putting the tracks i liked
out there, on my stories
hoping, wondering,
maybe they'd see me for how i dream
and not for how i've been coping

except a step further
a path up ahead
i realized, they didn't really care for all that i had
prized possessions of mine, these lyrics so simple
they don't deserve bits of me, if the surface excites them sole
if they don't like it whole, not worth the lengths i go

a girl's room is her own museum
or so they said
mine's a beautiful chaos
trust me, a letter to self

and so i stopped
a step further even
ahead i moved
watched, smiled, told them they had all i could
share without breaking, without giving them the key
that could threaten my volatility—my being
and i hoped they'd accept

except fools require everything whole
even if they can't accept it, they need it only
for the pleasure it brings, the joy of knowing
not to like, to love—but to show—
the world always required proving

i have my own cocoon
won't term myself ready to bloom
or a butterfly for that case
but i hide, intending to forget the world
my room, the paradoxical mapping
the stars chart their own course during the nights
up on my ceiling as i turn the lamp and let it burn bright
it's simple, heady space
there's posters and pictures on one wall
the other holds a heart collage of all sorts
lomographic detailing, i've always found myself dreaming
one picture, and i tend to stare deep
whenever this head gets too loud, i sit and stare at all of the meanings

there's a magnitude that hides
read every picture, uncover—but it comes with a price
safe spaces, meant to be kept hidden
posters—the movies that stayed, the artists looking back at me
quotes, written in an unhinged manner
my favourite, i'm yet to choose
but it all kind of gives away what i can't hammer
across my skull and at myself every time i go out
i wish to carry it all, to show them what i'm all about

don't try to rewrite my scars
just don't add any new ones to the already existing
and you could wrap a bandage
i'll keep all the rough edges sealed
and edited for flow

there's carts—more like shelves weakened with a multitude of books
i counted them, turned out to be a lucky 151
now i wonder which i ought to read
to throw caution to the wind and forget all my seams

there's stands, holding tiny little things
a layer of all my bracelets, of all that i intend to wear
one with the skincare, and other little prizes i just keep
there's pens, a vast multitude—I could never have enough
in all colors, i think half of them already dried up
a couple things for journaling stay at the very back, at the very bottom
right above, it holds all the things i could use to paint—to bring my dreams to mortal realm
except the skills lack, i tend to procrastinate
so they stay, gathering dust—unless i air it out—once a day
every day

the last compartment holds a stack of pencils, a glass quill—intended for magic
couple washi tapes—perhaps i'll wrap them around my wrists
and a few paper cutters, having gathered rust from being washed—every time i stuttered

a red ribbon, and a golden one, tied around both my shelves—reminding of who brought them to
vines hang in one corner, right beside the balcony
i'm yet to minecraft the windows, perhaps i'll let them be
there's pages stuck to the walls, and a multitude of sketches
nothing all too special—but there's this one of an eye that speaks
couple stars, the phases of the moons—waning and waxing,
full one too!
a paper leaf string—maple leaf except i made little hearts
hangs over the bathroom door—completely out of place, held in a purple thread
the pages wall is of a comfy book—before the coffee gets cold
the curtains are a shade of violet and silver in the middle, indication of what couldn't have been told
silver almost looks like a grey, a bit shiny, a bit neutral
but then there's another book stand and it holds a few candles
hardcovers at the bottom, they hold too much weight
the paperbacks balance the top however
and wrapping its corners is a string light—a heavy mistake
it goes over my wardrobe
multitude of tiny bulbs if i were to turn it on
phases of the moon again, cut out
and beneath—like scribbles on a notebook—stuck album covers in tiny, varying shades

a sign that says smile—i can't say i do
but it stares back at me, every time i sit on my bed—so i try to
a blue ribbon bow—gifted, i remember just who
stuck to the handle bar, i grip it every time i pull the door through

my desk is a messy messy affair
to put a name to things would be like listing down what i couldn't bear
but here it goes—
my laptop, the one i barely use—it's new
yet to find my way through, i rely on the old one
tho it's been barely working
comfort i guess—is one step away from despair

fake purple tulips, standing in a lilac bottle that i'd painted
a pastel of the same shade except it's an hourglass
30 minutes, i'm yet to check if it lives up to its truth
three scrapbooks, incomplete, the kits emptied halfway through
a candle, a chalkboard, tiny—a slate of all sorts
with one side a black, the other a white
i tend to use it black over white

a clock, stuck on the wrong time, currently giving 11:11
some wisterias kept in a green plastic vase
and a succulent that's as real as it gets
i water it every now and then, the bubbles breathing a sign of life in the room
there's a bunny enchanted almost in a glass sphere—a lamp i don't turn on
a shell, one you'd find at the edge of a sea—except it's a gift too
sets of little trinkets i opened in kinder joy
pen stands holding my sketch pencils that i rarely use
my keyboard is a heavy affair
doesn't really fit in the room with its peachy aesthetic
it seeks repair

a bowl, huge ceramic one i'm yet to find the perfect place for
it carries several stones, i think i'd use them someday to break a skull or two
kidding—
the wall above—black and white, epiphanies printed on pictures
"human being"
"anxious person"
"creative block", "parental advisories"
"life of an artist", a quote between viktor & jayce  and big moon

a wall hanging on the wall, carries a humidifier i don't use
the three figurines of harry, hermione and ron from the wizarding world
the second ron hides just behind the three
a kuromi sits atop a small tin, holding bracelets that specifically need no calling

there's a couple fake plants, sure
books everywhere—on my bed
a set of few that i personally cherish
a dictionary of dreams, a history of time, grimms' tales and a comfort book to carry
it all together

my current read, a lighter for some reason, a diary i write poetry in
and a notebook to remind me why i do it all
add to it- a pen in white, one in blue
a highlighter just to mark the lines i already knew

oh the plushies!
a penguin, a bunny, a koala, a seal
an octo changing moods, a slytherin pillow, and a kuromi
a strawberry hiding a bunny again, and teddy—ages old from when i was a child
three pillows, and two comforters, i think i might get a weighted blanket
the grip feels familiar

there's a tapestry, right above my bed—i tend to forget its existence
since i'm always facing away
the sun and the moon, staring at each other
and a couple random trinkets that define me
don't ask of my drawers, or in between my books
my cupboard, or my wardrobe
i'll mention downturned black butterflies, a cloud with a storm symbol
a party mask, and a phone charm hanging off a circle
a small stool holding japanese authors' best works
a snowflake candle and a few marbles

it's all my own
sacred, hidden
drapery of the lights—different moods, different nights
why i wonder i hide, or spend so much of my time
but it's a galaxy here within
like in my eyes and in my being—whole

my brain resets, works to a rhythm—on nice days
i tend to keep the balcony open and wind flows
everything whispers and takes a breath of relief
the rain pours outside, as i sit and speak
little secrets to my walls
lying on my bed or sitting at my desk
wondering, circling—the reasons to live

the grandest—my baby bunny
wondering, sleeping, napping away or speaking
she stays with me
her own space, her own world a part of my own
we've got an ecosystem in here
the most prized possession

and every time i step
i carry this armor
laced with all the time i spent in this room
gathering strength, putting a piece anew
even if you're not it—
would you like to come see my room?

why'd i let the outsides visit and steal it solely
to murmur of how it all seems obnoxious
it's bits of me, pasted, put together
clumsy, messy, chaotic
i'm quite a few issues when you hear
so close your eyes, listen to my speaker
as i play the playlists i've kept hidden
tonight's the turn for prologue by cloud koh
and if you haven't even tried to read mine
how can i let you read the story directly just for show?

beauty is in the eye of the beholder
but what if the one to envision it is blind?
i could approach you with a clean slate
i always do—writing things on a white screen—
except the older the ink, the harder for it to be removed.
visions of you in my head—just not anyone could write over.
and if they try—if i hear things again and again—every time,
it's written over and over and over
until i do not have any clean slate for you, any longer.


actions so cheap, the best of ink fails to meet my expectations.
perhaps there are too many,
but what do i do
when you tend to perform in disguise
every time you see someone come around?

i slip in the lows of being unhinged almost,
the gates of emotional purgatory open to welcome me aboard.
it's tiring—i'm drained.
speaking it in metaphor, trying to paint over.
it brings me to wonder:
just how long do i play pretend?

been wrung dry of trust,
perspective from the third person
who stands in the rubble of ghosted flirtations,
half-friendships built on the foundation of lies.
expected nothing,
but the hope still flows—
straight to my river of misery,
now reeking shades of disappointment.
got lesser and lesser,
and now it's barely there.

this is my final letter,
a sigh of resignation—
hopefully the scientific dissection of this feeling that i entertain:
of the almosts,
weird hope-hangovers,
and all the games
that weren't even mine to begin with.

to name it is difficult—
perhaps it's the hope fatigue,
the burn of being ghosted,
or a nostalgia born from detached attachment.
i mourn for things that weren't real.
hungover from fake bonds,
relying on remnants of connections
that echoed in fallouts.

i asked ai—what do i name this feeling?
in my own words, it replied:
choose your favourite color and give it to this burnout.

grey—
in the middle of extremes,
where hope lay on one end,
ache at the other.
the rope stretched thin.
my being glitches—
a breath, every failed text,
trying to match up the vibe.
i feel like i've fallen in between the lines.
i see it, hiding in plain sight,
watching people perform me wrong.
lowest of expectations, ridden lower and low.

fake affection tastes like sour frosting
on a cake that's been left uncovered in the fridge
for way too long.
the outside’s rough, dry—
nevertheless, i take a bite.

there's eerie silence
as i sit at the edge of the windowsill.
numbness lingers.
i pull at the strings.
raw evenings,
i tend to wonder—
write notes, only to surrender.

kindness—they tally manipulation.
flirting, i take as a weapon.
come headfirst—i'm no longer wary.
having given up,
you just add to my list
of why i shouldn't let people carry
me,
or the weight of what i've become.

i don't despise it.
rather, it's a maturity
i ought to carry to a life—
unless i find someone to share this feeling with.

do you feel,
having already expected close to none,
but being handed even lesser—
gift-wrapped in guilt almost—
just please accept it?
expect it the least,
find it dealt in a heist.

even apathy tends to feel violated
when you drag it back to the beginning.
there ought to be a specific hell
for those who tend to exist
and make promises
like they aren't bartering their own.
calling me honest—
with a mouth that lies.
an ache with no name,
a feeling with no gain.

i been known,
been breathing in the sighs—feelings forlorn.
lover girl by laufey plays on my phone,
disappointment of having lost myself
to beliefs that held me strong.

believe,
trust,
exist,
let go.

four friends turned strangers
sitting on the edges of an x.
the centre, i settle upon,
asking what do i name this feeling
that's been born?

how hard is it
to not wear a mask
and change it every time you bask
in a different one’s setting?
a rare emotional creature,
i tend to sit in the foreign setting.

i do not recognize myself.
holding onto things that weren't even present—
this reads like a séance.
funerals held for feelings that needed strengthening,
got tampered with instead,
burnt down to the very bit.

excuse me as i scream in silence.
look at you, with eyes speaking imagery.
build a connection,
hold the other edge of the phone connected to this wire—
one that wouldn't carry any signals.
but i hope you'll still hear
the music that plays this side—
all the unspoken
that i let bleed through my hide.

masks are unrequired.

i've got an inkling—
you do not understand.
and i do not put it in words.
this, like a myth—uncanny and impossible to uncover.

unless i've got a name to put to this emotion,
i shall drain myself of all words, irrespective—
if it's meant with relating,
or with mirth.

you can only add to my reasons
of why it isn't ever worth.

I am not a poet.

My words were never made for the masses,
Made to pry emotions from your heart.
Rhyme can sometimes leave me at a loss,
And my inkwell is more often empty than not.

I am not a poet.

I can write only what I know and feel,
Each poem I give a little piece of me.
Every line is just a wisp away from existence.
Each poem might just be the last I write.

I am not a poet.

Yet why do you feel like my muse?
Your eyes remind me of a thousand places,
Like sea glass glinting green in the hush of tide.
Your voice has its command over my pulse.

I am not a poet.

But poetry you are.
How else do I describe this feeling,
If not with flowery words and rhyme.
And yet no words can hold it right.

I am not a poet.

I would be lost if I were.
For if I give a piece of me,
It will always be here in this poem,
With You.

secrets circle your irises like silver linings
and i'm not sure whose they are
because i feel like i give away everything
when i manage to meet your gaze

secrets play around your lips like silver
smoke
and i'm not sure whose they are
because i feel like i give away everything
when i open my mouth

secrets adorn your fingers like silver rings
and i'm not sure whose they are
because i feel like i give away everything
when you touch me

name it
ask it of me
i'll give it to you gladly

I love them they’re so cool
But they’ll leave me to play pool
I love you do you love me
Cuz you’ll leave me soon as can be
there my favorite people
Wouldn’t trade yall for the world
Would you trade me
Or just leave me
Left teary
While you say you don’t want me
And I talk unnecessarily
So I shut mouth
Say I didn’t wanna come
You say your glad
You can tell I’m mad
But I still love you
And you still go

I must look ridiculous
to these other café patrons—
just a woman with orange-dyed hair
blinking back stubborn tears,
trying not to cry
into her honey, lemon, and ginger.

But I sit there, half-failing
to maintain my composure.
I look anywhere else—
up at the ceiling,
out the window,
trying not to meet anyone’s eyes.

These tears dare to seep,
but this sadness needs to steep—
not pour.
Or else they'll overflow
in overwhelm.
I must take the helm.

So I take a sip:
that warm, sweet bitterness
rights the ship.
And the gentle calm
soaks back in.
They may glance over and wonder
What must be on her phone
To evoke such emotion?

Oh, don't mind me
I'm just writing poetry
about a silly girl,
and her hopes for understanding
Falling onto deaf ears yet again
and again,
and again,
and again
One more long swill
A sharp intake of breath
They prickle at my eyes,
Again

My teacup is empty -
I think I'll need another ***
For the sake of my sanity
I cannot let them see it pour
For a flood, an empty teacup
Has begot

I didn't know it would feel like this
That shallow kiss
You grabbed my wrist
The second and the first
Were momentary bliss
I was on cloud nine
If only for a moment in time
We only met twice
I thought we'd been spliced
It was warm, and it was nice
I'd thought that maybe,
you could be my first someone
I'd promised myself - "I won't run"
An awkward thank you
My cheeks aflush
I stepped away,
And then came the hush

Why does this feel so strange?
Like my heart has decayed
Brown, and withered
A moth without its flame?
It was warm, and it was nice.
Still...we only met twice
I suppose I was too ready to open the door
Unfortunately,
This has happened before
Maybe if we were to meet twice more
I might feel a flutter of desire,
I'm sure

Three days have gone,
I wait, I stall
I don't know how to feel at all
Was it karma,
or was it fate?
Did the universe just spit in my face?
I thought I had been brave -
I said yes. I had stayed.
I was willing to learn how love might taste,
My heart might have bloomed
in haste - not chaste
But maybe that was the mistake.

"The ones before were purely ******"
"I'm not ready for love"
He said,

Something twisted in my chest

I hoped it wasn't true,
But I think you felt something different for me,
than I did for you
It seems you didn't want my feelings,
My hopes,
Or my dreams
I think you only wanted my body
Just to satisfy your needs
I was ready
Steady -
And now,
Empty

But it was warm, and it was nice.
We had only met twice.

Can you hear it?

The silence.

Everything begins there—
in the spaces between our breaths, where our words stumble, break apart,
and dissolve in our blood.

Everything begins in these silences,
when we simmer beneath the skin,
when our dreams bubble, brew, billow, then boil up into storms
that rage just beneath our calm—
when our thoughts crash against the cliffs of our hearts,
swept by the undertow of what we want, of what we hope,
and of all the things we cope with.

When I’m taking pauses while I’m talking to you, the silence isn’t empty.

There is an intimate maelstrom that swirls within me, pressing against my ribcage.

I feel the tides twist, rise, then fall—
I feel the ocean ebb and flow—
I feel its throb that thunders like war drums in my chest.

I feel… every word I hold back, every word I almost say
like a ripple that never crests,
like a wave that never breaks.

But I like silence.

Because, I also see a glimmer in it.
I see the shimmering sway of ideas.
And I feel… softness in their rolling—
softness like the backwash kissing the shore with its foam.

Sometimes… I wish I could just remain there,
nestled in that brittle fold of silence forever.

But sometimes also, the cotton of silence wrapping around me feels so comfortable
that my thoughts become deafening,
and they pull me down, trying to drown me within myself.

So quickly, in a desperate gasp for air—
I feast on noise.

And suddenly, I crave it.
The way the world roars. The way it crackles.
So I melt into its chaos.

I want to feel its pulse, its pound, its music.
I want to drown in the drunken hours.
I want to feel my heart rise with the loudest nights.
I want to cling to laughters that veil all the cracks I try to hide.

I want to stuff the silence—
as if only the noise could save me from myself.

Yet—no matter how hard I try to escape, the silence keeps coming back.

And every now and then,
Life punctuates itself with tiny bubbles of quiet.

…

Like this one.

…

But not all silences feel the same.

There are the ones I share with her…
the wordless seconds lost in her gaze.
The silent glances.
This all feels… different.

These silences make me whole.
Whole, and yet somehow… incomplete.

Incomplete because I often dream of chiseling
from the marble of these silences—
from the air that hangs between us—
all the words, all the promises,
everything I feel for her…

This small yet enormous statue
waiting to emerge from within—
from the rhythm of my heartbeat,
from the waves,
from the storms,
from every crack…

From this silence—
where everything begins.

And there I stand,
fingers trembling, mouth dry,
a chasm yawning between us.

And all I yearn for is to set it free—
This simple

“I love you”.