Wallflower

 

Am I really as worthless as I seem?

 Or just a ghost of a half-formed dream?

I see them build their lives with grace,

While I drift quiet, out of place.

They speak in stories, bold and bright,

While I’ve grown used to shrinking light.

They had their chances, carved in stone —

I learned to dream when left alone.

I tried to bloom in secret light,

 But wilted when it came to fight.

 And every step I tried to take

 Felt like a sin I couldn’t make.

Now guilt, like perfume, fills the air,

In half-meant words, in softened care.

They say, “It’s not too late, just start,”

But something aches behind my heart.

Am I punishing them, or just me?

 For who I was, or couldn't be?

 For all the doors that stayed shut tight,

 Or the ones I feared to push with might?

Their pride wraps ‘round their sons like gold,

In tales repeated, fondly told.

But me? I’m quiet — always was —

A gentle hush, a muted pause.

I hold resentment like a flame,

And still, I long to not feel blame.

They call me kind, they call me wise,

 But never with the same bright eyes.

 And though I try to understand,

 It hurts to feel so secondhand.

But maybe they’re not all to blame,

 Perhaps I fed my own small flame.

 Because what do I shine in? What’s my gem?

 I’m shy, I’m scared, I hide, I fall,

 I build no ladders, just walls too tall.

Maybe it’s me — maybe I fall,

 Too soon, too fast, too much, that’s all.

 I chase, then flinch; I open, close;

 And ruin what I need the most.

I sit with pain I’ve never named,

 And let the silence take the blame.

 I wear my silence like a crown

 While watching love just let me down.

A Quiet Mourning

 

Sometimes I feel each choice I make
Is just another small mistake.
Not loud enough to break me down,
But wrong enough to wear a frown.

Might be wrong—I often am,
I turn a whisper to a slam.
A walking wound of self-blame art,
Who overfeels with half a heart.

I second-guess the things I do,

Then blame myself for guessing too.

A thousand thoughts I never share—

They say I’m calm. I’m just not there.

Tried to play it cool, composed,

But deep inside, I’ve never closed.

Care too much, Feel too deep,

And carry secrets I can’t keep.

I take the silence, every glance,

Each word that didn’t stand a chance,

And press them gently to my chest—

Unspoken grief I never rest.

I talk to walls, I talk to smoke,

To all the things I never spoke.

I cry in ways no one can hear—

It’s safer when the world’s not near.

 

And oddly, I take pride in this—
In hiding what they’d never miss.

But truth be told, I’m scared to death,
Of someone catching my raw breath.
To look too close, to see too much,
My soul beneath the skin they touch.

Secrets i carry on my spine,
They ache like ghosts that once were mine.
And every day, I’m close to saying

All the things I’ve been delaying.
But then I stop. I look away.

Paranoid, not in a test,
But just enough to miss some rest.
I think they’re watching, waiting still,
To catch a flaw, to get their fill.

So up go walls, with quiet hands,
Invisible, like shifting sands.
And maybe—maybe—deep inside,
I want someone to push aside.

(Forget I said that. Let it fade.
It’s just a thought I never made.)

Learned to live with less and less—
Few friends, less love, more loneliness.
A family that can’t really see
The buried, side of me.

Each day feels like a soft goodbye
To parts of me I let slip by.
I mourn the words I didn’t say,
The lives I lost along the way.

The love I gave too fast, too strong,
The things I got so deeply wrong.
It’s grief that hums beneath my skin—
A song that’s always played within.

The things I did, the ones I missed,
The chances I let fall through fists.
A heaviness that’s grown so deep,
It tucks me in each night to sleep.

And though it hurts, I let it stay—

This quiet mourning, day by day.

It’s all I’ve known, and so I keep

Its heavy rhythm in my sleep.

Night Night

 

Familiarity breeds contempt.  You like people because you don't know them. People like you because they don't know you. The more you spend time with a person, the more cursed you are to seeing them as human. 

Put the weight of the world off your shoulders. You are not a pet.  When I look up at the sky, I see my past staring back at me—but this time, with softer eyes. Tonight, the sky is more black than white, and for once, I let my guard down. The stars blink twice, and the world seems calm. The breeze carrying an unfamiliar charm, and what’s absent now is my storm. Tonight feels less lonely. Less ghostly, more homely. The streets are muddy, the lights blurry—just the way I like it. I hope I never grow tired of sunsets, and or leave nothing unsaid. May I never find solitude boring or curse the rain when it’s pouring. I hope I always wish upon shooting stars and stop picking on my scars. I hope I stop painting my bedroom walls red, and stop anticipating the end. Maybe, one day, I’ll learn to enjoy what’s right in front of me.  Finally, i hope i continue to love people even when i don't like them. 

Am I allowed to do something I know is wrong, something against my conscience, just because I want it? Is that what they call a guilty pleasure? I promise, no one will ever know. In the end, isn’t it about what weighs more—regret for not doing it or guilt for having done it? It’s exhausting being placed on a pedestal. That’s when I realized, I can always grow my hair out. I can make mistakes—maybe in secret. That way, nobody has to know.

Someone once told me to write, even if it’s just a single line a day. They said it would protect me. I start poems I know I am probably never going to finish yet I don't give up. I scribble. I scribble and scribble. And scribble away.  It seems strange—how we spill ourselves onto paper, hoping it will make everything go away, like we’re trying to purge the pain. But does it really? Perhaps it doesn’t, but maybe that’s not the point. Is that what we actually want? Maybe not. After all, would you truly want to lose the only attachment you have to those memories? You hold onto the pain because it’s all that’s left, and what’s the point in writing it away when it’s the one thing that keeps it alive? Sad people make me sad, but happy people don't make me happy.

You playing the piano, sipping your espresso

And the smell of your tobacco, on me while i talk Van Gogh

I forvever shall be the primary keeper of our memories

One’s you’ve forgotten with such ease, i wear them like accessories

Nothing ever really leaves me, whether or not you agree. 

Remember our promises by the sea? 

Should have known there was no guarantee. 

Im still trying to calm the aching. Is this entertaining? 

There is a wound i cant stop picking. 

I know i’m not heather. But i have written too many letters. 

And it’s bad weather. The pressure is beyond measure.

 From me, life has taken more than its share, throwing me in eternal despair. 

(I got to know today that people actually read my blog.)

Why?

 ...

Not all prayers are answered, 

we don't always get what we want, 

good things don't always happen to those who wait, 

the universe doesn't always conspire to help us have what we want, no matter how hard we want it, 

Not everything happens for a reason, 

things don't always go as planned,

 you don't always get what you give, 

ways don't always show up even if you have the will, 

everything that happens may not always be for the good, 

and it's not always the good people who die first.

...

“God must be doing cocaine” plays on my Spotify.

“ ..can anyone really blame him? He probably needs an escape…”

I stayed

 

While my head lay still upon your chest,

I knew, for once, what it meant to rest.

I was home

not a place, but a heartbeat,

not a room, but your breath beneath me.

You said you cared

but not for long.

And I, naive, believed the song.

We traded silence, pulse for pulse,

and in that hush, I lost my pulse.

One glance into your searching eyes

a sunrise I’d dreamt in other lives.

You asked for trust, and so I gave

the heart I swore I’d always save.

I placed it, bare, into your hands

like a prayer the soul misunderstands.

You smelled like oceans, pine, and fire

the kind of scent that stirs desire.

You drove at night with windows low,

and twice, you cooked

You were warmth after a ruthless storm,

a place where grief forgot its form.

You said, "Everyone I love, they leave."

So I stayed, hoping you'd believe.

Maybe I just needed to be needed.

To prove that pain could be unseated.

(I liked your hands)

But did it mean nothing?

Are you running now, again,

hiding in that hollow den

while I bleed through every then?

If you wanted to leave,

you could’ve just said.

I wouldn’t have clung while I slowly bled.

I asked you to bleed onto me too

but maybe only iron and sweat

are worthy of your truth.

I tell myself you were a dream,

but you echo in every in-between

each breath, each street, each midnight ache,

a ghost I never meant to wake.

(Did you ever really care at all?)

You were never mine to claim,

and maybe that's my quiet shame.

Still, they told me:

"Write when the wound is wide."

So I chose ink—

not pills, not pride.

Will I ever stop conjuring you

in poems, in dusk, in shades of blue?

At least I stayed—

even when it hurt to hold.

Even as my palms went cold.

Even when my soul said go,

I waited—

for a sign,

for a no,

for something.

But I didn’t want to leave.

Not yet.

Not while love still clung

to your silhouette.

 

The Echo I Named You

I hope one day you realize

you were the first to break me clean,

not with rage, but with retreat

and no one else will ever do it

with such quiet precision.

I never handed this power

to fickle boys with borrowed hearts.

Only you were given the fragile pulse

I guarded too long,

beating too loudly for its own skin.

You were the mirror of all

I’d never become

flawless in your stillness,

while I spilled,

too loud, too much,

never enough.

You were easy to adore,

impossible to hold,

and I still choke on the truth

what we had has fossilized,

a relic in a corner of memory,

gathering dust

where love once lived.

It’s a lump I can’t swallow,

nor spit from my throat.

And sometimes I wish you'd say it

say I mean nothing,

just so I could begin

a lifetime of learning to hate you.

I repeat—learning

because I never could.

You’ve already threaded yourself

through the veins of my memory.

Stitched between breaths,

haunting every quiet.

Let me remind you,

in case you forgot

life is a cruel sculptor,

and I was clay in your hands.

You never saw me.

You saw the echo of dreams

you wished I could become.

But never me

the raw, trembling girl

who kept loving you

in secret, in storm.

You mastered the art

of giving just enough

breadcrumbs of affection

to keep me starved

and tethered.

You made me feel

unlovable,

when really,

you simply didn’t want

to love me.

You gave me drought

and made me forget

I was the sea.

I wondered,

had you ever been loved

as a child?

Or did it drown you, too?

Your smile—rare,

and never for me

hid stories I was never meant

to know.

A mystery,

never solved.

You punished me

with silences sharp as glass,

with looks that struck

like verdicts,

as if love was a crime

I kept committing,

knowing the sentence.

You gave me secrets,

and I grew my hair long

to veil the ones I carried.

You gave me wounds,

and I wore them like heirlooms

shining in places

you never looked.

Still,

I always wondered

what scars did you hide

beneath that practiced stillness?