I have to wash the dishes before I write my suicide note.
Put away the clothes on the chair. Water the plants. Feed the cats.
Find a lighter that still works.
A sweater that doesn't smell of smoke.

I need to taste summer fruit with juice running down my wrist and chin.
Walk into the river until the current holds me steady.
Touch someone's shoulder and not let go too fast.

I want to hear a stranger laugh like it matters.
Carve initials into damp wood.
Keep a secret rock in my pocket until it's smooth with worry.
Dance to the music of thunder.
Converse with the beetle on my window.

I need to read the last page of a book in the sunlight.
Collect bones, shells, cigarette butts. Proof I was here.
Take a bus to nowhere just to come home again.
Tell someone I love them and mean it, even if they forget.
Kiss someone I don’t love just to feel the weight of it.

The words taste like rain on metal.
I’ll take a photo of myself and delete it.
Count the cracks in the ceiling.
I leave the door unlocked.
I crumple up the page.
For now.

Voice cracks,
When I feel overwhelmed.
Like a mental attack,
With no hope to defend myself.

Voice cracks,
When I feel nervous,
Because I have a presentation,
And I can’t seem to speak,
And my words slur.

If I were lying on my deathbed,
I ponder,
Would I remember,
When I wondered,
If I would remember,
When I was younger,
And my voice cracked?

Voice cracks,
When I feel anxious,
Wondering if I’m worth it.
Since it feels like I misuse the gifts I’m given.

Voice cracks,
When I feel passionate,
Doesn’t happen often,
But when it does, I struggle to let go.
Even when it hurts my soul,
And I wonder why I didn’t let go.

If I were lying on my deathbed,
Would this matter?
Would I regret,
Not making sure that it mattered?
Would I pray for a chance to turn back the clock,
Back to the days, when all of my worrying came,
From whether or not my voice cracks?

Voice cracks,
When I feel overwhelmed,
And I wonder,
Why do I do this to myself?
My biggest critic,
My greatest asset,
My only friend who’s guaranteed to me till the end.

Voice cracks,
When things just seem a bit too much,
And I want to hide away,
To return another day.

If I were lying on my deathbed,
Would I be satisfied,
That I lived my life,
Instead of watching it pass by?
Though people came and went,
Faces and names smudged by time.
Did I do what I wanted to do?
Or did I disappoint you?
It wouldn’t matter then.
I think I’d find,
Myself longing to go back,
To the times,
Where all I had to worry about,
Were my voice cracks.

Insane? Stupid? Risky?
Maybe.
Expressive? Freeing? Intimidating?
Absolutely.
Past mistakes, current life, reflective
That's my poetry.

If the right one doesn't come along
I didn't let my heart get rusty.
For my shame of the art has turned to joy
And secrets are best when they're shared.

thoughts swirling like
lapping water on the
shore, memories
flashing like lightning
there's so much
I want to tell you.

A moth came to me
late at night.
Flying
through cold and dark
looking
for light and warmth.

They crave the comfort
of a cozy room,
while the world sleeps.
Yet something so sweet
hides a burning gloom.

Why do you yearn
for that feeling you'll never earn?
Why do you keep seeking the light,
my butterfly of the night?

Poets are glowsticks,
snapped,
then they fluoresce.

Liquid light.
Blood of the lightning bug,
squashed and smeared.
Nearly extinct.

Bleed and glow.

The cuts of forever promised,
instead,
they siphoned.

Distilled into purple-red neon,
spelling out:

read me.
know I’ve lost.

Sometimes, I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs.

I want to say that I feel stuck—like I’m trapped in a life that doesn’t feel like mine.
I want to say that I hate my life.
That I feel constantly alone.
Constantly.

And maybe, deep down, I know that isn’t entirely true—that some people might care.
But I can’t seem to escape this overwhelming feeling that no one really does.
No one checks in. No one truly sees me.

I feel like I’m always falling short, like I’m constantly lacking something essential.
And I know I shouldn’t compare my life to others—but it’s hard not to.
It feels like I’m watching the world pass by, like I’m on the sidelines while everyone else lives fully, effortlessly.
And I’m just… stuck, observing.

I hate that I’m not confident. That I’m not outgoing.
That I don’t seem interesting enough for people to want to stick around.
Sometimes I wonder if I add anything meaningful to anyone’s life at all.
If I disappeared, would it even matter?

Some days, I hate how I look.
I hate my body.
And more than anything, I hate me.

I hate the complexity of emotions—how you can feel so much at once and still not fully understand any of it.
I hate how heavy it all feels.
I hate this version of life I’m living.

Right now… I just hate it all.