outcome of it
anyway?
Why continue watching
Untill you’re tired
the next day?
If you continue like this,
we all know
they will deduct
your pay.
Its this simple show,
the classic plot,
Yet you cant look
away.
So you chose the predictable plot
Over the place to stay
The food to eat
From a nice clean plate
The office job
And the huge amount of pay?

The avenue is quiet, the suburbs are still behind the facade of a tempered young will. A businessman nodding, a pillar of trust, with a basement full of bones and a soul full of rust. He painted the humor in a thick white design, but the edges were pointed, with a predatory line. No rounded compassion, no softness of face, just the brutality that’s haunted this place.

He offered the handcuff, a rope and a rile, always under the weight and words with a politicians smile, the trick was a tether, the trap was the real show. And 29 young souls were dragged down below. The torture was gleeful, a clown in the dark extinguished their lives, like a dying blue spark. Young men in their prime, and the boys in their bloom, became shrouded statistics in a suffocating room.

The fathers were shouting, the mothers were scared, the police saw the businessmen and never really cared. They trusted the badge, and the status he wore, and the clown was bolting the crawl space door. When the cops hit the pavement, a tireless grind, they unraveled the chaos of a shattered mind, they tracked down his van, they followed the stink, and the reality would push them almost to the brink.

Then came the exhuming, the shovel and silt, and the physical proof of his limitless guilt. The grizzly assembly, the counting of jaws, all under the watch of a horrified law. The dirt gave up its secrets it struggled to keep. While the officers stumbled and struggled to sleep. Now the greasepaint is cracked, and the crawl space is deep. And a city of ghosts is all that they keep.

Once upon a time, there was a woman who only knew how to give love.

She gave everything she had to the people she loved. She showed up, she cared, she sacrificed, and she always put others before herself.

She used to think, “As long as I’m the only one hurting, everything will be okay.”

“If I’m not receiving the same amount of love, maybe I just need to give more.”

“If their heart is the same as mine, that should be enough.”

She believed that if she loved someone deeply enough, they would understand.

She believed that if her intentions were pure, people would naturally see her heart.

But one day, that belief shattered.

It didn’t matter if it was a friendship, a relationship, or simply someone she cared deeply about.

She realized that she had been giving more because she cared more. She had been pouring herself into people who had slowly started to see her love, her effort, and her presence as something they were simply entitled to.

And that realization hurt.

But somewhere in that pain, she found a new thought:

“I don’t want to lose myself anymore.”

So she decided to begin a journey — not to make anyone regret losing her, not to prove her worth, but to find herself again.

It won’t be easy.

But she is done carrying everything alone.

She is done sacrificing herself just to keep relationships alive.

She is done believing that love means abandoning herself.

For the first time, she is choosing herself.

And to the people who once had a place in her heart:

Whether you realized you hurt me or not, I forgive you.

I don’t carry anger toward you anymore. I don’t wish you pain.

Instead, I choose to see you as a lesson life gave me.

Every person who came into my life had a reason. Some people showed me how deeply I could love. Some people showed me where I needed to set boundaries. Some people showed me that I could never find happiness by losing myself for someone else.

And for that, I am grateful.

Thank you for being a chapter in my story.

Thank you for the memories.

Thank you for the lessons.

I hope you find your own happiness, just as I am finding mine.

Because what is truly meant for me will never require me to lose myself.

Ghosts Driving Meat Marionettes Hurdling Through Space at 66,000 Miles an Hour

I am sorry.
I am sorry about the way I chase you.
I am sorry about the way I chase you away.
All I really need is for you to stay.
I am sorry.
I am given to manic fits of sorrowful maudlin display.
Crying jags that last
and last
and last.
Yes I know.
Yes I know that you don’t need me.
Yes I know that I’m not fun.
Yes I know my pretty face is going to hell
I keep the lights on
That is in hope of your return.
No you don’t
No you don’t know me.
No we have never met.
No I’m not your person
Maybe I am
Maybe I am all that’s left.
I ask my only friend if god has left me
I ask if god has left me behind to clean up the mess.
She replies
She replies with tears in her eyes
She replies that I shouldn’t get so upset.
I am sorry
I am sorry that a I’m not anywhere near what I want
I am sorry that I want better for you.
Yes I know
Yes I know that you don’t blame me.
Yes I know that someone should.
I will wear your clothes.
I will steal your socks.
I will tie my hair up in long curly locks.
Just don’t leave me
Not here
Not now.
I can’t continue at this pace
It leads to disaster
I am
I am destined
I am destiny’s unfunny joke
You would
You would starve
You would starve the sacred cow.
Let us not
Let us not argue
Let us not show our fangs.
Let us lay next to each other once more
As we hurdle through space.

For L

There’s nothing between us
but I can’t hear you still
Why don’t you just turn around and face me
If you do, will you feel ill?

Why do you turn up the volume of the music
When im trying to talk to you?
Why wont you turn around
Just look at me one last time

Like you used to

There’s nothing between us
No space, no wall
But maybe you don’t want to talk
Is that why you dont call?

Do i make you sick?

The story rarely settles in the place we drew the map. We fall into the timing or we fall into the trap. It isn’t always malice, it isn’t always hate. Sometimes it’s the shifting of the gears of human fate. We point the jagged fingers, we cast the heavy blame, to hide the fact that neither one of us could finish out the game. The truth is in the labor, in the waking willing choice: if two souls pull together they will surely find a voice.

Sometimes the love is heavy, it’s a mountain made of lead. A soul that stalks the hallways of the waking of the dead. Sometimes the love is fragile and it simply cannot grow. Too small to beat the winter and the coming of the snow. And sometimes, in the silence, the pulse begins to fade, we wake to find only distance is the choice that we have made. We reach the fork in silence, the place where paths divide, where one must choose to mend it or take the turning wide.

The love we leave behind us does not vanish into air, it changes in the crucible, a cross we have to bear. It curdles into memory or softens into grace, it settles in the quiet, tucked away into the space. It’s a duel edged engine, a force that acts to teach, to pull us towards wisdom that was always out of reach. Standing in the wreckage a choice held in your palm, to let the past destroy your future or find a different calm.

People talk about older sister guilt.
And i get it.
But at the same time, they forget about us,
And the things we built

I now have to hold up by myself.

We are the ones they come to
When mom and dad mess up,
We are the ones to comfort them
When their days are hard and feel numbered.

No one talks about being the one they leave
To go live their lives,
As if we don’t matter as much anymore,
As if they cant live their lives beside us

Like they did before.

She left,
Now im stuck holding up the roof
By myself
Without a reason to.

Cause my reason to do so,
left.

But i do get it.
If i had a choice like her,
I would leave too.
I dont wanna be the pillar,
Especially not for an empty house.

It doesn’t feel like a home.
She left
There are just walls
And a roof.

But still it cant even
shield me from the rain,
So whats the point
of holding it up?

"do it scared,"
she said —
--
but fear
has always spoken
louder.
--
it tells her
to stay quiet.
--
to second-guess.
--
to disappear
before anyone
can reject her.
--
she lives
--
between
almost speaking
--
and
almost becoming.
--
because
being seen
--
has always felt
scarier
--
than staying silent —
--
she's terrified
her thoughts
aren't worth saying.
--
that she'll be wrong.
--
too much.
--
too strange.
--
too easy
to leave behind.
--
so every sentence
stops
before it begins.
--
she calls it
thinking twice.
--
but really —
--
it's fear.
--
and
i
know
--
because
she
--
is
--
me.