You’re not chasing me to climb to new heights.
You’re dragging me down to the depths you inhabit.

You name me savior to your victim,
but I’m just a witness
to your crimes against yourself.

Did I hurt you?
No.
That’s you pinning the blame on me
when you’re the culprit.

I’m moving on—
and you’re angry you’re being left behind.

It’s not hard to leave someone
who refuses to move.

Yet it seems your legs work best
when running from accountability.

Perhaps your time would be better spent
solving your own problems
instead of chasing your next carrier.

Use your own two feet.
I’m not a ride meant for sharing.

And honestly, jealousy is not a color you wear well.
Don’t sully others with your incompetence.

The price of validation
was another burden tossed
into an already overflowing bucket.

What I thought was finally
an understanding colleague,
was really another culprit.

Visibility in vain.
Validated then victimized.
Verity as vituperation.

A fellow victim?
No,
a famished vampire.

A ruthless predator
wrapped in a pleasant pretense.

There is beauty
in burning
in fire.

Yet in that beauty,
behind that bright blaze
is a pain that must be felt.

A pain that fuels that beauty.
A phoenix born from ash.
A death before rebirth.

My favorite stories end
with a hero who saves the day

Be it a damsel in distress
Be it the misunderstood.

A character arc,
A happy ending

But its just a story
stuck on physical page
chained by its medium.  

The End.

And life rushes in again.

At curtain close,
the applause fades,
the lights dim
and shadows reclaim the stage.

A painted smile drops,
no longer a character,
just a person wearing a costume
reality knocks with every layer shed.

You're just an actor,
on this stage of li(v)es
playing a script,
bending illusion as truth.

At curtain close,
a delusion ends and
life begins.

But following directions
is easier
than the burden of will.

We’re all just trying to live in this world.
You began surrounded by so much callousness.

Life has been rough on you—
so you’ve run, you’ve hidden.

But when you spend too long in others’ shadows,
under the illusion of sunlight
borrowed from the dissipating heat of those beside you,

you forget a warmth unborrowed
that envelops your whole body—
the sun’s true embrace.

It may be uncomfortable, standing alone.
Some days, you’ll feel the downpour of the elements,
and you’ll weather them on your own.

But once you know a pain, a sorrow, a joy, a laughter
that belongs only to you,

it’s an amaranthine feeling.

A back pain not from age.
A back pain not from posture.
A pain with no physical cause.
A pain born from the weight of others —
burdens that were never mine.
I am not your resting place.
I am not your guide.
Before my back breaks,
I choose to unload.
I’ve been walking slow enough.
It’s time I fly.