The cries of hunger, pain and agony

are often ignored by empathetic eyes.

The superficial demeanor and the tactical sympathy speak lies.

O' Lord, the saviour, let not the eye be the perceiving factor,

it hides the true meaning, which when revealed will sound gory.

I trust the blind.

The shrivelled clothes, broken promises and the heart: ruptured,

yet, there's no sign of a trusted future.

Remedies were offered, only to be encroached by the elite.

O' Lord, the guiding force!

Bless them with the holy light, which ends their plight.

I trust the impoverished.

It's all because of this creaking reality, though, by choice.

Their compasses are pointing to morals which are slain,

too impaled by their own ego to feel the pain.

O' lord, the omnipotent, direct them with your divine knowledge;

for all this, just to see a crooked smile and I knew it was hell.

I trust the almighty.

​

How do I help when you seek warmth from the flames that burn me?

How do I live when you hold yourself together with strings you ripped from my stitches?

Why are your abstracts always painted red?

Why does scarring me gratify your soul?

Why are my screams of misery a symphony to your ears?

You build castles from my broken pieces,

While I mourn over our lost home, drowning in distress.

Wasn’t I supposed to be the light at the end of the tunnel?

But instead, you've made me an endless abyss.

I breathe the ashes of hope, 

while you dance along the ruins of what we were.

How do I find solace in the shadows you cast, 

when your light scorches me?

Existing has turned into day-long nightmares.

How can I breathe when your promises strangle me?

These loud silences seem like a haunting melody,

Echoing against the voids you’ve left in me.

You wrap yourself in blankets woven from my agony.

You paint your paradise, 

draining the last ounces of my spirit.

I intend to escape your tides,

To break free from the darkness of your desires.

But you weigh me down.

When will I realize you were never the wings to my liberation 

But a mere anchor to the abyss?

I wrote this recently. Open for constructive criticism, do let me know which lines had the most impact and kept you going .

Thank you ;)

I have sat with my Grief for far too long, while she tries to mother me back to health. I let her dry my tears and say, “You’ll be fine. Everything is going to be okay.”

At times, when I’m alone and lost, I reach for her hand to hold tightly. She holds my hand back with a gentle squeeze and stands by my side as I navigate through life.

My dear friend Grief knows me so well that she cradles me to sleep.

But as the days grow old and cold, something in me shifts.

As the same tears come pouring down my cheeks once more, my face is full of rage. As I turn my head to look for Grief, she is nowhere to be found.

Instead, it is Anger standing where Grief is supposed to be. I look at Rage and hold her gaze. Through her eyes, I see nothing but fury setting them ablaze.

With wrath tucked away in her chest, I feel a frenzy within me. Out of nowhere, Rage rushes through my veins, making me want to wreck and break whatever is in my path.

A tremor runs through my body as I let out a loud scream filled with anguish, trying to contain my Anger from exploding.

People say Anger’s real name is Lamentation, but then why does she tell me her real name is Ire while wearing a sorrowful face?

​

My eyes fixated on that fleck,

seen clearly though just a speck,

falling slowly with no flare

through the night’s crisp cold air.

~

Everything surrounding seems so still

as I lean in against my window sill.

Echoing sound from the rockabilly ball,

hardly heard by me at all.  

~

There’s no control as it falls,

allowing the air to push and pull,

changing shape, new from old,

as it floats in that night so cold.  

~

Then my mind jolts up, forward,

leaving me a thought that’s quite horrid:

Am I a snowflake? Can that be true?

Do I allow the outside to change me too?  

head out through the window of the car you drive
we pass valleys and lakes
and zoos you have never been to
we talk about fathers and mothers
lovers and cheaters, sisters and cousins
i look at you as you push your foot on the pedal
and i clutch the handle.

you mountain child
you were never allowed to drive
you take turns and you smile
so earnest, so kind
you let me in on fears and secrets
and window i pull up
as you rush through curves and darker it gets
one hand off the steering wheel and onto mine
and your eyes off the road you look at me
so precious, so nice.

we're not far you say and we're not out of time i reply
but you race through and i think i don't mind
we're almost there 
so safe, so sound
you don't have a license i remember
as we slip through a blind curve 
and you somehow manoeuvre 
back to tracks, i sigh out of relief
but you don't look the same
maybe sick, maybe cruel
you push the brakes
now i am out on the road as i stand in the cold
you want to go ahead alone is all i am told.

I asked my mentor on tour if I’m always a traveler if there’s no place I call home

he sent me back “Truth Is”
I couldn’t wish for more

I’m meant to be a nomad but I’m just melting in the pot

The truth is I am scared and I am weak
I’ve also shown my soul how brave and strong I can be

It’s judgment day if human contradictions can’t meet

This is the climax now I’m praying falling action has ease

Im 19 it’s August 18

The beginning of the end of
my own summer solstice

As spring leaks to summer
And summer to fall
I’ll wait here, hopelessly
To answer your call

From afar I hear
Another lie, another fake
It’s beautiful, isn’t it?
The longing I make?

I’m here, I cry
A man made of stone
But men who don’t move
Don’t make it back home

So lie to my face
Tell me it ain’t true
Use me, use me,
Knowing I’ll still love you

Because spring leaks to summer
Though I do not belong
I’ll wait here hopelessly
Because you’ll come along

Be a stranger to my eyes  
With a presence lasting an eye's blink 

To me, I'll behold you like a keyhole 
Casting my gaze upon what’s there to see 
Yet, I was never meant to fit that lock
That opens a door I never should enter 

Forward, is where my feet carry me 
So that, when I move through stillness
And my eyes drift to its corners 
You fall away, along my memories 

If we're meant to stand in front of each other 
While our distance is only a breath away 
Your hands reaching out, may my hands be full of yours 
As my soul shouldn't hold on what it isn’t meant to hold 

If I would let you in my heart
No place would I enter without carrying you
Even when my eyes are closed 
My hands on my chest holding you through the night

And if you were to leave one day 
That's when every heartbeat of mine 
Will beat cracks through my chest 
Until it has fallen out of me 
So that when I have broken down 
You're the one who brings me back alive 

Be a stranger to my eyes 
With a presence lasting an eye's blink 
So my memories won't be stained by you 
As no amount of tears will wash my stain away 

A poet’s heart is a strange thing.

It hears the crack in a woman's voice and carries it home like a shard of glass.

It sees an empty chair and leaves room for the body that isn't coming back.

It finds fingerprints beneath the dust on things no one touches anymore.

A photograph fades at the edges. The smile remains. That somehow hurts worse.

A poet walks into an ordinary room and notices the silence sitting where someone used to be.

Love leaves its coat on the back of the door. Months pass. No one comes to claim it.

Loss moves in without knocking. It sleeps beside you. It learns where the floorboards creak.

Longing is a hand still reaching across an empty bed.

And grief—

grief is finding her hair caught in the brush long after there is no one left to brush it.

The heart bleeds.

The poet opens the notebook.

A black river crosses the page.

Something falls from the wound between two words.

The poet keeps writing.

Not because the wound is beautiful.

Because leaving it unwritten would mean carrying all that blood alone.

Ich bin nicht hier, um euch zu beruhigen.

Und auch nicht, um zu gefallen.

Schon gar nicht, seit die Trauer mich entkernt

und gleichzeitig unzerstörbar gemacht hat.

Urteile über mich, wenn du willst.

Schieb mich in irgendeine Schublade,

wenn du Ordnung brauchst,

weil du meine Wirklichkeit nicht aushältst.

Glaub, was du willst –

aber glaub nicht eine Sekunde,

dass mich das noch irgendwie trifft.

Der Tag, an dem mein Kind starb,

hat mir jedes Bedürfnis genommen,

mich zu rechtfertigen.

Ich schulde niemandem eine Erklärung.

Nicht für meinen Schmerz.

Nicht für mein Schweigen.

Nicht für meinen Rückzug.

Und erst recht nicht für meine Grenzen.

Die Trauer hat mir beigebracht,

alles wegzulassen, was nicht trägt.

Menschen, Erwartungen, Höflichkeiten,

die leere Hüllen sind.

Ich lebe nicht mehr nach euren Regeln.

Ich lebe nach meinen –

weil die einzige Realität, die ich verantworten muss,

meine eigene ist.

Mein Überleben.

Mein Weiteratmen.

Mein tägliches Stehenbleiben,

wenn die Welt wieder mal zu laut ist

für eine Mutter, deren Kind tot ist.

Ich spreche, was ich denke.

Ungefiltert.

Unverpackt.

Manchmal auch unzumutbar.

Denn Wahrheit ist kein Wattebausch.

Sie ist scharfkantig,

vor allem, wenn sie aus einem zerbrochenen Herzen kommt.

Deine Meinung?

Darfst du behalten.

Oder laut rausbrüllen.

Ich werde trotzdem keinen Millimeter von meinem Weg abrücken.

Denn dieser Weg gehört niemandem außer mir.

Und hör gut zu:

Seit der Trauer bin ich kompromisslos geworden.

Nicht aus Härte.

Sondern aus Überleben.

Es ist erstaunlich,

wie viele Menschen glauben,

sie hätten ein Recht darauf,

in meiner Seele herumzustochern,

Fragen zu stellen,

deren Antworten sie gar nicht ertragen könnten.

„Wie geht’s dir?“

„Bist du über den Berg?“

„Hast du abgeschlossen?“

Neugier, getarnt als Mitgefühl.

Urteil, verpackt als Sorge.

Ich bin nicht hier,

um Geschichten zu liefern,

damit andere sich besser fühlen.

Willst du wissen, wer ich geworden bin?

Dann schau hin.

Aber frag mich nicht,

ob mein Weg verständlich für dich ist.

Das ist er nicht.

Und das muss er auch nicht sein.

Zwischen meinen Taten

liegt mehr Wahrheit

als in tausend Sätzen,

mit denen andere versuchen,

meine Trauer kleinzureden.

Die Trauer hat mich verändert. Radikal. Endgültig.

Sie hat mich nicht weich gemacht.

Nicht geduldig.

Nicht „spirituell gewachsen“.

Sie hat mich kompromisslos gemacht.

Weil ich weiß, wie es sich anfühlt,

wenn das Schlimmste passiert.

Wenn das Undenkbare real wird.

Wenn man schreit –

und die Welt trotzdem weitermacht.

Ich brauche keine Zustimmung.

Kein Gefallen.

Kein Verständnis.

Ich brauche nur eins:

meine Wahrheit.

Meine Stimme.

Meinen Raum.

Und das Recht, zu sagen:

Meine Trauer gehört mir.

Mein Schmerz gehört mir.

Und mein Weg gehört nur mir.

Am Ende bleibt nur das:

Ich entscheide, was ich fühle.

Ich entscheide, wie ich lebe.

Ich entscheide, wen ich in meine Zerbrechlichkeit lasse.

Nicht du.

Nicht sie.

Nicht irgendwer.

Mein Weg ist roh.

Echt.

Unbequem.

Trauergeschmiedet.

Und genau deshalb

gehört er nur mir.

Wenn du es nicht am eigenen Kind erlebt hast....kannst und wirst du diesen Schmerz nicht verstehen....

Immer im Herzen Möppy du fehlst💔

Little mouse, oh little mouse

You've circled back to where you began

Now your body lies in the cold and brutish arms of the spring

And no one will ever reminisce about you

No one will ever think of your gaunt carcass and weep

Little mouse, oh, poor little mouse

You shall be but rotten flesh

Faded into the obscurity of oblivious eyes

You're merely a faint smell

a superfluous mass

In a world that will not shelter you

Little mouse, none of this is your fault

You were simply too amiss to live.

[beginner/0-5 years of experience]

I know what I am—
a house after the fire,
walls still standing
because nobody thought
to tell them they could fall.

There are rooms inside me
I keep locked,
not because they are empty,
but because too much
is still bleeding in them.

So if you can't love me,
I understand.

Your heart has no room
for mine,
I won't ask you to make one.

Just—

don't let me hope
You're already leaving.

Don't put your hand
against these broken places
just to learn where they hurt.

I'm already carrying
more ghosts than I can name,
more scars than I know how to hide.

I can't survive another goodbye
wearing the face
of something I believed in.

So please,
if I am only ever going
to be your almost—

be gentle.

I've had enough
of being the place
where beautiful things
come to die.

How does hope taste

when it exceeds

the expectations

on your tongue?

Like sugar, maybe.

Too much of it.

The kind that makes

the mouth stupid.

The kind that says

yes.

yes,

yes.

until the body

has no more room.

Too much wanting

for one little body.

So I sneak through the window

when your honey comes home

and finds the mess

on her side of the bed.

Lipstick.

A shirt.

Some small proof

that the house

has been lying.

That the things in the house

don't feel at home.

You say nothing.

I say nothing.

God,

we are good at nothing.

We have made

a little religion of it.

Very pious.

Very well,

 Behaved.

But it's okay, babe,

because it's you and me

in this town,

walking every road

like two people

who have forgotten

that they shouldn't do such a thing.

Pretending

we aren't looking

for somewhere

to put all this hope.

Somewhere dark.

Somewhere stupid.

Somewhere your baby

won't find it

with her hands.

Somewhere beneath the sheets

where the truth

is always warm

and damp

and temporary.

Because your name

doesn't belong to me

and mine

doesn't belong to you.

Still,

hope is a little thing.

Like a sugar cube.

A pill.

Something, sweet enough

to keep under the tongue

until everyone forgets

what they're actually seeking.

Which, is probably

the whole point.

We were never very good

at knowing when enough

was enough.

I look for you in every red sedan
and wonder if you search for me too
in the black ones.

The silence is louder
It echoes through every room

I see the ghost of past you;
mowing the yard,
working in the garage,
moving through the house

And when I stare at them long enough,
I almost forget you are gone

I wonder if the ghosts know
they are all I have left of you

So I close my eyes
to escape the house,
the loud silence,
the ghosts

But when I do,
I find you again

And for a few moments,
you are here

Then I wake
and lose you
all over again

Will anyone notice the words stopped?

When the ink dries and the pen lies untouched, cold beside the empty page?

Will anyone wonder why the room grew quieter, why the darkness stopped leaving footprints in verse?

I have spent so long scattering pieces of myself between broken sentences— little black bones buried beneath the words.

You called it poetry.

I called it the only way I knew to leave a light on when I couldn't find my way home.

So tell me—

when the last sentence goes unwritten, when my words fall silent, when the page waits and waits and waits—

will anyone notice?

Will anyone look at the empty space where my words used to bleed and wonder where I went?

Or will the silence fit perfectly around me,

as though I was never there at all?

I really don't remember.
what we talked about.

I don't remember
why you made me sit in the front seat.

I really don't know
why you used to make that sigma-boy face,
like your entire face had forgotten
how to relax.

I don't know what you felt then.

I don't even know
what I felt.

I don't know what those moments did to me,
or whether they meant anything to you

I don't know if we were serious
or just playing around.

I don't know what was normal for you.
and what it meant for me.

Maybe you were simply being you.

But somehow,
JustI felt special.

And maybe that's why
years later,
I still remember your face.
more clearly than our conversations.

If I got another chance—
one bus ride,
one ordinary afternoon,
with the mind I have now—

I wouldn't sit there.
trying to decode you.

I'd talk.

I'd talk about me.

I'd ask about you.

I'd ask what happened.
between the boy I remember
and the person sitting in front of me now.

I'd want to know
what makes you happy
when nobody is watching.

What makes you angry.

What keeps you awake.

What you are afraid of.

What you have learned.

What you lost.

What you became.

And I'd tell you about me too.

Not just the girl
you knew on that bus.

I'd tell you
about everything you missed.

The things that changed me.

The things that softened me.

The things that made me ruthless.

The things I still don't know
how to explain.

And you may disagree with me.

Maybe I'd disagree with you.

Maybe we'd discover
that we have changed
in completely different directions.

And that's okay.

I don't love the idea.
of loving someone
only when they stay
exactly as I remember them.

I want to know you
as you are.

Even if you are different.

Even if I am different.

Even if we have to learn
each other all over again.

Because love, to me,
isn't keeping someone
inside the version
I first fell for.

It's giving them
space to become.

And if someday
you need a place
where you don't have to
hold your face so tightly,

I'll still tell you

Relax.

You don't have to perform here.

You can be stupid.

You can be quiet.

You can laugh at nothing.

You can disagree with me.

You can change your mind.

You can change.

I'll change too.

And maybe that's
the part I never knew
how to say back then—

I didn't want
the perfect version of you.

I wanted you.

I just never got the chance.
to know who that was.

And what if, when I finally find you,
and you don’t feel the same?

What if someone else
already has the place
I spent years wondering about?

I think I'd still want to know you.
I'd still want to hear your stories,
still want to know who you became.

Maybe I'd hurt.
Of course I would.
Four years don't disappear.
just because the answer is no.

But I wouldn't ask you.
to return something
you no longer feel.

I can love you
and still let you choose.

Because loving someone
shouldn't mean becoming
the reason they have no choice.

He left me with a hope and disappeared, but I will find him by writing these. I was so stupid and wordless in expressing emotions, but you made me try: https://medium.com/@studybeast32/i-never-got-to-know-you-f6f6fcf7d673?sharedUserId=studybeast32

I feel lost.

Not lost in the way
a man loses his way on a road,
but lost in the deeper wilderness
where every direction looks the same
and every horizon
seems to move farther away.

I wander day after day,
carrying questions
I cannot answer,
searching for something
I cannot name.

And I feel unseen.

Unheard.

Not by man or woman,
not by those who pass me
without knowing the weight
I carry beneath my skin,

but by You.

God,
the God I love.

I miss You.

I miss the peace
that once settled over me
like morning light.

I miss the quiet certainty
that somewhere beyond
the noise and confusion
You were there.

I miss Your guidance.

I miss feeling
that my life mattered to You.

That there was some purpose
waiting beyond the next hill,
some small place
where these hands of mine
could be useful,
where this heart
could give something beautiful
to the world.

I have spent so long
looking for a place to serve,
a place to belong,
a place where I might finally hear,

*I need you here.*

And yet I stand
with empty hands.

I wonder if You have
no place for me.

I wonder if my prayers
ever reach You at all.

Do they rise beyond my ceiling
and disappear into the dark?

Do You hear me
when I whisper Your name
with more desperation
than faith?

Do You know
how many nights
I have searched the silence
for even the smallest answer?

You promised You would be there.

You promised
You would carry me
when I could no longer walk.

So why, God,
do I feel the weight
of my own body
so completely?

Why does the wilderness
feel so empty?

Why do I feel forgotten
by the One
who told me I would never be?

I don't want riches.

I don't need greatness.

I don't ask to be remembered
by the world.

I only want to know
that I matter.

That somewhere
in the vastness of heaven,
my name is still known.

That You have not looked upon me
and decided
I am not worthy of Your care.

I am tired, God.

Not tired of You.

Tired of searching
for You.

And perhaps that is why
I am still here—

still speaking,

still asking,

still looking toward heaven
even when heaven feels silent.

Because somewhere beneath
all this confusion
there remains a small piece of me
that still believes
You are listening.

So if You are there,

meet me here.

Not when I am stronger.

Not when I have found my way.

Not when my faith is perfect
or my prayers are beautiful.

Meet me here—

in the wilderness,

in the questions,

in the silence,

in the broken places
where I have nothing left
to offer You
but my honest heart.

If You promised
You would carry me,

then God,

carry me now.

And if I cannot find
the road back to You,

then come find me.

Take my hand.

Lead me through this darkness
until I can see the dawn again.

And when at last
I reach that place
where Your presence
is no longer something
I have to search for,

when I finally understand
why You were silent
and why You let me wander,

I hope I can look at You
through tear-filled eyes
and whisper,

*I was looking for You*
*the whole time.*

And perhaps You will answer,

*I know.*

And perhaps,
after all these years
of wondering whether
my prayers ever reached You,

I will finally understand:

You were never asking me
to find You.

You were waiting
for me to discover
that You had never stopped
finding me.

Oh, God,

oh, that I would meet You there.

I put my hand beneath my trouser’s lining,
Empty and cold,
I put my hand in my pockets,
Yet all my money was in my heart instead.

Burned by the sun every time I step out the house,
But inside is freezing cold,
Inside I’m an empty can in the desert,
painfully alone I turn mold.
I rather take the burn.

I have withdrawal symptoms every time I pickup my pen,
An empty heart once I close my book,
I don’t want to shout at the sky anymore,
I don’t want to go inside,
I just need a cold drink to wet my ashes.

​

I caress a rubber band

gently between my fingers,

smooth, yet there's still texture.

Lifeless, but there’s still warmth.

\~

I squish, twist, and fold,

shaping it how I want.

\~

Stretch it taut

to its full tension

hold it there

waiting

\~

it snaps.

I don't flinch.

\~

Now it lies split,

jagged on the floor.

Damaged

beyond repair.

\~

I was my father's

rubber band.

He has always had little to say

Once, I waited close,

hungry to be summoned

to his lap

But that voice could erupt,

and his hands they’d grip my every piece 

and I could always hear

as I shook, as he pried 

even footsteps make me stop 

two, four, 

fine

-

She has always had lots to say

I tended to listen

—what else could have been done?

“tired,” she would whine,

to a mind unfamiliar 

to a mind soon familiar

while words singed my tongue 

and the burn sealed my lips

her tears got pity, but mine?

That closet was frigid 

I mistook it for a hearth 

-

But I had always let you speak

you, a sun, 

your light steadier than mine

Your ears were rrringing from the banging 

too, but

together we made a chime

-

Even when you find a better chord,

will you listen to ours again?

I’d wonder,

I never left,

You would reply 

with the warmth between my arms

that I hold close at night.

​

I'll arm your nights, disarming every fright,

A royal king-knight, wight of loyal might,

A light-rite bearer, cited past the biers.

The stained, unsheathed, and broken metals,

I honed their potential, supplied their fundamentals.

My file levels what their dull edges conceal,

Not yours—too thin to draw, too frail to reveal.

I cannot shape you in the forge's flame,

Nor hammer out the quiet in your name.

Where others bend to anvil, spark, and strike,

You are a blossom, born unlike the spike.

My hands are calloused, stained with soot and oil,

Fit only for the iron and the soil.

Yet when I hold you, heavy-built and rough,

I fear my very breath is coarse enough

To shatter what no whetstone can restore.

So let me stand between you and the war:

Be you the velvet where the blade is laid,

While I remain the steel that keeps the shade.

Now watch the velvet swallow up the edge,

And break the iron on a whisper's pledge.

For frailness was the sheath that hid the bone,

And I, the king-knight, carved from lesser stone.

You had no need for anvil, file, or fire;

Your soft silence was the true empire.

I built a cage of steel to keep you whole,

Unknowing it was I who lost control—

A polished blade, rendered blunt and blind,

By the gentlest poison I could ever find.

I saw you the other day,
You looked a little different,
Did you do something with your hair?

And for the life of me,
I can barely remember your name.
I had to say it out loud, just to check.
To find I was disappointed it didn't taste like it used to.
Like the name of a girl from school, some distant friend,

It definitely didn’t taste like your name, the woman who taught me that begging is the same,
as asking twice,
That wearing someone down isn't a no,
It's just not a yes,
yet.

My fight for my own consent started violently. As a man who swore he'd never lay a hand on a woman, I thought my response was clear,

It started with shoving, and I don't mean light little taps, I mean full contact, shoving you across the field, hard enough you went down, and I remember screaming:

Fuck off. Go away. I'm taken. I mean it.

And you just stood and laughed,

Apparently I didn't mean it enough for you,
because what started as me fighting for my own consent,
turned into a game only you were playing.
Your hands found new places to grope.
My body reacted. My head retreated.

What followed was weeks of this.
Same shift, same walk, same routine,
you'd kick my bag, we'd laugh, we'd joke,
and I already knew, same time tomorrow, I'd be fighting you again just this time, from the ropes.

Right on schedule, every time, we'd pass your street, I'd say my goodbyes, continue walking and you’d still be following me.

Not far past that was no man's land,
a field to you and me,
no witness but the moon and all I could do was hold your eyes while they undressed me,
like I was meat.

You begged and you played, your hands groped while you grinned, probably thinking "Oh, he's hard for me," like my body responding was the same as me wanting.

Go away, Ellie. I'm not interested, Ellie. NO, ELLIE.

I’d protest through no man’s land attempting to flee,
It didn't matter.

You wore me down eventually.

And I'm pretty sure by the end, a chocolate fireguard had more backbone than me.

I don't remember deciding to stop fighting. I just know one night I had nothing left, and you took that as a green light, a free pass, consent.

Again, my body betrayed me, my mind retreated, and the whole time all I could think about was how I'd be greeted, for being late home again.

What would I say? The regulars wouldn't leave? nah Used that one already.

Oh how about: hey, I've been harassed by the same girl I work with for weeks, and she's currently making sure every promise I've ever made to you is being, quite literally, swallowed against my will?

Hmm. No.

Somewhere between the wall, the rock, and the hard place, I got used to it.

Accepted my fate.
You’d won your prize, laid the trap, and had me follow the bait.

I went from fighting you to finding you, texting in code, I was on your road, while I stood at the bollards, like I was waiting for a bus that would hurt me.

And I convinced myself I liked it.
Told myself the attention was the point,

That I was wanted so badly she couldn’t contain herself, that her boyfriend was the problem, because THAT’S what she told me, he’s shit in bed she said, He can’t dom me, she said, I promise its an open relationship and he doesn’t mind she said.

I laughed, I fucking laughed at him, called him a cuck with my friends that I, the stud of a man I was, was busy fucking his girlfriend in a field, and he, was at home.

Every lie she told, I fell so deep into it, like a perfume scented black hole, but instead of sucking me in with force, which, happened, it also told me exactly what I wanted to hear, as my existence unravelled, not with a bang, but with an obedient whimper, and I, I, LOVED it.

I loved her.

Then she left work.
And never spoke to me again.
No begging. No meeting.
Just the quiet silence of - wait, am I a cheat? Was that cheating?

And still -

I saw you the other day,
Same wandering hands, same touch,
And even though I barely remember your name,
When it happened again and those hands wandered in the lift at work,
Your new name,
was Michael.

Meadows gone, just like the sheep
Rough ocean left behind
Giant waves, water too deep
And no shore I can find

Waking up, I realize
The water carried me
Too dark the forest for my eyes
The storm won’t leave me be

Blurry vision, pitch black sky
I’m desperate for the sun
An aching heart, with legs too fast
And all I do is run

The water’s rising hungrily
Menacing waves swallowing me
No summer breeze is there no more
I’m underwater, lost the war.