I am but punctuation to your wonder,
though not the important kind.
the optional kind.
the forgotten kind.

𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙚, there’s no female that’ll take control of me.
**** her then I’ll leave her, that’s how it’ll always be.
I’m not one to deal with emotions and heartbreak,
because love will never be one of my priorities.

it sounds ****** up in your head, but that’s how it is in mine,
no remorse for you females, no care for crossing lines.
if you don’t give me what I want, I’m not wasting time
because right when I bust, 𝙤𝙣 𝙜𝙤𝙙, I’m hitting another line.

that’s 𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧, I promise I’ll leave you when I do,
after a while I’d probably forget about you.

I manipulate again and again, and the sad part is I don’t care
and it isn’t fair, but I don’t care.

It’s your fault for trusting me anyways.
I’ve seen the end from the beginning since the first play
like a game plan, which is all you were to me.
All I had to do was say “𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮” and “𝘽𝙖𝙗𝙮 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚?”

I made you listen to my words and made you fall in love
making sure that the words you were saying back weren’t enough
until you moaned my name on a video and took your clothes off
sent the picture, released satisfaction and took a screenshot.

A **** boy,
A 𝘾𝙖𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙖.

I’m sorry that I acted like I cared,
when I didn’t.
I wanted love,
I was selfish and unfair.
When I was broken,
had to run,
although I would never know where.
I was scared
so, I killed...
It was stupid,
but that’s where my mind really was.
It was dumb,
there was only once where I deeply fell in love.

She killed me,
my soul will never be restored
so, I broke everyone else’s
and they never knew what for.

The words I write is not an art.
The words I write is the war between my mind and my heart.
I’m letting my secrets out, I’ve been a façade since the start.
Just tell me how you feel, and I’ll end up breaking your heart.

She will become
a 𝒇𝒆𝒎𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒆.

I’m not angry at the fact that you took the time to hurt me.
I'm only angry that you'd let me breathe before you killed me.
I concealed away from the untold hearts in my vicinity.
Deceitful, I murdered before they had the deriving thrill to take me.

I never experienced it either, so we were lost with each other.
When you started to fall apart, I put you back altogether.
You used me to find yourself then you absconded to find another,
I’m left desolate, murdering; until I find something better.

My lonely nights consist of blood tears and alcohol,
3 heartbreak reliefs that come in and out of me all night long.
I don’t think I’m crazy for thinking the thoughts of being in love.
I think I’m only thinking crazy cause I never knew how it was

It wasn’t the same for you but that’s just how I felt,
know that you’re already dead to me just like the mask you killed.
My lonely nights consist of scars, tears and empty bottles -

hidden through the night
telling you I’d call back tomorrow.

a rose colored potion,
a promise to get you,
you think you’re unharmed
by the hypnotic motions,
and shielded by
the petal filled jar,
and as you stand before him
between mahogany walls
they shine rose-red
and you think
you’ll lie to sleep with seven different flowers
beneath your head

and his watered, intense stare
mirrors your black night gown
as you stand bare
you swoosh around
in your fairytale
watching yourself through his eyes
and the flowing fabric
is all there is to hear
and the man before you
is all who is near
as he keep his eyes plastered
you swear you see a mesmerized tear

you stumble unto the bed
splash down on rose petals
they rise and fall
unto your face like rose-freckles
and he walks up to ya
looking down with a grin
but his soul peek through his eyes
as if he’s never sinned
and you think his shackles remains
till he reaches to his pockets
to throw petals on your face
they fill your mouth where you’re lying
and behind you there’s something he’s eyeing
he reaches under your pillow
to throw seven different flowers as a final,
and give you seven different kisses,
before you’re dying

She only smokes when she’s spiraling or performing.
Usually both.
Says she loves a dramatic flourish—
exhales like a closing line,
laughs like a scratched record.

You’ll meet her at a party that’s already ending.
She'll kiss you like she’s trying to delete her own mouth,
like you’re just the eraser.
She'll leave before sunrise
because she hates how the light arrives slowly,
and can’t stand watching the world wake up
and not call her back.

If you ask what she’s looking for,
she’ll point at the exit sign and say,
“Something with the same glow.”
You’ll think she’s flirting,
but she’s actually just listening hard
for the next excuse to leave.

If you ask for her number,
she’ll give you a poem,
one with no punctuation
and a key taped to the back.
Not to her place.
To your undoing.

She tells stories like she’s double-daring
the past to contradict her.
Someone once told her
she seems like the kind of girl
who disappears mid-sentence.
She said,
“Only when the sentence forgets I started it.”

She collects promises like matchbooks:
already scorched,
still reeking of places
that almost got her to stay.

At dinner parties,
she compliments your cutlery
then slices the conversation open.
Asks what you hate most about your mother
before the bread hits the table.

You’ll want to know her real name.
She’ll say something like,
“It’s carved into a tree somewhere,”
before you realize
you’ve already said it in your sleep.

And when you find the poem she gave you
weeks later,
crumpled in your coat pocket,
you’ll swear you hear her laugh
when you read the last line out loud:
“Don’t follow. I haunt better when I’m alone.”

She’s the reason
someone, somewhere,
is learning the difference
between being worshipped
and being watched.

And when she finally leaves—
because she always does—
you’ll swear you still smell
ozone, orange blossom,
and the beginning of a very pretty ruin.

She leaves you rearranged—
not broken,
just fluent in a dead dialect
that only speaks in warning signs.

You’ll start writing things
you don’t remember feeling
and calling it healing.
But it’s just possession.
The poem wasn’t for you.
It was the door.

She doesn’t burn bridges.
She just convinces them to jump.

She never really leaves.
She just sets the room on fire
and watches who runs toward the smoke.

(And if she ever comes back—
and she will—
don’t blink.
She’s made of edits,
and she notices cuts.)