I’m almost twenty-six, and I’ve had a good life.
I’ve loved enough that it makes me cry,
And hurt enough to never say goodbye.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I’d do.
Without love, I’d build a life…
To know them is to worry
That they, too, will leave.
They all do in the end—
It’s only a matter of time.

Where do I put my will
To stitch the broken pieces still?
I’m here, standing,
Though the world inside my mind has died.

It’s easy to remember
How each memory went by.
No—
It’s the forgetting
That has haunted me to try.

We usually associate self-harm with physical pain. But perhaps it extends far beyond that.

Choosing a career even though you know you’re capable of more. Staying with a partner who reinforces the version of yourself you believe you deserve. Dismissing “small” mistakes while relentlessly blaming yourself for every inconvenience. Repeatedly feeding yourself things—physically or emotionally—that you know aren’t good for you.

I’m not saying that every bad decision is an act of self-harm. Rather, it’s the quiet, repeated abandonment of our own potential. It’s the subtle procrastination of becoming who we could be. It’s allowing others to hurt us because the pain feels familiar. It’s slipping back into patterns we already know will wound us.

I often wonder if these seemingly insignificant choices stem from a loss of control. Ironically, we begin to lose control the moment we silence our own instincts. Sometimes, the kindest thing we can do for ourselves is simply listen—to that persistent feeling in our gut, to what our nervous system is trying to communicate. Anxiety isn’t always telling the truth, but sometimes it’s pointing toward a truth we’ve been avoiding. Maybe the answer isn’t to keep fighting ourselves, but to become curious enough to listen.

Maybe the cruelest form of self-harm is not believing in yourself. Not trusting your own judgment. And perhaps it begins the moment you decide you’re unworthy of the life you’re capable of living.

but our stars collided somewhere higher—

in a sky that hadn’t opened for centuries.

The light was so violent,

it burned the sea.

It turned still water into wildfire.

We spoke in a language no one speaks anymore—

not with their mouths,

but with the ache in their bones.

I let you search my soul,

and I didn’t flinch.

I let you see all of it—

every wound still open,

every scar still warm.

You looked at me like it mattered.

And for a moment,

I believed I was worth that kind of looking.

We didn’t touch—

we inhaled the dust of our spirits.

Every word became poetry.

Every silence, a vow.

Our souls matched beat for beat

until I couldn’t tell

where I ended,

and where you began.

I didn’t fall in love, I remembered it.

Like I’d loved you a thousand times before

and would love you a thousand more.

They say when love reaches that kind of depth,

it starts to ask for blood.

And it did.

But we had none left.

We were both so tired—

cold in places the sun never reaches.

And love…

it didn’t hold us.

It devoured us.

Still—

it wouldn’t leave.

It haunts my body.

And I know it haunts yours too.

I only ever wanted to hold you.

Never to break you.

I wanted to be soft,

but I was jagged.

And you—

you bled so quietly,

I didn’t even hear it.

You want to wipe these tears,

but I can’t find your hands.

I can’t see you anymore.

Even though you’re still watching.

You’re ash now.

Burned by a love that asked too much.

And I’m here,

blind,

searching for the fire

that used to mean “home.”

And though I beg it to stay, it slips through my ribs like light through lace.

Sleep is no sanctuary. It becomes a meeting place— quiet, unchosen—

where my soul kneels beside his, as if it remembers a life I’ve never lived.

By morning, I wake alone, but not untouched.

He lingers in me like the last note of a song

I can’t forget how to hum.

I fear I’ve lost my hold on it.

It listens to him now— wild, loyal, drawn by something deeper than distance, older than time.

And still, he sends it back to me.

Not broken. Not bruised. Just quiet, like a secret tucked under my skin.

I hold it close, still warm from his hands.

But tell me— how does one live with a soul that keeps returning to someone who never wants it to stay?

striking, extraordinary, stunning.

But what makes it shine so bright?

Is it the darkness around it?

The sun lending it its light?

I’ve pondered these questions all my life.

But today, for the very first time,

I noticed the beauty of a plain sky—

boring, ordinary, overlooked.

And yet, I saw something in it:

a quiet strength

to remain simple,

to stay calm

despite the chaos all around.

And I thought to myself:

how extraordinary it must be

to have the strength

to be ordinary—

to stay the same,

yesterday and tomorrow,

to simply be

without changing to be loved.

I’m only watching —

the tree,

dancing to the rhythm

of something older than joy.

She moves not for beauty,

not for praise,

but because if she stands still,

she’ll break.

The birds gather in her branches

like memories that refuse to leave.

They fix her hair

with beaks like broken combs,

and laugh —

soft, brittle laughter

that sounds like trying not to cry.

I swear I saw them slip.

I swear I saw them fall,

and still,

they rose again,

teasing each other’s songs

like the world wasn’t ending.

Above her,

the sun pressed its hands through her tangled hair,

and golden light spilled over her shoulders

like a blessing she never asked for.

Like honey from a cracked jar,

it stuck to her skin,

and stayed.

Her branches — once delicate —

have hardened into grace.

Not strength.

Grace.

The kind that only comes

from breaking quietly

and blooming anyway.

And then —

she turned to me.

Not with eyes,

but with silence.

She knew I’d been watching.

And she let me listen.

Her song…

was sorrow.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just the slow, aching melody

of someone who has learned

to dance through the pain

because crying never stopped the sky from falling.

And I saw, then:

The birds weren’t fixing her hair.

They were wiping her tears

with tiny, trembling wings.

Drinking them,

because they knew the taste.

Crying with her,

because they remembered too.

The sun kept brushing her hair —

not to fix it,

but to honor the way it curled

when she broke.

To love it

the way storms do —

not in spite of the mess,

but because of it.

How life turned you old before your days,

how your heart grew softer instead of harder,

how your hands now tremble

more than they did when you were weaker.

I see how only you know your truth—

how its intensity comforts

and haunts you at the same time.

How your heart betrays you

by remembering what you wish it would forget,

while your body protects you

by shutting every door you long to open.

I see you, because I am you.

And only I know the battles you never named,

the silent wars you buried under your ribs,

the nights you didn’t scream

because you didn’t want to make noise

in a world full of cries.

You’re haunted—

I see that.

But you are not broken.

It’s an honor to live inside you,

even with the ghosts.

Because your ghosts

are gentler

than the world

outside you.

on the walls of my heart—

a test,

to see if it still beats.

It does.

Oh, it does.

Each throb is an echo,

a breath caught in the ache

of what you left behind.

Why does love find its pulse in pain?

Why does my heart bloom

only in absence?

You taught it to listen—

but only for your name.

And now,

I wear the weight of that lesson.

To love is a curse, sometimes,

and I—

I am deathly ill with it.

You stitched your soul to mine,

then disappeared,

leaving every seam split open.

Now, in the silence,

I hear myself scream.

When night whispers,

“How are you?”

I run out of lies.

The pretending collapses,

and all that’s left is truth.

How cruel,

to teach a heart how to beat,

only to make it beat

for you.

is not one I recognize—

a winding trail through sleeping woods,

where fallen leaves whisper promises

and roots hold secrets.

The fog lingers,

nestled between the trees like breath held in,

excited to see me,

yet too shy to come near.

The last time I walked a path home,

it was with you, my dear—

or so I thought.

Your hand was warm,

but your eyes wandered ahead,

always looking for a way out.

You spoke of forever

with a voice that cracked too easily.

And oh—how the path felt like home,

only because I wanted it to.

We never reached it.

You knew we wouldn’t, didn’t you?

You smiled anyway.

Now I see it—

the path to my home

was never meant for two.

It curves in solitude,

quiet and soft beneath my steps,

leading not to you,

but to me.

And the company waiting there—

gentle, hopeful…

is mine.

That shy company—

my own company.

I am home.

Vows, trust, and hearts.

Yet the walls stand,

Unshaken.

Your voice still lingers in my veins,

a rhythm I can’t unlearn.

Oh, to have a heart that beats—

and you, the pulse within.

I hear your echoes, your pleas, I do.

But my future no longer waits for you.

Oh, how the tables have turned,

Scattered among the wreckage on the floor.

Bare, you see,

There's nothing left for you to take.

The more I grew,

The more it hurt,

Our roots tightening, pulling, entwined.

Yet I beg you—

Stay with me,

Hold to me,

Like my scars.

But they’d shrink to mere numbers...

Drink the rain from silver jars,

Yet leave the clouds to hunger…

I wish to bend, to break for you,

But then, would I be me?

Perhaps it’s wrong—perhaps it’s true,

Yet still, please let me be.

I long to lose this weary mind,

For I have been too sane.

So let me chase the endless sky,

Dance with storms,

And never ask why.

Yet birds will vanish into the night.

Leave the window open, and see,

How the wind whispers secrets beneath.

The moon will rise somewhere in the sky,

Casting shadows, or perhaps, light?

Close your eyes, dissolve in time,

Who knows what your heart might find.

Promise me, you won’t go blind,

Not while the moon endures

Not until its lovers die.