i am nothing if not a metrical romanticist ✧˖° 21 ✧˖°free verse poetic thoughts
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i picked up your dagger
and begged you to stab me
you were afraid to maim
but once you started
you couldn’t stop
bloodlust
agony
i don’t want this anymore
my blood was poison
and my heart was tainted
with your toxins
please bleed me dry,
for the last time.
– closure is a knife.
june 17th, 12:52 am
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i worshipped
the person
i thought i was moulding you into
yet, i ignored that you were made of stone
and no matter how hard i could’ve tried
i knew i couldn’t fix you
with the tools i had.
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yes. i made you up.
you were a figment of what i wanted you to be. you never existed. just the thought of you did. the only thing you gifted me was cruel clarity to the person you really were.
i’ll spend the rest of my days trying to unlearn the made-up version of you i foolishly created.
June 16, 2025, 12:37 am.
did i make you up?
April 22, 2025, 1:50 am.
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it was a clean cut
yet as soon as you left
the bandage unravelled
and it left me a stained mess
you will walk away
with not even a scratch
but i can still see
the silent blood
splattered on your hands.
it’s over, but i’m left here bleeding out from your knife.
15 June, 2:27 pm
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“The most confused we ever get is when we’re trying to convince our heads of something our heart knows is a lie.”
— Karen Marie Moning
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I will haunt you bitterly from every angle you look and I’m not there.
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a short conversation with my mother, earlier today.
i am not doing well mentally.
why? you must know why.
i don’t know why.
you do everything you want to do.
then why is it never enough?
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i am always just the filler of someone’s void.
june 9th, 10:32 pm
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i’m no good at anything
beside being morose
an uncomfortable familiarity
we sit in silence
and navigate through life
with a knife, she slices steadily,
through my heart
mindful to not make a mess.
i sit and oblige
as if there is nothing i can do
to help myself
i know the moment
i feel an ounce of exultation
it would last the dusk
but not make it through the dawn.
june 5th, 12:13am.
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i long to understand
the deep despair in my bones
in which i was born with
for i cannot grasp the concept
where i am meant to chase happiness
when loneliness
is the only thing that ever seems to find me.
May, (n.d.).
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“These pains you feel are messengers. Listen to them.”
— Rumi
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i’m too much of a lover for some half ass shit
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remember
though you are up, longing for their presence,
they are asleep, admiring your absence.
didn’t you want to make them happy?
2:50 am.
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i’ll be very honest, being loved by someone like me isn’t soft or beautiful or poetic the way people romanticize it. it’s dark. it’s obsessive. it’s a kind of hunger that doesn’t stop once it starts. and the worst part? when you live far from the person you love, the love doesn’t dissolve— it ferments. it festers. the poems stop sounding like love letters and start feeling like screams no one hears. it’s not yearning anymore, it’s erosion. a slow-burning cannibalism of your own self.
because what’s the point of loving someone you can’t touch? can’t reach? can’t whisper things to at 2 am when the world is too quiet and your brain won’t shut up? it just stays trapped. inside you. turns sour. turns sharp. turns cruel. and then it spreads. into your fists. into your teeth. into the corners of your smile. and you carry it around like a curse no one else can see.
it’s fucking miserable being loved by someone like me. because i don’t just love. i collapse. quietly. completely. endlessly.
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you are a cinephile
yet you won’t seem to recite
the script you have promised me.
June 1st, 2:37 am.
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