in the end of it
you are alone with it
and when the men stare at you
and ridicule you
their fingers pointing at your body

    you sit there and laugh
    your heart out
    i could
    take it out

        i chose to break the silence
        when no one had my back
        but the cold stone wall

           /stuck in headlights/

              your back to the wall
              to fight alone
              tonight is the night
              i end you

                 and no one understands
                 the depth of it
                 until they take my shoes
                 but they come to realize
                 they dont fit them

                    it ends tonight
                    with the morning light
                    a woman's grief
                    a fiery pit

This moment is just a dream,
An illusion of a greater being
And once the cold death
Gave us it's warm embrace
We will fall into silence
As we wake up to see the reality.

If so, then why plague your mind with worry?
If this is just a dream, then why are you experiencing it in tragedy
When you can easily make it into comedy.

When the earth is no longer a womb,
just a shriek and whistle of once uttered prayer—
a long,
puncturing howl of everything
that was once you
turned into casualties of silence,
then you know
that death has arrived,
noiselessly,
silent as a missile.

All the clamor outside-
it’s the hibakujumoku,
(the survivor trees)
insisting on life
within the blast radius
of your heart.

I imagine it sometimes—the letter you never wrote,
the words you almost said, the truth that trembled on your lips
but died before it could escape.

Would it have been an apology? A confession?
Or merely a quiet acknowledgment
of everything left unsaid between us?

Perhaps you sat in the dim glow of a dying candle,
pen in hand, staring at the paper
as if the weight of your thoughts
was too much for ink to bear.

Perhaps you wrote the first few lines,
hesitated, crossed them out,
and in that hesitation,
decided that silence was easier.

Or perhaps you never meant to write at all.
Perhaps you knew, as I did,
that some words are better left unspoken,
some wounds better left untouched.

And so, the letter remains unwritten,
just as we remain unfinished—
a story with no ending,
a question that will never be answered.

One minute to say “Goodbye”.
No words and no need to think of,
No grief of grudges and no regrets.
It’s the last minute of our love.

Your cold look and measured breathing,
Your silence and breathing ‘in out’ in tune.
Could you and I imagined, my dear,
That we’d end up like this as soon?

The minute is dreadfully long.
It’s like the time completely stops.
We can soothe the heart, freeze the soul,
But we can’t get pardon from love. No hopes.

Blocked. And just like that, the world falls silent. But silence is never truly empty, something must fill the void. Teardrops splatter against the ground, streaming from weary eyes like rain on a metal rooftop. A rhythmic, sorrowful percussion. Ears ring, drowning out everything, even the hush of solitude. The quiet sobs of defeat escape, reluctant but unstoppable. I can’t bear it. Each passing minute winds me tighter into the spiral, every breath shallower than the last, as if a crushing weight is pressing down on my chest. My fingers claw at my face, pleading for the tears to stop, but they refuse, relentless, unyielding reminders. My hands curl into fists, nails digging deep into my palms, desperate to grasp a rope that is no longer there. I should get up, find something, anything, to anchor my restless mind. But no matter how hard I try, I am forced to listen. Forced to endure the consequences of my own undoing.