I don't know how to end a story, don't see when the plot has died
Especially when it's a good scene, and the mood is always just right
The sun is setting- there's lovers on the beach, the future stands before them with nothing out of reach
Maybe that's not in the cards they pulled, I should let the story line fade out, but that makes me physically ill,
"They belong together" I shout-
And I'll stall the scene with every breathe, hoping hope can out-write loves death

I thought I was good,
I felt I was fine—
everything that’s happened
was just pain that is mine.

My burden to bury,
my cross to hold,
a million and three reasons
I feel like rusted gold.

I became standoffish,
a loner at times,
never letting anyone in,
barely allowing them to stop by.

But it doesn’t have to be that way—
I can open the door.
I don’t have to only give happiness;
I can ask for more.

I’m allowed to take up space,
to be seen and heard.
I deserve people’s time.
They can listen to my words.

It was safe being small,
hiding in plain sight,
but being invisible
never truly felt right.

I deserve to be loved—
to let someone love me.
I don’t have to run.
I can stay and be free.

Tiptoeing around the tension,
“I don’t know”  overwhelms my veins.
But lately I’ve had an idea,
Maybe it’s time for change.

No more hiding in “maybe,”
Or feeling safe behind “we’ll see.”
There’s no comfort in ghosting,
Just the crushing weight of accountability.

Or maybe the lack of it—between you and me.
I said I was protecting myself,
But this can’t be what that means.

I tried not to love you, kept my distance from the start.
But your charm cracked open
my reluctant armored heart.

You were clever, made more sense than others,
Quick wit, no regrets, and never forced me under covers.
So I let myself fall, thinking I’d be caught,
But my parachute? Just bricks I forgot.

You were ready to catch me, hands up in the air, it's not your fault that I crashed out, you're lucky I didn't land there.

You want to be a family, I admire that- I really do
I think too much has happened, in the past, between me and you.

See I learned what soft love feels like,
That I don't think you can give
I don't look at you with stars in my eyes,
Why couldn't you change when I did?

Once you were my universe, and like women before me I held you down
But I don't want my daughter to be generationally cursed to be a man's clown.

They say we're from a line of strong women, and yes I do believe that's true, but I don't want to be strong for sticking it out, I want the strength to forever leave you.

Maybe this is the fork in the road, where my mother chose to stick it out,
I can't raise a daughter on fake love of that I have no doubt.

Really it's up to me, I can't blame great grandma for this gift,
I always thought narcissists move on to a new supply but this man tirelessly tightens his grip.

I can't ask the moon for answers, no- this has to come deep from within, will I have the courage to keep the **** away? Or will I keep our matronly traditional trend?

I see the endings in their birth,
The wilt curled in the bloom,
The echo in the first soft word
That hums of pending gloom.

Yet on I go, with knowing steps,
Down paths that twist and burn
Not for hope, nor fate, nor faith,
But just to feel the turn.

It’s not some tragic grandeur,
No noble, aching art
Just a quiet urge to prove myself
The fool I knew at start.

At first,  
I am every story you’ve ever loved:  
the girl with wild eyes and a crooked smile,  
the glitterbomb dropped into your heavy life.  
I am the Manic Pixie Dream,  
softened and sharpened just right,  
scripted to be the key you didn’t know you lost.  

I love it, too.  
I love playing her.  
I love the way I can become  
everything I thought I couldn't be—  
light, brave, impossible.  
I fall in love with the girl they see,  
the one who spins in the rain,  
who kisses like it’s a dare,  
who never stays still long enough  
for anyone to notice the cracks.

For a while,  
I even forget the weight of myself.  
For a while,  
the mirror throws back someone I almost recognize,  
someone almost worth keeping.

But the days grow teeth.  
The seams split.  
My clinginess stops being "cute,"  
my mess stops being "quirky,"  
my fear starts leaking through the paint.  

Then I remember:
I'm not magic.  
I'm work.  
I'm a maze with no ending.  
I'm a mouthful of needs no one knows how to swallow.

And they start seeing it too.  
The way I flinch when they look too long.  
The way my laugh gets hollow.  
The way I start pleading through my eyes,
"Please, please don't look closer."

I know how this ends.  
The Dream Girl dies the moment she becomes real.  
Nobody writes sequels for the ones who stay.

So I run.  
I tear the script from my hands,  
I rip the costume at the seams.  
I run before they can stop loving the idea of me,  
before they have to face the weight of who I am  
beneath the glitter and noise.

I find a new stage,  
a new pair of arms,  
a new chance to believe in the girl I invented—
if only for a little while longer,
If only to live in someone else's dreams,
If only to forget the weight of waking up.