Her laughter and smile still taunts me
So warm and bright
I still hear her footsteps, wanting to flee
Trying to flee, into the broad of daylight.

I sometimes think i see her, still there
I can’t tell if it’s a reflection with red
Because if i glare,
I remember that i’m staring at imperfection with dread.

“It’s alright, i’ll come back soon”
She would say with a warm smile.
I don’t believe her, it was already June
Come back, it has been a while.

“You’ll see me, but i can’t promise i will be okay.”
Those were her promises that she made before going towards the light
I pray and pray
But she didn’t give a sign of life.

Pure red, like a healthy child has
It flows with a breath and nutrients
But with a flash
Her flow breaks out of its placement

I’ve died so many quiet deaths—
shedding selves that were never wrong,
just no longer true.

Each one carried me
as far as it could
before laying itself down
so I could rise.

Now that I’ve found healing,
I see it was always there—
a quiet knowing,
guiding me forward
through the dark.

But now I wonder—
was it the knowing that shaped the path,
or the path that shaped the knowing?
Did I become who I was meant to be,
or did I simply arrive
where I’d always been?

I am wilted. I am weary.
I am weathered. I am worn.
I am stuffed with seeping sadness, and stewed in sticky, seething scorn.

I am deflated. Thoughts debunked.
And I am drowned in desperate dread.  
When I soak my roots in water, I find it dries them out instead.

I am wilted. I am weary.
I am wilted. I am worn.

The key to my happiness to him,
He was ungrateful and toxic
He took and never gave in return,
So I cut him off from my life,
It was refreshing,
Like I was standing under the clear blue sky,
The sun winking at me,
The soft breeze caressing my skin and ruffling my hair,
That's my girl.
13/5/2025

Longing for a life we never shared,
A day or night spent in simple care,
Cooking breakfast, making plans,
Holding each other’s tender hands.

Stealing kisses, going on walks,
Loving each other amidst the rocks,
Hiking, laughing, total bliss,
That's the life that I dearly miss.

The poetry graveyard
They call delete
Millions of words written
None shall meet.
Sentences
nouns and verbs
All forgotten
Never to be disturbed.
Poetry written
not to be read
Into the graveyard
Along with the dead.