I’m tired, but not the kind sleep cures,
not the ache that silence reassures.
This isn’t fixed by closing eyes,
or counting stars in midnight skies.

It’s in my bones, this heavy weight,
a dragging grief I can’t sedate.
I smile and nod, I laugh on cue,
but something’s dying out of view.

It’s waking up with sinking dread,
feeling more alive when I'm in bed.
It’s fighting just to leave the room,
and brushing joy aside like gloom.

No pillow soft, no blanket tight,
can chase away what haunts each night.
It’s not about the hours missed,
it’s battles lost inside my wrists.

I’m tired of always “being strong,”
of playing normal, acting wrong.
Of hearing, “You just need more sleep,”
while I fall further, dark and deep.

It’s more than yawns and weary eyes,
it’s shattered faith and hollow tries.
It’s screaming thoughts I can't explain,
and smiling wide through choking pain.

They think I’m lazy, think I stall,
but they don’t see the fight at all.
Each step I take, a war I wage,
a thousand storms inside this cage.

I want to rest in more than a bed,
I want peace inside my head.
A place where silence doesn’t sting,
and dreams don’t break on fragile wings.

I’m tired, love, in every way,
and no, I won’t be “fine” today.
Not all fatigue can be undone,
some shadows stay, even in sun.

So if I vanish for a while,
don’t chase me with a hollow smile.
Just hold me close and let me be,
I’m tired, not just sleepy.

    

Don’t bring your glue,
your toolkits,
your savior hands.
I’m not a broken thing
to mend on demand.

Don’t trace my cracks
With pity's light,
I’ve lived in darkness,
and I’m still upright.

I don’t need sermons
disguised as care,
or whispered promises
that you’ll repair.

I need your silence
when my voice shakes,
your arms around me
when my soul breaks.

I don’t want answers,
I want space.
Not solutions,
just your grace.

Sit in the wreckage
without a plan.
Hold my trembling
with both hands.

If you love me,
let me ache.
Let me breathe
and let me break.

Because I am not
your rescue song,
or a puzzle
you’ve had wrong.

I am trying,
in my way.
Not to be saved,
just to stay.

So love me raw,
love me true.
Not because you’re fixing me,
but because you choose to.


    

Where the fuck were you?
On the one damn day
you were supposed to stay,
not because we’re still in love,
but because I tried to be, in every way.

I sat in the dark,
with makeup on ghosts,
trying to look alive
for the one who’d vanished the most.
Lipstick on hope,
perfume on despair,
wearing a dress
for someone who was never there.

I made dinner for silence,
set the table for shame,
lit candles for someone
who forgot my name.
No text. No call.
No sorry, no lie,
not even the kind
you used to try.

Where were you
when I needed you near?
When my eyes were drowning,
but my voice stayed clear?
When I begged the air
to feel like arms,
'cause yours haven’t held me
through storms or calm?

This was never a fairytale,
just bruises in disguise.
But I kept writing “happily ever after”
in between the lies.
You were my almost,
my threadbare stay,
the love I clung to
when light slipped away.

You were “close enough”
when I was small,
so I stitched your name
into the cracks of it all.
Because life taught me
not to ask for more,
and I mistook locked windows
for open doors.

You could’ve showed up.
You could’ve tried.
You could’ve faked love
with practiced pride.
Instead you vanished,
as you always do,
leaving me with nothing
but the memory of you.

Where were you
when my chest caved in?
When I screamed in silence
and called it a win?
When I gave you love
you never earned,
and all I got
was another lesson burned?

Don’t say you forgot.
You didn’t forget.
You chose not to stay this day,
I’ll never let
that truth be buried
beneath your smile.
You left me bleeding
on the aisle.

You didn’t lose me.
You threw me aside,
and dressed the wound
in selfish pride.
But this ache?
It learned to write.
And tonight, I mourn
what you killed with spite.

So happy fucking anniversary,
to the girl who stayed
and the man who ran.
To the life I tried to build
with broken hands.
To the years I begged,
and the love I gave,
and the ghost of you
I couldn't save.

xoxo,
The woman you never really saw.

......


    

Don’t tell me to forgive,
not when the truth just learned to live.
Not when the name I called “my own”
was built on lies and borrowed bone.

You smiled while feeding me a script, 
called silence love, and secrets “grit.”
You stitched my story from your shame,
then told me I should bear your blame.

He is not my blood. I know that now.
And yet you both still take a bow.
Like raising me rewrites the scar,
like love erases what you are.

Yes, he stayed. And yes, he tried.
But so did I, while you both lied.
My childhood cracked beneath the weight
of truths you buried, sealed by fate.

So much makes sense now:
the hollow stares,
the distance masked
as tender care.
The way I always felt half-known,
like I was loved, but not full-grown.

You hid my roots to keep your pride,
and called it peace, your hands still tied.
But peace can’t bloom where rot runs deep,
and secrets never truly sleep.

I carry wounds you’ll never see,
because you chose control over me.
And still, I’m told to let this slide,
to let my grief be pushed aside.

But I will not. I won’t pretend
this isn’t some colossal end.
I loved you both, too much, it seems,
to question cracks in childhood dreams.

So no, I’m not at war with you,
but don’t expect a heart brand, new.
Don’t ask for grace you didn’t give.
Don’t ask me now…
to just forgive.......


    

You said it was love,
when you raised your voice,
when you broke me down
and called it “choice.”
When silence fell like shattered glass,
you held me tighter,
then let it pass.

You said love burns,
but this was fire.
A slow, controlled
emotional pyre.
I danced in the flames,
thinking that’s how it feels,
not knowing real love
doesn’t come with concealed steel.

It started with passion,
with chaos in bloom,
a storm in your chest
and a smile full of doom.
I mistook the rage
for something deep,
but even wolves
can dress like sheep.

You said I was crazy,
too much, too loud,
so I shrunk myself
just to make you proud.
You called it chemistry,
a spark, a flame,
but baby, that was just
your favorite game.

You slammed the doors,
then opened arms,
I learned to crave
the quiet before the harm.
You'd love me hard,
then pull away,
and I'd chase your ghost
every fucking day.

You didn’t hold me,
you held control.
You didn’t kiss me,
you swallowed me whole.
You didn’t love me,
you caged my soul.
And I stayed, God, I stayed,
until I wasn’t whole.

I wrote off the bruises
as poetry lines.
Told myself hurt
meant love sometimes.
But love, real love,
doesn’t break bones.
It doesn’t make hearts
feel more alone.

It doesn’t say “sorry”
just to do it again.
It doesn’t tear you down
and then pretend.
It doesn’t make you ache
for a touch that burns.
It doesn’t use affection
as lessons learned.

So no,
this wasn’t love.
It was a costume stitched
from pain and lust,
a house of mirrors
built on trust
I never should’ve given.

Love wasn’t supposed to hurt like this,
like biting glass,
like swinging fists.
Like begging for scraps
with shaking hands,
while calling it passion,
not demands.

And still I stay.
Not for your kiss.
Not for some fairytale I might miss.
But for the hearts
you’ll never break—
the ones I protect
with each breath I take.

I stay with you,
though it bleeds me dry,
not because your love
makes me fly,
but because the truest love I’ve ever known
was born beneath this broken home.

So if you wonder
why I don’t flee,
It’s not you, it’s them.
They’re the reason you still have me.

True love holds me here, you see,
and my kids are that love.
Not you.
Not “we.”......


    

The world is too loud for people like me,
a crashing storm where I can’t breathe free.
Voices shout like thunder, bright lights burn,
and every corner twists, turns, and churns.

I wear silence like a fragile cloak,
a whispered prayer I barely spoke.
Because noise cuts deep, like jagged glass,
and crowds move fast, but I move last.

I’m not broken, just softly made,
like porcelain in the pouring rain.
Every sound’s a battle I didn’t choose,
every touch another layer of bruise.

I crave the quiet, the gentle calm,
the healing hush, the soothing balm.
But the world spins wild, and I retreat,
finding peace where shadows meet.

So if you hear me fading low,
know it’s just the way I cope and grow.
The world may roar, but inside I’ll be,
a quiet soul, learning to breathe free.


    

I wore my strength like armor thick,
a shield against the world’s cruel tricks.
Held in silence, swallowed pain,
pretended I had so much to gain.

But being strong was a cage unseen,
built from lies where I’d never lean.
Vulnerability was a whispered crime,
so I buried tears and numbed my time.

I clenched my jaw, I held my breath,
danced with shadows close to death.
Because asking for help was weak,
or so the world would always speak.

But strength is not the absence of fall,
it’s breaking down each guarded wall.
It’s in the cracks, the scars that show,
in letting others see your soul.

Being strong almost killed me, yes,
but in the wreckage, I confess,
the truest power I now see,
is letting go and simply be.

So if you think you have to fight,
alone in darkness, out of sight,
remember strength is loud and clear,
it’s in the cries we choose to hear.


    

I have words you’ll never hear,
trapped beneath my shattered skin,
silent screams you buried deep,
where brokenness begins.

I wanted to scream your names,
to spit the poison in your eyes,
but fear sealed every cry,
you stole my strength, my skies.

I wished to shout the horror,
to rage against the night,
but silence wrapped around me,
a cage of endless fright.

There are truths I never told,
because they’d drown in shame,
confessions chained in darkness,
you etched your mark with blame.

You took more than bodies,
you stole my trust, my peace,
left me to gather fragments,
a soul that can’t release.

I carry all those unsaid words,
like scars beneath my skin,
haunted by the silence,
where your violence lives within.

If I spoke them now,
would justice hear my plea?
Or am I forever broken,
in the silence you gave me?


    

Don’t dress my pain in poetry,
don’t paint my scars like art,
this isn’t beauty,
it’s bleeding, tearing me apart.

They say pain makes you stronger,
but no one shows the nights I screamed,
the hollow ache inside my bones,
the silent battles never seen.

Don’t glorify the broken bits,
don’t crown me with a tragic crown,
I’m not a story made for whispers,
I’m the silence before the sound.

This wound is not a trophy,
it’s a wound that’s raw and real,
and while you praise the shattered soul,
I’m just trying not to kneel.

So keep your pretty words and rhymes,
your myths of healing through the fight,
because sometimes pain is just pain,
and darkness doesn’t need the light.


    

We all wear armor,
not made of steel,
but sarcasm, silence,
a joke we don’t feel.

Some hide behind laughter
that’s painfully loud,
while they’re breaking inside
in the middle of a crowd.

Some wrap rage around their ribs
like barbed wire tight,
'cause anger feels safer
than falling at night.

Some dress in busy,
in never-stop days,
so they don’t have to sit
in the echo of praise.

Some wear a smile
stitched onto their face,
while grief chews their bones
at a steady pace.

Some become ghosts
in their own skin,
thinking less presence
means less sin.

We all wear armor,
layered and thin,
hoping no one sees
what's trembling within.

But even steel rusts,
and walls cave in,
even the strongest
get tired of the spin.

So if you see someone
who’s always “okay,”
look closer,
they might be fading away.


    

Bulimia has me under its spell,
a whispered curse I know too well.
It promised control, a silent friend,
but now I’m starving without end.

I smile when my clothes fall loose,
like bones are proof that I’ve produced
a better me, a smaller frame,
but all I feel is fear and shame.

The mirror claps, “You’re winning, girl,”
while my insides twist and hurl.
I trace my ribs like battle lines,
and fake delight in steep declines.

I cry between the bathroom tiles,
then paint my face with practiced smiles.
Nobody sees the price I pay,
just smaller jeans and “Wow, you’ve slayed.”

But every purge just digs me deep,
into a grave I cannot keep.
It owns my thoughts, it steals my voice,
I blink and find I have no choice.

I didn’t mean to disappear,
but fading felt like less to fear.
Now I’m a shadow dressed in skin,
a war I never meant to win.

My throat is raw, my soul is thin,
I never meant to sink within.
I only wanted to feel enough,
instead, I’m dying dressed in bluff.

I wipe my tears, pretend I'm whole,
while hunger swallows up my soul.
I didn’t mean to be this sick,
this ghost in skin, this shattered trick.

I look but don’t see me at all,
just someone trained to rise and fall.
And though I scream, “Please break the spell,”
Bulimia still knows me well.


    

The mirror doesn’t lie—
but it never tells the truth kindly.
It whispers all the things I hide,
and echoes them, blindly.

“This is too soft,
that’s much too wide,
when did you start
to grow so side to side?”

It knows the names I don’t say aloud,
the numbers that shame me,
the sizes that crowd
my closet with guilt I’ve folded and hung,
still hearing fat jokes from when I was young.

I trace my scars like battle maps,
not victories, just all the traps
where hunger sang and mirrors screamed,
and every bite became a dream
I didn’t deserve.

They say,
“Just love yourself.”
But how do you start
when you’ve built a home
from picking apart
every inch,
every curve,
every flaw they see,
until the mirror sighs,
and I agree.

Some days, I don’t want to eat.
Others, I eat to feel complete.
Then hate myself, then cry at night,
then promise I’ll make it right…
Tomorrow.
Always tomorrow.

You think it’s vain,
but this isn’t pride.
It’s shame that walks right by my side.
It’s not about looking pretty in clothes.
It’s about feeling worthy
when nobody knows
the battles I fight just to get dressed,
the war in my head,
the lack of rest.

And it’s not the world that cuts the deepest,
It’s the voice I live with.
The one that never leaves.
The one that tells me I’m too much,
or not enough,
but never just right.
Not ever just right.

You ask me why I hide my skin?
Because loving it has never been
as easy as the world demands,
when my own reflection
won’t hold my hand.

And some days,
I beg it to lie,
to soften its glare,
to let me try
to see myself
through gentler eyes,
but the mirror,
it sighs.

It sighs like it’s tired,
tired of me.
And I nod,
because God,
I’m tired too :(


    

They say childhood is made of light,
of lullabies and stars at night.
But mine was shadows, slammed back doors,
silence screaming through the floors.

It wasn’t golden, it was gray,
a game of “smile and look okay.”
Tiptoeing past the moods of men,
praying it wouldn’t start again.

I learned to read the room too fast,
to make my pain a thing to mask.
To shrink, to nod, to not upset,
to carry blame and call it “debt.”

The bedtime stories never came,
just echoes calling out my name.
A house of rules, not arms to hold,
a heart that learned to just grow cold.

Don’t tell me all kids feel that way,
not every child had hell to play.
Not every home was made of fear,
not every hug came laced with tears.

So no, my roots are not of gold,
they're rusted chains, they're lies I’m told.
But still I rise, with jagged grace,
a child grown up who knows her place.

And if you ask me what I miss?
It’s not the warmth. It’s what I wish.
A past that wasn’t dressed in pain,
a sky that didn’t cry my name.

    

They told me anger is ugly,
but they never saw the silence that birthed it.
Never heard the screams I swallowed
so the room could stay unlit.

They only noticed the flame,
not the years I spent cold.
Only judged when I broke,
never asked what I’d been told.

Anger is grief with nowhere to land,
a shaking fist where no one held my hand.
It’s the sharp edge of a broken prayer,
a scream that says, “Why wasn’t someone there?”

It’s the voice I use
when no one listens to soft.
When “please” goes unheard,
and “help” is written off.

It’s the echo of all the times
I was hurt and had to smile,
the storm behind a quiet face
that’s held too much for too long a while.

Don’t tell me to breathe,
when the air’s full of ghosts.
Don’t ask me to heal,
when I’m burning what hurts most.

Because rage is sacred,
a graveyard song,
a survivor's cry
for all that went wrong.

So if I burn, let me blaze,
this fire is overdue.
Anger isn’t weakness,
it’s a language too.


    

They only miss you when you're gone,
when your light stops shining, they ask what went wrong.
When your smile fades and your voice goes still,
suddenly they care, like it wasn’t your will.

They scroll past your pain when you're still around,
but write long posts once you're under the ground.
Where were their arms when you fell apart?
Now they mourn what they ignored from the start.

You were a ghost in a room full of noise,
quietly breaking while they played with their toys.
Now they miss you, now they cry,
but never asked once, “Are you okay?” or “Why?”

Funny how love shows up too late,
in echoes, flowers, and tear-stained fate.
But while you were living, lost and alone
you begged for warmth... and got a cold phone.


    

They said,
“Just talk it out,
you’ll feel brand new.”
As if untangling trauma
was that easy to do.
As if wounds that bled for twenty years
could vanish after shedding tears.

So I sat on a couch
and spilled my ache,
tried to soften
a heart that’d long since break.
I stitched my story, thread by thread,
but healing didn’t come
just ‘cause it was said.

I told the truth
I never dared,
about hands that hurt
and hearts that never cared.
About nights I screamed
and no one came,
about holding guilt
that wasn’t my name.

My therapist nodded,
soft and kind,
but kindness doesn’t
rewire the mind.
Validation helps,
but it doesn’t erase
the haunted echoes
I still face.

I’ve learned to breathe
through panic attacks,
but that doesn’t stop
the knife in my back.
I've learned the tools,
I've done the work,
but healing still
can fucking hurt.

Because trauma isn’t dirt
you wipe off with grace,
it’s a storm that settles
and shifts in place.
It’s the chill in your bones
on a sunny day,
it’s the smile you fake
so they’ll go away.

Therapy isn’t magic.
It’s not a spell.
It won’t unlive
the years of hell.
It helps me hold
what I can’t forget,
but don't you dare ask
why I'm not healed yet.

Sometimes I leave
feeling more raw,
more aware
of every internal flaw.
But I go back,
because hope is thin,
and sometimes, healing
just means showing up again.

So no,
I’m not fixed.
I may never be.
But I’m learning to live
more honestly.
And if all I do
is breathe and stay,
then I’ve won the battle
for one more day.......


    

They call it lazy when I lie in bed,
But they don’t hear the war inside my head.
Every task’s a mountain I can’t climb,
Each second drags like frozen time.

The dishes pile, the calls go missed,
To-do lists buried in a foggy mist.
They see the silence, not the fight,
The weight I carry day and night.

I want to move, I really do,
But sometimes blinking feels hard too.
My body’s aching from standing still,
My soul’s too tired to chase the will.

It’s not that I don’t care at all,
It’s just too loud inside this wall.
My brain is shouting through a storm,
But outside, I must look "calm" and "warm."

They say, “Just try, just push, just start,”
But where’s the map for a broken heart?
Where’s the manual for this kind of pain,
Where standing up feels like acid rain?

Don’t judge my stillness, don’t mistake
This frozen breath for a choice I make.
I'm not choosing sloth, I'm fighting hell,
Wearing a mask, pretending I'm well.

I cancel plans I wish I kept,
Cry in showers where secrets wept.
I scroll past life I long to live,
With nothing left inside to give.

This isn’t laziness, this is war.
A quiet battle, behind closed doors.
So don’t applaud me when I shine,
And curse me when I miss the line.

Instead of “lazy,” say “surviving.”
Instead of “slacking,” say “still striving.”
Because behind each pause and heavy breath,
I’m dodging shadows, outrunning death.

I’m not lazy. I’m just numb.
Trying to remember where I’m from.
Trying to find some kind of spark,
In a world that’s always cold and dark.

So if you see me lost or slow,
Just know there’s more you’ll never know.
And maybe grace is what I need,
Not shame wrapped up in harsh critique.

I’m not lazy. I’m trying to heal.
To crawl through days I barely feel.
I’m here, I’m breathing, maybe not loud,
But sometimes surviving should make us proud......


    

I wear a smile like armor bright,
A shining mask in fading light.
But underneath, the shadows creep,
Where secrets ache and silence weeps.

The world sees laughter, carefree, free,
But none can touch what’s haunting me.
A quiet war behind these eyes,
Where broken dreams and sadness lie.

Each grin I flash, a whispered lie,
A piece of me I watch untie.
The weight I carry no one knows,
Behind the smiles, the pain still grows.

I fake the joy, I hide the hurt,
Paint over cracks with smiles curt.
Because if I let the world see through,
They’d find the pieces that I lost, too.

So yes, I smile, but it’s a curse,
To wear this mask that hurts, hurts, hurts.
And maybe one day, when I’m free,
I’ll show the world the truth in me.

But till that day, I’ll play my part,
With broken bones and aching heart.
Because sometimes smiles, though they heal,
Are scars too deep for eyes to feel......


    

They told him boys don’t shed a tear,
That tough means silent, never fear.
So he swallowed storms inside his chest,
Hiding pain he never expressed.

They taught him to be hard and cold,
To never show what’s uncontrolled.
But beneath the armor, bruised and blue,
There’s a heart that breaks, men cry too.

No whispered comfort, no soft space,
Just shadows chasing his brave face.
He’s told to fight, to stand alone,
But tears drip quietly, unknown.

Behind clenched jaws and battle scars,
Lie silent battles, unseen wars.
A quiet grief that nobody views,
Because men hurt, and men cry too.

So next time you see a strong facade,
Remember pain’s not just for “the odd.”
Men need to break, to heal, to show,
That breaking isn’t just for “her,” you know.

Let him cry, let him fall apart,
It’s not weakness, it’s a healing heart.
Because tears are proof that life is true,
And yes, men cry. Men cry too......


    

What if I never mend just right,
What if I’m always scared at night?
What if my growth is just pretend,
And healing's not a steady end?

They say, “You’re strong, you’re on your way,”
But some wounds bloom again each day.
They want a timeline, want a cure,
But some pain lingers, raw, impure.

I’ve read the books, I’ve done the work,
Still feel the echoes, still the hurt.
I’ve whispered mantras to the sky,
Yet parts of me still want to die.

I’m tired of faking “getting better,”
Like pain’s a phase, like grief’s a sweater.
I wear it still, it fits too tight,
Some days I barely breathe at night.

What if I’m more than how I cope?
What if survival steals my hope?
What if I’m tired of being “brave,”
Of clawing out of every grave?

Why must I bloom to be enough?
Why must I turn the pain to love?
Some nights I bleed in metaphor—
Not healing, just surviving more.

And maybe that’s my silent plea,
To be a mess, and still be me.
To cry, collapse, not rise and shine,
To fall apart and call it mine.

Because not all wounds close up with time,
Not all of us will ever “climb.”
So don’t demand a happy end,
Just hold the space where I pretend.

And if I never fully heal,
Will they still love me raw and real?
Will I still matter, scars and all,
Even if I never stand tall?

What if I stay a little broken,
Soft with truths I’ve never spoken?
Could I be worthy, even still,
If all I am is not quite healed?.....


    

We post our smiles like war paint, bright,
While breaking down alone at night.
We crop the tears, apply a glow,
And call it healing for the show.

A perfect feed, a laughing face,
But sadness lives just out of frame.
We chase the likes to feel alive,
While parts of us forget to thrive.

“Living my best life,” the caption screams,
But no one sees the shattered dreams.
We filter pain in pastel tones,
While crying quietly through phones.

It’s all a stage, a practiced lie,
A thousand friends, yet none reply.
A comment heart, a fire emoji,
But no one knows the real, raw “me.”

We scroll past grief, dressed up in gold,
And wonder why we feel so cold.
Comparing wounds to pixel bliss,
Forgetting truth gets lost in this.

We edit flaws, delete the mess,
And call that healing, more or less.
But truth is, half of us are numb,
And silence loud when hearts go dumb.

They said connection lives online,
But how do I feel so confined?
Surrounded by the noise and praise,
Yet lonelier in brighter days.

Because this mask, it fits too well,
Hides the hollow, traps the hell.
And if I posted what I feel,
Would anyone believe it’s real?

So here I scroll, and here I stay,
Performing joy, day after day.
Till someone sees the cracks beneath,
And dares to ask what lies beneath......


    

They say blood makes a house a home,
But some of us grew up feeling alone.
Where love was loud with fists and fear,
And “I’m proud of you” was never near.

I’ve learned that silence can scream the most,
That warmth can burn when hearts are ghosts.
That some last names don’t mean safe space,
Just triggers tucked behind a smiling face.

I wasn’t raised, I was survived.
Taught to shrink, to not arrive.
Taught that love must earn its keep,
That peace is only found in sleep.

Family dinners with knives for words,
Affection bartered, feelings blurred.
I learned to lie with “I’m okay,”
To bite my truth and look away.

Because sometimes “home” is just four walls
Where dreams go mute and courage stalls.
Where hugs are rare and trust is thinner
Than the patience at a guilt-laced dinner.

I stopped calling it love when it came with a leash,
When my voice was met with, “Don’t you preach.”
When my tears were labeled overreaction,
And pain was met with cold distraction.

You don’t get to call me ungrateful now,
When I built my strength from “not allowed.”
From slammed doors, cold wars, heavy sighs,
And bedtime stories made of lies.

So don’t be shocked if I found my tribe
Outside of DNA and bloodline vibe.
I found “home” in the ones who see,
The messy, the broken, and still choose me.

Family isn’t always a birthright flame,
Sometimes it’s trauma wrapped in your name.
And healing starts the day you know:
You’re allowed to walk away and grow......


    

They told me time would dull the sting,
that spring would come, that birds would sing.
But grief’s no guest that packs and leaves,
it lingers in the threads of sleeves.

It doesn’t vanish, it just hides,
beneath the way I say “I’m fine” with tired eyes.
It wears new faces every year,
sometimes in laughter, sometimes in fear.

The first few months, it screamed so loud,
a thunderstorm beneath my shroud.
But now it’s softer, dressed in gray,
it walks beside me every day.

It used to knock me to the floor,
now it just waits behind the door.
It slips into my morning tea,
sits quietly inside of me.

Some days it hums a lullaby,
some days it chokes and won’t say why.
It’s in a song, a certain smell,
a crowded room, a chapel bell.

It doesn’t ask for much to stay,
a name, a date, a thought that strays.
It curls around my spine so tight,
and whispers truths I try to fight.

They said, “Move on,” like it’s a place,
as if love’s ghost can be replaced.
But mourning isn’t weak or wrong,
it’s just a love that’s held too long.

So no, it hasn’t left, not yet,
it’s just a shadow of regret.
It doesn't cry the way it used to,
but it still knows how to undo you.

And every year, it finds new skin,
a different ache, a quieter spin.
It changes masks but not its name,
and every version hurts the same.

Because grief doesn’t die,
it just learns how to live.
In every sigh
we still give...

Even if it’s me I’m grieving.....


    

You left without looking back,
no guilt in your eyes, no weight in your track.
Like I was nothing more than a phase,
a name you forgot in a smoke-filled haze.

You took your piece, you made your mess,
and now I carry your heaviness.
You moved on light, while I stayed low,
burying pain where no one would go.

I waited for words that never came,
a whisper of sorrow, a sliver of shame.
But silence grew roots where sorry should be,
and now I bleed where you walk free.

You’ll never know the nights I shook,
the years I flinched from a passing look.
The trust you shattered with hands so bare,
then wiped them clean like I wasn’t there.

An apology? No, you built your throne
on every wound I nursed alone.
I begged myself to be okay,
while you smiled and danced the guilt away.

You never said, “I’m sorry I lied,”
or “I’m sorry for the part of you that died.”
You never asked, “Did it leave you cold?”
You just left me hurting, quiet, and old.

And maybe you sleep with peace at night,
but I still fight ghosts in morning light.
I wear your sins beneath my skin,
a war I never asked to win.

So no, I’m not waiting anymore
for an echo behind a locked-up door.
Your silence speaks the loudest yet—
this is the apology I’ll never get.

But I?
I live.
I rise, teeth clenched and wet-eyed.
I carry what you left behind
and still somehow survive.

So if you ever wonder what became of me
just know, I turned your cruelty
into poetry......


    

They say, “Heal, sweetheart.”
As if trauma listens to heart-shaped art.
As if band-aids fix what blades have done,
Or sunlight erases what monsters began.

I nod, I smile, play their game,
hide my bruises beneath a different name.
Call it “growth,” call it “learning curve,”
But it’s just masking pain I didn’t deserve.

They love you more when you're not a mess,
when you wear your grief in a pretty dress.
When your voice is soft, not loud with rage,
when you bleed quietly, page by page.

They say, “It gets better.” Maybe it does.
But better than what? A life I never chose?
A body still flinching at phantom hands,
a mind they never try to understand?

I’ve clapped for everyone else’s win,
but no one cheered for the war within.
No standing ovation for nights I stayed,
when sleep was a battlefield I barely braved.

So no, I’m not healed, I’m rehearsed.
I’m the aftertaste of something cursed.
I’m stitched in sarcasm, dressed in fight,
smiling in daytime, drowning at night.

I play nice because it keeps them calm,
but inside, I’m a quiet, ticking bomb.
Not seeking pity, not wanting fame,
just a world that stops playing the blame game.

Call this anger. Call this art.
Call it the anthem of a broken heart.
But don’t you dare call it a phase.
This is survival,
In a world that sets fire
and then criticizes your blaze.....


    

The world is a beautiful graveyard, 
flowers bloom where bodies lay hard.
We scroll past grief like passing trees,
double-tap pain like it's some tease.

People don’t feel, they just perform.
Smiles like sunshine before the storm.
Tears get filtered, cries go mute,
wrapped in quotes that sound so cute.

“Everything happens for a reason”—please.
That phrase is poison dressed to appease.
A little girl starves in a shattered land
while billionaires race to touch the sand
of moons and Mars, just for the thrill, 
forgetting the world they helped to kill.

We chant for peace while fueling war,
preach about love but shut the door.
We cheer for light with hearts gone dark,
and crucify those who leave a mark.

Everyone's rushing but staying still,
climbing ladders that never fulfill.
Chasing dollars, chasing fame,
but no one even knows their name.

Boys are told not to cry or feel,
then drown in pain they were told to seal.
Girls are taught to shrink, to hush,
and when they break, we call it "too much."

The news repeats its horror reel,
another murder, another deal.
"Thoughts and prayers," rinse, repeat,
blood still drying on the street.

No one speaks of the quiet ache,
the laughing masks we daily fake.
Crowded rooms, but souls alone,
texting pain into their phone.

We mock the ones who feel too deep,
then grieve when they fall fast asleep.
The world’s not broken, it’s a blade,
cutting hearts that once obeyed.

Soft turned hard, love turned dust,
hope eroded by loss of trust.
And still we whisper, “Stay strong,” “Hold on,”
as if the storm isn’t lifelong.

But if you’re sad—then let it sting.
If you’re mad, let your voice ring.
If this world hurts, it’s meant to bruise,
because numbness means you start to lose.

Feel it all, let softness fight.
Your aching soul is still your right.
Let tears fall like holy rain
proof you still feel through all this pain.

So rage if you must, cry if you can,
bleed poetry the way you began.
Let your pain be your protest,
your fire, your art
a quiet scream from a tender heart.

Because even in a world this sick,
you’re still here.
Still rising.
Still magic.
Still thick with truth
in a time of lies
and that,
is where the rebellion lies.


    

There are words stuck in my throat
with teeth.
They bite every time I try
to speak peace.

I smile like it fits me,
but it doesn’t.
It’s borrowed.
Pressed against cracked lips
that tremble when no one’s watching.

I tell people “I’m fine”
because it’s easier
than explaining how I feel like
a ghost in my own skin
present, but only halfway in.

I want to be held,
but touch makes me flinch.
Want to be loved,
but love feels like a wince.

Every time someone gets close,
I hand them a map of my broken
and watch them run
like they expected paradise
and found ruin.

I hate mirrors.
Not for how I look,
but for how I see myself
unworthy.
Unwanted.
Unfixable.

There are nights
where I sit in the quiet,
and wonder how much louder I have to scream
before someone hears me
without needing sound.

And if this is strength
this pretending,
this surviving,
this staying alive when nothing fits
then maybe I don’t want to be strong anymore.

Because I’m tired.
Not just in my bones
in my soul.
The kind of tired that sleep won’t fix,
that love can’t reach,
that even God, some nights,
feels too far to kiss.

So I’ll keep walking,
quiet and cracked,
a poem that never quite rhymes,
a truth too sharp to say out loud.

But I’m here.
Still.
Even if I’m not whole
I’m still here.
And somehow,
that has to count for something.....


    

I’ve wrapped bandages around my thoughts
tight, desperate, trembling knots
but by morning, they’re soaked through,
grief bleeding like it always knew.

Somewhere deep behind my eyes
there’s a scream without a sound,
a room with no exits,
where a girl claws at walls that feel like skin,
begging to be let out,
but no one lets her in.

I don’t know which ache aches worse
the part that remembers every curse,
or the part that can’t forget
the way silence still collects its debt.

Every night, I dig graves in my chest
for memories that outlive rest.
I whisper “enough” into the dark,
but trauma doesn’t understand soft marks.
It speaks in flashbacks and clenched fists,
in empty stares and phantom twists,
in silence so loud,
it bruises like fists never dared to.

Maybe it’s the past,
knocking with bloody knuckles,
or the present,
slipping from under me like shattered glass.
Maybe it’s the future,
burning holes in my hope
before I even dare to grasp.

I am bleeding
from places no eye has seen,
from wounds I carry
like invisible ink under my skin.
And the worst part?
I’ve learned to smile while it pours,
dripping between laughter,
like rusted floorboards.

But don’t you dare call this strength.
This is survival.
This is rage in a silk dress.
This is nails bitten to the bone,
and a laugh that tastes like blood and home.

This is me
falling beautifully apart
in a world that never asked
if I had the strength
to hold what broke my heart.

I am not healed.
I am holding the flood with thread.
And every day I wake up
is a war I win
with dreams still wet and red.

So if I seem calm,
just know
there’s a battlefield behind my grin.
And no,
the bleeding hasn’t stopped.
It’s just gotten quieter
within.


    

Don’t call me strong.
You weren’t there,
when I clawed my way from poisoned air,
dug through dirt they tossed with pride,
buried alive,
still a child inside.

Eight years old, already bruised,
a soul misused,
body confused.
You didn’t see what they stole in the night,
how they took what was never theirs by right.

They left fingerprints on sacred skin,
and now I flinch at love like it's a sin.
Still twitch at hands with honest grace,
because shadows linger in their place.

And where were you,
“family,”
when I cried without a sound,
when silence wrapped around me
like a burial gown?
When I trembled behind closed doors,
bled in metaphors,
because truth
was too filthy for your polished floors.

You say I’m dramatic.
I say I survived.
You say “let it go.”
I say it’s still alive.
It sleeps beside me every night,
whispers wrong into what feels right.

They didn’t just break me,
they trained me how.
Taught me to bend,
then taught me to bow.
Taught me that love tastes like pain,
that silence is shelter,
and truth brings shame.

Now I walk with a limp in my soul,
and no, I won’t fucking apologize
for the jagged edges of my healing.

Because I stitched myself up
with shaking hands
when nobody showed up,
and if my kind of broken
makes you uncomfortable,
good.

Let it.

Because I’m still here.
And that?
That’s the loudest scream I’ve got.

So no,
don’t call me strong like you know the cost.
Not when you watched
as I was lost.
Not when you feasted,
while I starved for light.
Not when you vanished
in my fight.

Because this broken,
still breathes, still speaks,
and yes,
my broken still has teeth.

    

I flinch when things go right,
as if safety is a thief in the night.
When love knocks soft upon my door,
I deadbolt fast and say, "No more."

I shatter delicate dreams before they grow,
because somewhere deep, I’ve come to know,
I’m not worthy of petals that bloom just for me,
so I burn the garden before it can be free.

Don’t ask me why I run away,
from warmth, from light, from the brightest day.
I flee from kindness like it’s a guise,
a trap disguised in gentle lies.

I say I want someone to stay,
but when they linger, I push away,
handing them reasons, one by one,
to leave the battle I’ve never won.

And still beneath the rubble, beneath the fight,
beneath the walls I build at night,
there’s a whispered plea, soft and low,
for someone to see me, and never go.

So if you hear this fragile call,
please don’t turn your back and walk away at all.
For behind the scars and all my fears,
is a heart that’s longing just to be near.
    

I’m all kinds of shattered
a tangle of jagged edges and silent screams,
lost in the ruins of my restless mind,
chasing shadows that slip through my dreams.

I’m a storm no one dares to face,
a dark, pulling tide beneath calm seas,
a broken song on endless repeat,
haunted by the quiet of empty keys.

I walk through halls of memories,
where laughter echoes and love once lived,
now just whispers in the cold air,
ghosts of a past I can’t forgive.

Yet somewhere in this endless ache,
beneath the rubble and the pain,
I hold a flicker of fragile hope,
a light that calls me through the rain.

I’m still searching
for a soul just as lost as mine,
one who won’t run when darkness screams,
who sees the cracks and still lets light shine.

Someone who understands the silence,
who hears the screams beneath the calm,
who won’t demand I be fixed or whole,
but loves me perfectly broken and scarred.

Because maybe in this endless night,
two fractured hearts can find their spark
not to mend what’s torn apart,
but to hold the fractures close,
and find grace inside the scars.

I don’t know your name,
or if you even roam
but if you’re out there,
please don’t be afraid to come home.

Because I’m still here,
still broken, still aching
still searching, still hoping,
still waiting for you.