"are you contemplating? did you observe enough?  
have you surveyed them all?  
have you scanned me, inspected my wounds, and scrutinized me whole?  
did you see—view the noisy entities that lie around me?  
thanks and regards, i hope i helped you with your study."


would you go ahead and just cry, baby?
i told you before—i've been poisoned a lot.

snakes, ghosts, waning moon in the shadows—
breathing slow, i gasp for more.
someone plays on the drums; the night feels alive.
my skin thrums—there's something under it tonight.

i've traced paths, points on a corkboard,
placed tags along as i go,
walking in the direction that leads back to the very center.
traps—traps—oh, so many.
they’ve set me up too many times—
i wonder if even they found it uncanny.

like a spider's web—intricate, yet messy—
it knows what it’s doing,
yet sometimes makes unsolicited errors
in the repeated counting,
as does the world around me.

long in motion, trapped, all of it a lie—
a plot, so humongously tried.
something about the way they speak,
how the smile almost always means the same thing,
how it reaches the eyes that carry a darkness so queer.

truth has always been one breath away—
i took that one—gasped, coughed, choked it out,
watched the mask slip.
they didn’t fall—i did.

viewers from the third eye, melancholic stillness in their sight,
piece by piece, watched me crash.
saw me bury the upturned corpses of all that i’d had,
crestfallen under the weight of secrets—
too many, too layered, too loud to ignore.
never meant to carry, never meant to become
merely the pawn, the bug stuck in the web—
yet desolated, they stained it mad.

there’s blood on me—
not theirs, but my own.
as i rasp out to repeat:
withered flowers still had the same old thorns,
as if sharpened by hand—like a dagger against stone.

you don’t realize how much it *****
when you have to pretend the lie doesn’t hurt.
and when the lie is you—all of you—
it’s like smiling a wisp away from the hug of death.
perchance, if anything’s left,
add it here. leave it be.
the texts, the calls, the hidden clues play on—
you dare cheat?

leering through the red trees,
the sparks of the stars that once whispered memories—
it’s so cold in this place, like being stuck in a maze.
every turn, a version of you exists,
one that i didn’t know how to name.
i’ve met enough to barely remember how to count—
or which number i’d reached.

no escape clauses here, just sounds of glass shattering.
trust is what lies on the ground beneath your feet.
i’ve seen the graveyard where all my hope lies,
sleeping since forever—
it’s been quite a while.
maybe the betrayal isn’t always the worst part—
maybe it’s the quiet.
the silence of watching the lies be watered,
brought up into flowers.
ones with thorns—
the thorns that ***** the same hand which had sown
the seeds—
it always comes back in a loop.
and i promise it’ll come back to hit you.

i’ve been poisoned enough to know
when it’s mere liquor,
or when it’s laced with sweeter wine—
the one that carries all the enzymes
needed to make me curl up,
squeeze the inside of my guts,
choke out my heart,
watch it be torn through
by hands that resemble claws.

you’re like an eagle—
beady-eyed and grinning.

they’ve said love comes with a price,
that bonds need no ice.
this setup, alas, was stitched with rot.
i walked into it willingly.
though i wasn’t the only pawn—
unknowingly so.

check the board again, my love—
who all stand? who made the rules?
i store it in a vessel—
the tragedy i have become.
you didn’t follow all the runes.
all you need to know,
even as you watch my corpse fall:
poison has come to know its own.
and despite all—you were all that i needed as an antidote,
to stop the black that visibly spreads through my veins.
you and i watch it reach up to my eyes—
one last glance.
the board shall remember:
i'll take your name.
you.

She only smokes when she’s spiraling or performing.
Usually both.
Says she loves a dramatic flourish—
exhales like a closing line,
laughs like a scratched record.

You’ll meet her at a party that’s already ending.
She'll kiss you like she’s trying to delete her own mouth,
like you’re just the eraser.
She'll leave before sunrise
because she hates how the light arrives slowly,
and can’t stand watching the world wake up
and not call her back.

If you ask what she’s looking for,
she’ll point at the exit sign and say,
“Something with the same glow.”
You’ll think she’s flirting,
but she’s actually just listening hard
for the next excuse to leave.

If you ask for her number,
she’ll give you a poem,
one with no punctuation
and a key taped to the back.
Not to her place.
To your undoing.

She tells stories like she’s double-daring
the past to contradict her.
Someone once told her
she seems like the kind of girl
who disappears mid-sentence.
She said,
“Only when the sentence forgets I started it.”

She collects promises like matchbooks:
already scorched,
still reeking of places
that almost got her to stay.

At dinner parties,
she compliments your cutlery
then slices the conversation open.
Asks what you hate most about your mother
before the bread hits the table.

You’ll want to know her real name.
She’ll say something like,
“It’s carved into a tree somewhere,”
before you realize
you’ve already said it in your sleep.

And when you find the poem she gave you
weeks later,
crumpled in your coat pocket,
you’ll swear you hear her laugh
when you read the last line out loud:
“Don’t follow. I haunt better when I’m alone.”

She’s the reason
someone, somewhere,
is learning the difference
between being worshipped
and being watched.

And when she finally leaves—
because she always does—
you’ll swear you still smell
ozone, orange blossom,
and the beginning of a very pretty ruin.

She leaves you rearranged—
not broken,
just fluent in a dead dialect
that only speaks in warning signs.

You’ll start writing things
you don’t remember feeling
and calling it healing.
But it’s just possession.
The poem wasn’t for you.
It was the door.

She doesn’t burn bridges.
She just convinces them to jump.

She never really leaves.
She just sets the room on fire
and watches who runs toward the smoke.

(And if she ever comes back—
and she will—
don’t blink.
She’s made of edits,
and she notices cuts.)