Humans search for truth,
even when it breaks them.

For a broken heart
is still better than an empty one—

for the cracks carved by truth
are always shallower
than the void born from silence.

That is why rejection,
however cruel it may seem,
is kinder than silence.

Rejection allows a man to bleed.
It grants him the dignity of pain—
the freedom to let sorrow spill—
onto the ground,
onto paper,
into tears.

But silence denies him even that mercy.

In silence, the soul clings
to the faintest flicker of hope.

Uncertainty does not wound—
it lingers.

It shapes illusions from nothing,
and each time the heart reaches for them,
it is cut—

never deep enough
to end the suffering,
only enough
to begin it again.

Truth liberates.

But uncertainty binds—
with threads so soft
they feel like hope,
yet strong enough
to hold a soul in place.

Rejection lets him fall—

lets him strike the earth,
break beneath the truth,
and gather
what remains of himself.

But silence leaves him
suspended between earth and sky—

neither allowed
to fall and heal,

nor to rise
toward what he longs for.

So—
end this quiet cruelty
with a truth sharp enough
to sever hope.

Let me bleed.
Let me write what remains of you within me.

My blood will clot into your name—

not to curse it,
nor to stain the colour of your eyes,

but to preserve you
in words
even a lifetime cannot erode.

And perhaps, one day,
these words will leave others envious
of a tragedy they never lived—

yearning for a single glimpse of you,
though to them
you could only ever remain
an imagined ache.

But you—

you would have been real in mine.

So end this silence—

for it can belong only
to indifference,

or to a heart unaware
of the quiet power
it holds over another.

Unaware of how deeply
he has become entangled
in the strands of her hair;

how he envies
even the smallest speck of dust
that dares to rest upon her lashes—

closer than he has ever been
to the place
where he longs to disappear.

A place where he would remain,
willingly imprisoned
for eternity—

within her eyes.

A fate so beautiful,
so tragic,
that even the gods
have never known it.

For her eyes
are the only mirror
in which he has ever loved
his own reflection.

~Writer’s Note: I have always wondered which is crueler—a painful answer, or no answer at all.

Rejection breaks something, but at least it gives the broken pieces somewhere to fall. Silence leaves them suspended, held together by that smallest and perhaps cruelest thing: maybe.

This poem was born from that thought—the strange mercy of being given a truth painful enough to finally grieve, rather than a hope too uncertain to ever let go of.

And perhaps that is all rejection really offers:

not freedom from pain,

but permission
to begin healing.

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You turned me into a monster.
Then blamed me
for being born that way.
But I wasn’t born a monster.
You made me one.
You took a child
and tore him apart,
piece by piece,
over,
and over,
and over,
until there was barely anything
left to tear.
You looked at me
and didn’t see a child.
You saw something
that could be broken.
Something you could
rip apart
and rebuild
however you wanted.
You told me
I was nothing.
Worthless.
Never enough.
Never meant to be.
And I believed you.
I carried your words
inside my head
until they stopped
sounding like yours.
They became mine.
Now sometimes
I hear them again.
That voice telling me
I’m worthless.
That voice telling me
I’ll never change.
That voice telling me
that no matter how hard
I try,
I’ll always be
what you made me.
I want to rip those words
out of my mind.
I want to claw them
from my thoughts,
tear them from
every corner
of my memory,
and leave them
somewhere in the past
where they belong.
But I can’t erase you.
You’re my mother.
No matter how far
I run from what happened,
you are still a part
of my history.
A name written
into the pages
of my childhood.
And I hate that.
I hate that someone
who hurt me so deeply
will always be connected
to the person I became.
But maybe
I don’t have to erase you.
Maybe I just have to
stop letting you
write the rest of my story.
So I tell myself:
I am someone.
I am worth something.
I was meant to be here.
I deserve to exist.
I deserve to be loved.
I deserve to be more
than the things
you called me.
And God,
it’s hard.
It’s hard to look
into the mirror
and not see
the person you created.
Hard to look at my body
and hear your voice
telling me it isn’t enough.
Hard to try to change,
to work,
to become healthier,
while that old voice
whispers that I’ll never
be different.
But I’m trying.
I keep trying.
Because maybe healing
isn’t erasing the scars.
Maybe it’s learning
to look at them
and understand
they aren’t proof
that you were right.
They’re proof
that I survived
what you did.
The scars may take years
to fade.
Some may never disappear
completely.
But they’re mine now.
Not yours.
And slowly,
day by day,
I’m taking back
the pieces of myself
you convinced me
didn’t deserve to exist.
The anger.
The fear.
The child.
The body.
The voice.
The life.
All of it.
You may have had
a hand in creating
the monster I became,
but you don’t get
to decide
what comes next.
Because I’m learning
something you never taught me:
I am not what happened to me.
I am not what you called me.
I am not the monster
you made.
I am the person
who survived you.
And now,
I’m learning
how to become
someone you never imagined
I could be.

When grand expecctations collapse it is not merely the illusion that falls ; it is the heart’s entire sense of peace that collapses with it leaving behind that cold void that resembles the shock of bewilderment
For a long time I always believed in that old.school kind of love
a love that felt like a safe haven pure of exploitation stripped of possessive motives and devoid of psychological or emotional harm I believed in a love that could exist without hidden agendas without the need to consume possess or wound
But today, amidst this contemporary ruin I find myself wrestling with the most bitter question

“Does love truly exist? “

Or was I merely projecting the purity of my own soul onto a world that sees in hearts nothing more than spoils to be plundered?
What unsettles me most is not simply the possibility that love may not exist but the realization that perhaps I have been believing in something that only ever existed within me Perhaps the tenderness, sincerity and purity I thought I was recognizing in others were merely reflections of what I carried within myself
And now I am left with this strange emptiness the feeling of having lost something I cannot even prove was ever real I cannot tell whether I am grieving the loss of love itself or the version of it I had constructed in my mind and trusted for so long
Trying to understand it again does not feel like healing It feels like standing in the ruins of something I once considered sacred staring at what remains and wondering whether there was ever anything there at all

What is true,

and what is simply something beautiful to say?

When someone says,

“Trust me, I’m here,”

my heart almost believes them.

Almost.

And then fear quietly asks,

“But what if this one leaves too?”

He said,

“We’re right for each other.

I’m here.

I’ll take care of you.

We’ll build our future together.

You’ll never have to feel like you’re lacking anything.”

It felt good to hear.

Too good.

Good enough for a few moments

to make me wonder;

what if this could actually be true?

And then the fear came back.

How do I believe

that the person beside me today

will still be here tomorrow?

How do I know

that this story, too,

won’t end halfway?

Am I too caught up

inside my own head?

Or has the fear inside me

simply learned to ask

how everything ends

before it lets me enjoy

how it begins?

Perhaps we believe

that trust and fear cannot exist together.

And when a person chooses

one over the other,

perhaps they end up

destroying themselves

in some way.

Choose trust,

and you begin to believe

that the person in front of you

could never break it.

And if they do,

trust rarely dies all at once.

It simply teaches you,

little by little,

to forget

how to trust again.

And choose fear,

and love never really gets

a chance to win.

Every hand reaching for you

feels temporary.

Every promise carries

the sound of its own breaking.

Every happiness

already has a goodbye

waiting behind it.

And eventually,

you become so tangled

within yourself

that you mistake

your own fear

for fate.

Maybe the answer

was never to choose

between the two.

Maybe there is a road somewhere

in between;

where fear exists,

but you learn

to quiet it yourself.

Where trust exists,

but not blindly.

Where every day

you place one small brick

of trust,

and slowly,

you build a home.

Knowing all along

that a home can break.

And still choosing

to live in it today.

Can it be done?

I don't know.

Right now,

it just sounds like

the right thing to believe.

He says

he'll bring me the moon and stars.

And I think;

I won't ask for the moon.

I won't ask for the stars.

Just stay

for as long as

staying is possible.

But what is the truth?

His words?

Or the little happiness

those words gave me

for a few moments?

Who tells us

whether promises are real

or simply beautiful?

Perhaps no one.

Perhaps time does.

Perhaps it isn't his words

that will tell me.

Perhaps it will be

the way he chooses to stay.

And today?

Today, my answer is still no.

Not to him.

To my fear.

Today, once again,

I chose to protect myself

before I chose love. 🙂

There’s still a dent in the passenger seat that I forget to look at.

Not yours, exactly. Just the shape of somebody who used to sit there with their knees pulled up, stealing the heat from the vent and complaining about whatever I put on. You hated anything with too much singing in it. You called it trying too hard, which was rich, considering how you used to sing in the kitchen when you thought no one was listening.

I found one of your hair ties under the couch last week. The cheap black kind that always snapped after a month. I picked it up and stood there holding it for probably a full minute.

For a second I thought about giving it back.

Then I remembered.

I still don't know what to do with that sentence.

Nothing happened when I remembered. The refrigerator kept humming. Someone outside was dragging a trash bin down the sidewalk, stopping every few feet because the wheel kept catching on something. I watched them for a minute, I think.

My phone lit up with some stupid notification about a package I don't remember ordering.

I checked it anyway.

It wasn't you.

I don't know why I still do that.

I thought, for a while, that death would change the scale of things. That ordinary life would feel disrespectful somehow.

It doesn't.

Your birthday still comes around. Your favorite song still comes on in grocery stores, and I still have the same stupid reaction when it does. I hear the first few seconds and think, oh, you'd like this, before remembering that you already did. And that you're not here to hear it again.

Sometimes I hear somebody laughing through an open window and turn around too fast.

Sometimes I see something stupid and think, I have to tell you this.

A band we used to see is playing here again. I thought, oh, we should go to that.

Someone at work saying something you would have made fun of.

I keep collecting these tiny things without really meaning to.

There are still things of yours around the apartment. A receipt. A hair tie. One of those plastic clips you used to close bags of cereal.

I don't know why I kept the clip. It isn't sentimental. You'd probably laugh at me for keeping it.

I almost threw it away last week.
Then I put it back in the drawer.
I forgot about it after that.

That's the part nobody really tells you, I guess. The world doesn't stop being ordinary just because someone is gone. The upstairs neighbor still drops something heavy at eleven every night. The sink still drips. I still catch myself buying the cereal you liked even though I don't really like it that much.

Your phone doesn't buzz anymore.

Mine does.

You stand in the kitchen trying to remember why you opened the fridge in the first place.

And sometimes you remember.
Sometimes you don't.

I think I expected losing you to make everything quieter.
Instead, everything keeps making noise.

And I still catch myself turning around to tell you something.

Fuck, I miss my friend.

Jah guide.
Jah protect.
Bless up.
One love.
Irie.
Blessed love.
Jah bless.
Keep it irie.
Walk good.
Stay blessed.
Jah know.
Give thanks.
Blessings.
Forward ever, backward never.
Rise and shine.
Stand firm in Jah.
Hold the faith.
Keep the fire burning.
Move with the times.
Step by step.
One step at a time.
Press on.
Keep pushing.
Never give up.
Jah is my strength.
I and I.
Overstanding.
Livity.
Chant down Babylon.
Burn down Babylon.
Trod on.
Trod light.
Trod steady.
Trod forward.
Keep the faith.
Jah will provide.
Jah will guide.
Jah will protect.
Bless and keep.
Peace and love.
Truth and rights.
Natural mystic.
Roots and culture.
Dread and alive.
Irie ites.
High grade.
Blessed ites.
Jah ites.
One heart.
One mind.
One spirit.

-

Jah spirit.
Divine spirit.
Holy spirit.
Jah holy.
Jah divine.
Jah power.
Jah love.
Jah light.
Jah truth.
Jah right.
Jah way.
Jah path.
Jah road.
Jah journey.
Jah life.
Jah livity.
Jah overstanding.
Jah wisdom.
Jah knowledge.
Jah understanding.
Jah peace.
Jah harmony.
Jah balance.
Jah unity.
Jah oneness.
Jah togetherness.
Jah family.
Jah community.
Jah nation.
Jah people.
Jah children.
Jah sons.
Jah daughters.
Jah brothers.
Jah sisters.
Jah friends.
Jah allies.
Jah warriors.
Jah soldiers.
Jah fighters.
Jah defenders.
Jah protectors.
Jah guardians.
Jah keepers.
Jah watchers.
Jah seers.
Jah prophets.
Jah messengers.
Jah angels.
Jah saints.
Jah holy ones.
Jah chosen.
Jah elect.
Jah beloved.
Jah blessed.
Jah anointed.
Jah crowned.
Jah exalted.
Jah lifted.
Jah raised.
Jah risen.
Jah ascended.
Jah glorified.
Jah honored.
Jah praised.
Jah worshipped.
Jah revered.
Jah respected.
Jah loved.
Jah cherished.
Jah treasured.
Jah valued.
Jah appreciated.
Jah thanked.
Jah guided.
Jah protected.
Jah provided.
Jah sustained.
Jah strengthened.
Jah empowered.
Jah enlightened.
Jah awakened.
Jah revived.
Jah renewed.
Jah refreshed.
Jah restored.
Jah healed.
Jah delivered.
Jah redeemed.
Jah saved.
Jah freed.
Jah liberated.
Jah emancipated.
Jah released.
Jah unbound.
Jah unchained.
Jah unshackled.
Jah unburdened.
Jah unyoked.
Jah unbowed.
Jah unbroken.
Jah unbeaten.
Jah undefeated.
Jah victorious.
Jah triumphant.
Jah conquering.
Jah overcoming.
Jah prevailing.
Jah succeeding.
Jah prospering.
Jah flourishing.
Jah thriving.
Jah blooming.
Jah growing.
Jah developing.
Jah evolving.
Jah progressing.
Jah advancing.
Jah moving.
Jah stepping.
Jah walking.
Jah trodding.
Jah journeying.
Jah traveling.
Jah roaming.
Jah wandering.
Jah exploring.
Jah discovering.
Jah learning.
Jah knowing.
Jah understanding.
Jah overstanding.
Jah comprehending.
Jah grasping.
Jah seeing.
Jah perceiving.
Jah discerning.
Jah judging.
Jah deciding.
Jah choosing.
Jah selecting.
Jah picking.
Jah taking.
Jah receiving.
Jah accepting.
Jah embracing.
Jah welcoming.
Jah greeting.
Jah saluting.
Jah honoring.
Jah respecting.
Jah revering.
Jah worshipping.
Jah praising.
Jah glorifying.
Jah exalting.
Jah lifting.
Jah raising.
Jah elevating.
Jah ascending.
Jah climbing.
Jah mounting.
Jah soaring.
Jah flying.
Jah floating.
Jah drifting.
Jah sailing.
Jah navigating.
Jah steering.
Jah guiding.
Jah directing.
Jah leading.
Jah showing.
Jah teaching.
Jah instructing.
Jah training.
Jah educating.
Jah enlightening.
Jah illuminating.
Jah brightening.
Jah shining.
Jah glowing.
Jah radiating.
Jah beaming.
Jah blazing.
Jah burning.
Jah flaming.
Jah firing.
Jah sparking.
Jah igniting.
Jah kindling.
Jah fueling.
Jah powering.
Jah energizing.
Jah vitalizing.
Jah animating.
Jah quickening.
Jah reviving.
Jah renewing.
Jah refreshing.
Jah restoring.
Jah healing.
Jah curing.

-

Jah mending.
Jah fixing.
Jah repairing.
Jah rebuilding.
Jah reconstructing.
Jah recreating.
Jah regenerating.
Jah rejuvenating.
Jah reinvigorating.
Jah revitalizing.
Jah reenergizing.
Jah repowering.
Jah refueling.
Jah rekindling.
Jah reigniting.
Jah resparking.
Jah refiring.
Jah reflaming.
Jah reburning.
Jah reblazing.
Jah rebeaming.
Jah reglowing.
Jah reshining.
Jah rebrightening.
Jah reilluminating.
Jah reenlightening.
Jah reeducating.
Jah reinstructing.
Jah reteaching.
Jah reshowing.
Jah releading.
Jah redirecting.
Jah reguiding.
Jah resteering.
Jah renavigating.
Jah resailing.
Jah redrifting.
Jah refloating.
Jah reflying.
Jah resoaring.
Jah remounting.
Jah reclimbing.
Jah reascending.
Jah reelevating.
Jah relifting.
Jah reraising.
Jah reexalting.
Jah reglorifying.
Jah repraising.
Jah reworshipping.
Jah rerevering.
Jah rehonoring.
Jah resaluting.
Jah regreeting.
Jah rewelcoming.
Jah reembracing.
Jah reaccepting.
Jah rereceiving.
Jah retaking.
Jah repicking.
Jah reselecting.
Jah rechoosing.
Jah redeciding.
Jah rejudging.
Jah rediscerning.
Jah reperceiving.
Jah reseeing.
Jah reoverstanding.
Jah reunderstanding.
Jah reknowing.
Jah relearning.
Jah rediscovering.
Jah reexploring.
Jah rewandering.

-

Jah is present in every breath.
Jah is the work that never ends.
Jah is the light that keeps returning.
Jah is the overstanding that deepens.
Jah is the embrace that receives again.

One love.
Irie.
Jah bless.
Forward ever.

A litany of praise, presence, and continued renewal.
-P

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/sksgVJTHqj

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/Ouby3AvjNh

Beneath the willow tree, someone cries.

Her skin, weathered and streaked with tears.

„Tell me, why do you cry?“, I ask the woman.

Sitting down next to the hunched figure, I listen to the fine branches of the willow bristling in the wind.

„I listen to the trees and the earth telling their stories. How could you not weep?

The old woman turns to me. Her eyes colorless, yet drowning in emotions.

I don’t find my answer quickly, torn between leaving and wondering if she’s mad.

 „I don’t hear it.“

The old woman’s wrinkled lips lift into a wistful smile.

„Listen closely and you will be told what could have been.“

I hear birds singing a mournful melody over the wind and the distant surge of waves lapping against the shore of Pine Lake. I try to grasp meaning in those sounds, but I find none.

„Do you want me to tell you the stories nature reads?“, the old woman asks.

I nodd and she clears her throat as I lean back against the dry bark of the willow tree.

„Nature tells of what could have been. She doesn’t speak in words. Feelings are the true language of her story.

She shows the pain in the eyes of all her dying creations. She shows how the tides of dark oceans turn and the brutality in each drowning death. She shows the beauty of the rainforest’s emerald core and how it is burned to ruins. She shows a mother’s love and how nobody seems to care.

It is beautiful, really. To see everything that could have been.“

She takes my hand in her palm with a firm grip, her skin parchment thin. As I look into her eyes I begin to understand.

So we sit there, weeping under the willow. Not just for what was lost, but for everything that could have been.

 

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If happiness is lonliness

Why are we always clinging on

She made an art form of holding on

To

people she couldnt keep

Testing fate

Losing her way time and time again

If only there was a time

if only there was a place

Where love stays and

people dont fade away

Homes lost and hearts broken

Life rebuilt and roots replanted

Beginning again even when we lost all the love we spent

Coming back to herself even if she has to keep her own tent

Wasn't that the way they said

You cant stay where theres food no longer served

Your trauma a home for rebirth

The sharp stones he threw

Paved a way to your truth

Not much else to do

When you came back from that-

you make this life worth it

Theres no turning back

My bleeding heart finally

A queen with her own throne

Dont step to close

Or she may have to simply

Leave you all alone

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.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul," but how strange that everyone looks into my eyes and no one has found what I hide behind them. Perhaps sadness isn't always reflected in the eyes.

I can show you love.

Yes, I am able to.

I can also show you anger—

volatility, vengeance, unreliability.

But if I were to love you?

Oh babe, what a treacherous web you’d find yourself in.

I’d kill for you—probably.

Would you find that romantic or manic?

I can reason why you could go either way.

My romance is a little more exotic than what decorum has been trained to expect.

Careful, darling—

Who can say I wouldn’t wound you?

I miss it when I had the agency of offering such guarantees.

I don’t come with a warranty anymore.

You’re at your own risk; but I promise you: heaven will never have felt closer—

neither will hell.

I miss my impulsivity—because it was genuine.

It was childish, reckless and feverish.

It had the featherlight touch of an angel and the scorching pressure of a fallen one.

Hey honey, look me dead in the eye 

and tell me I don’t scare you.

Say you see the innocence you once did 

and not only darkness and dullness reminiscent.

Can you?

I don’t think you can.

And I don’t blame you.

‘Cause I’d rather say that neither do I.

Whatever has come up since has a price—but it’s a shield.

I’ll hurt you before you can hurt me.

I won’t bite but I’ll bark rough and loud enough just to scare you away.

I’ve once been called a puppy

who wants nothing but a safe place where I can lay my head and have you stroke my hair till all my demons are drowned out—for a moment.

“I want you to feel a hint of what I felt—or tenfold it. You hurt me and that’s your power over me. And it scares me.”

That’s my vengeance—and my pride.

Both also have cost me a lot 

but the satisfaction is inebriant.

I never minded being “the bad one”

but I hate I’ve lost control over my own narrative.

I used to put honesty above all else.

My moral was impeccable—

but what the hell has gone wrong?

When did I lose agency over myself?

A greater tragedy? I’ve never witnessed.

If you still want to know me, tell me:

What can I do for you? 

I’ll cover the ground in red roses just so you can step over each and every one of them.

I’ve been told I have excellence in making others feel like they’re the center of my world.

I’ll never leave you bored nor be bromidic.

I’ll make you feel like you’re the only one.

Part of it… won’t be deceiving.

Part of it… is cynical and selfish.

You’ll leave with psychological bruises.

You’ll also leave understanding what it is like to feel loved.

Is it a price you want to pay?

I can be charming.

I can be gentle.

I can sweep you off your feet.

But do you know what I cannot do?

Make it forever.

I can’t promise you it’ll last beyond tonight.

I can’t promise you I’ll be by your side.

I can’t promise you everything will be alright.

I might, though.

But—

if you ever come across this in time:

I ain’t worth yours…

nor your mental health.

— Crownless.

Inspiration doesn’t strike me when it comes to you.

All I can remember is an old so-called friend telling me I was dating someone who “looked like a model”.

You sure do.

We kind of shared the same type of insanity.

Intensity at an all-time high; jealously beyond the human mind.

It took me finding someone new so you’d finally admit I had the same effect on you that you had on me.

It was one late night—it was all it took.

Out of nowhere, you’d started speaking the truth.

The feelings flew both ways and that must’ve been one of the most exhilarating forms of reaching paradise.

“Where do you wish you were right now?”, somebody asked.

“With my head laying on top of a certain someone’s lap”, I answered.

You caught that.

You caught every single bait I threw at you.

You knew they were all about you.

The chemistry was instant.

“Best-friends” we’d agreed.

Those were your terms and I chose to submit.

Yes, there was somebody else.

Many somebody else’s.

The one I was trying to forget (but never would) and the one who saw a light in me they should never have—for I blackened it twice.

We were great as friends.

The friend I had a massive crush on; who’d pat my hair all day long and understand me like little to no one.

We were so alike… and that’s what killed us.

I always tell people you were my mirror.

You had all of my qualities and all of my flaws—but exceeding me in every and each category.

The morning I came to you, smiling and genuinely happy to lend you the news: “I’ve found someone”.

You definitely didn’t respond the way I expected.

You’d told me multiple times you felt nothing past a devoted friendship love.

Those were all lies.

“I don’t think I’m ready to share you”… What kind of friend says that?

You said you wanted to be alone—with me.

You said you didn’t know what to do with my kiss on your neck—

I had never done that.

Oh, babe… I’ve always been slow.

It took me forever to figure out what you meant.

It was a song!

“It's not like me to be so mean, you're all I wanted

Just let me hold you

Like a hostage”.

Songs used to be in my arsenal.

I didn’t know they were in yours too.

And then, you let me in inside your mind…

Fantasies and confessions that’d make me blush to this day.

Can’t believe I made you become friends with my ex and you’d both laugh about me getting drunk and falling off my bed.

While you were making me aware…

While there was yet another person in my bed.

But you were in my head.

In my heart.

On my mind.

And what should’ve been “only one night” became more than it ever should have.

“Just for tonight”, I petitioned.

“Let’s be honest just for the rest of the night. No one else exists and by the morning… neither will have this”.

Guilty as hell: I knew I couldn’t stop myself.

And wouldn’t.

And didn’t want to.

If I were a psycho, you were heartless.

Karma would always find us.

It found me first.

You were jealous of that friend…

I swore to you that was nothing.

Was I attracted? Yes.

Was it an actual threat to you? No.

They’d go on to become my next—HA.

Make of that what you will but you weren’t exempt from guilt either.

Again, we were so similar.

Fragile egos that craved the chase, the attention, the heat, the game.

You’d hold knives and say obscure things.

And then, you’d have me crawling back to you ‘cause well… how could I not?

A passion of that level? Haven’t encountered one since.

Pretty, pretty…

You’re danger.

We were never meant to be.

But me guessing your name meant “little star”?

That’s what I call destiny.

— Crownless.

I always knew
right before it happened.

There was a light behind your eyes,
and suddenly,
it would turn off.

Like the person I loved
was still standing in front of me,
but somehow
you weren’t there anymore.

And I knew.

I knew what was coming
before you ever touched me.

Then I grabbed the hammer.

Not because I wanted to hurt you.
Because I was terrified.
Because I needed you to stop.
Because I thought maybe this time
you would finally understand
that I was afraid of you.

And suddenly,
the light came back on.

Your arms waving frantically.
Your voice pleading,
“I’m sorry.”

And me telling you
that you needed to stop.

Me believing, again,
that maybe this would be
the last time.

But your apologies
never changed what happened to me.

They never erased the fear.
They never taught my body
that it was safe again.

Because every time
I watched that light
behind your eyes disappear,
I learned to prepare myself
for the person I loved
to become someone
I needed protection from.

And I never want
to live like that again.

I never want to study
the eyes of someone who loves me
looking for the moment
the light disappears.

I never want to wonder
how close the nearest door is,
what I could grab,
or whether this time
“I’m sorry”
will actually mean
it won’t happen again.

I never want
to protect myself
from a man
who is supposed to make me feel safe.

Never again.

To all who find meaning in small things — the ones who pause for a trembling leaf, who feel the hush inside a sunbeam, who notice the quiet kindnesses that slip past the rest of the world — I’ve come to understand something about you, about us.

Those who see beauty in small things often forget to see themselves. We praise the moment, the detail, the shimmer of the ordinary, but overlook the one who noticed it. As if our own eyes were unworthy of the wonder they carry.

But the truth is simple and strange: what we notice is a reflection of who we are.

An artist finds art everywhere because art is already alive inside them. A kind person sees kindness in others because kindness is the language of their own heart. A poet finds meaning in the ordinary because meaning is the lens through which they breathe.

To see beauty in small things is not just perception — it is self‑revelation. A quiet confession of the soul’s shape.

And yes, the same applies to ugliness.

Those who sense the faintest tremor of cruelty, who feel the shadow in a single word, who notice the fracture before it breaks — they are not ugly. They are remembering.

They are carrying the imprint of wounds survived, the echo of dangers once faced, the patterns learned in the dark.

Beauty reveals our capacity for wonder. Ugliness reveals our history of harm. Both are true. Both are human. Both are reflections of the same deep sensitivity — the same instrument tuned to the world’s smallest frequencies.

So perhaps the task is this: to honour the beauty we see, to understand the ugliness we sense, and to finally, gently, recognize ourselves in both.

​

I think I have my answer

I asked the universe, and I think it answered.

I've spent a lot of time trying to find the right words for what you have become to me.

I don't think there are any.

I love you.

Not in the easy way we sometimes use those words when we're caught up in a moment. Not because I'm lonely, or unhappy, or because you've become an escape from a life that doesn't feel like mine anymore.

I love you because somewhere along the way, without either of us really deciding it would happen, you became part of the way I see the world.

You became a presence in my days.

A name I look for.

A voice I listen for.

A little piece of happiness I didn't know I was waiting for.

We've never even stood beside one another. We've never shared a room or reached across a table or felt the warmth of one another's hand.

And somehow, I know you.

At least the pieces you've trusted me enough to show.

The photographs. The stories. The ridiculous little things that made you laugh. The things you thought I'd find interesting. The quiet moments tucked between everything else.

I've fallen in love with those pieces.

And then there is the woman behind them.

You are, quite honestly, breathtaking.

But the strange thing is, I loved you before I knew what you looked like. Your face didn't create what I feel for you.

It simply gave the feeling somewhere beautiful to look.

And I love the imperfections, too.

Maybe especially those.

The little things you might wish were different about yourself are sometimes the very things that make you more beautiful to me. I don't want some perfected version of you. I don't want an ideal.

I want you.

Exactly as you are.

And your voice...

I don't know if you realize what you've done to me with that voice.

It has become my favorite sound.

There are moments when I listen to one of your messages more than once—not because I didn't hear what you said, but because I wanted to hear you again.

Your messages have become little bright spots in my days. Sometimes they're funny. Sometimes they're thoughtful. Sometimes they're nothing particularly important at all.

And somehow, they're still important to me.

Because they're yours.

That's what frightens me a little.

How easily you have become woven into me.

I can't imagine my life now without wondering what you'd think of something, without wanting to tell you something that happened, without seeing something and thinking, she would appreciate this.

I don't want to pretend that isn't true.

But I also don't want my love for you to become something heavy.

Because I know our lives are complicated.

I know yours is complicated.

Mine certainly is.

And I've asked the universe what I'm supposed to do with all of this.

I think maybe the answer is not that I have to stop loving you.

Maybe the answer is that I have to learn how to love you without trying to possess the future.

That's harder than I expected.

Because I can see the life we both seem to want.

Something simple.

Something quiet.

A life where being loved isn't complicated. Where two people can come home to one another and feel, finally, that they are where they belong.

I can see it so clearly sometimes that it almost feels like remembering something that hasn't happened yet.

And God, I would love that life with you.

I would choose it.

I would fight for it.

But I can't ask you to build it for me.

That's the line I keep coming back to.

Not because I doubt you.

I don't.

You're stronger and more capable than you probably give yourself credit for.

And not because I think you couldn't love me.

There are moments when I think you already do, even if neither of us has been brave enough to put that particular word between us.

I feel it in the way you care.

In the way you notice things.

In the tenderness that sometimes finds its way through your words.

I feel it.

And perhaps I'm wrong.

Perhaps some of what I feel is simply my heart filling in the spaces that distance leaves behind.

But if it is, it's still one of the most beautiful things I've ever felt.

What I don't want is for you to look at my life and decide that loving me means carrying it.

It doesn't.

Whatever burdens belong to me are mine.

Not yours.

You didn't create them, and you shouldn't have to inherit them simply because you happened to love the person carrying them.

That's why I'm trying to be restrained when every part of me wants to reach for you.

Because loving someone isn't only about how desperately you want them beside you.

Sometimes it's about wanting them to remain free enough to choose you.

I don't want to make your choices for you.

I don't want to tell you what your life should look like.

And I certainly don't want you to choose me because you think I need saving.

I want you to choose whatever makes your soul feel alive.

Even if that terrifies me.

Even if I have to learn how to live with wanting something I cannot control.

Because that's what this love has taught me.

That love can be enormous without being demanding.

It can be fierce without being possessive.

It can ask for nothing and still give everything.

So I'm not saying goodbye.

I'm not asking you for an answer.

I'm not asking you to promise me anything.

I'm just letting you see what has been living inside me.

I love you.

Purely.

Quietly.

More deeply than I know how to explain.

And maybe that's enough for tonight.

Maybe I don't need to know where this goes.

Maybe I don't need to solve tomorrow.

Maybe I can simply lie here for a while, close my eyes, and let myself be grateful that somehow, in this strange and impossibly complicated life, I found you.

I asked the universe for an answer.

Maybe the answer wasn't what I thought it would be.

Maybe it was simply this:

Love her.

And so I will.

Without demanding.

Without trying to own the outcome.

Without asking her to carry what belongs to me.

Just...

love her.

As completely as I know how.

And for tonight, that's enough