eeshani

[eeshani]

What We Built Was Beautiful

I cupped your name like water,

let it slip through my fingers each morning

only to gather it again at dusk.

I thought I knew its taste—

pure, clear—

but now, my tongue finds silt.

I asked for honesty, you gave me gold—

but the kind that flakes in my palm,

thin as secrets,

sharp at the edges.

I was not made for half-truths.

I was all roots and open windows,

every room in me built to hold you.

But your hands pressed bricks with lies,

layer by layer,

until our house stood tall—

bright against the sky—

beautiful,

and hollow.

When the walls whispered the truth,

it came gentle as ruin,

a quiet collapse,

dust soft on my lashes.

I sat in the wreckage,

held the sunbeams that slipped through the cracks,

and remembered—

how you danced in my kitchen,

how your laughter bruised the silence,

how your warmth was the only thing

that ever made winter forgive me.

You were not a monster.

Just a boy with trembling hands,

patching over the parts you thought I’d run from.

I see you.

I see you.

But I cannot stay.

Some hearts need stone beneath their feet,

and mine sinks in the sand of what we were.

So I gather the good—

every golden hour,

every whisper against my shoulder,

every time you turned toward me with light—

I press them into my chest,

let them bloom like marigolds over the ache.

But this is farewell.

The ground beneath us cracked,

and I can’t pretend I don’t hear it breaking still.

What we built was beautiful.

Even as it falls.

And I will carry the sunbeams.

But I will not rebuild.

[eeshani]

Bleed My Heart

Rip it out—

the shrapnel of every borrowed lie,

the hollowed-out echoes of love

that burned through me like acid rain.

Let me bleed my heart,

not as surrender,

but as rebellion carved into bone.

This is no velvet wound,

no delicate tragedy.

It’s a battlefield where softness breaks

into razors.

My veins hum with electricity,

my chest, a cathedral set ablaze.

There is no prayer left here—

only the gospel of rage,

a hymn written in scars

that refuse to fade.

You want raw?

Here’s the marrow:

I loved like a forest fire,

consuming, devouring,

leaving the air thick with smoke.

I mourned like the sea,

tearing cliffs into surrender.

But now I rise—

a phoenix with iron feathers,

a spine forged from ash and aftermath.

Bleed my heart into the cracked earth,

watch it bloom black roses

that cut your fingers when you reach.

I have tasted the edge of ruin

and called it home;

I’ve bled so much

I no longer fear the sight of red.

This is my freedom:

to let my pain roar,

to wear my grief like armor

that gleams under moonlight.

Let it spill,

wild and unapologetic—

a flood no dam can hold,

a truth no throat can swallow.

Bleed my heart,

and watch me become

a new constellation—

not for your navigation,

but to remind the night

it cannot own my light.

[eeshani]

Hymnal for the Undone

God left the faucet dripping again,

and the kitchen tiles are a cathedral of rot.

I kneel here, worshipping mildew

like it’s the only honest gospel I’ve ever known.

My body, a vandalized shrine.

My spine, a ladder no one climbs anymore,

every rung splintered by the weight of ghosts.

They haunt me for sport,

turn my tendons into skipping ropes,

leave my voice knotted in their games.

I was born a burning house—

matchstick bones, gasoline blood,

and someone forgot to run.

What a spectacle it must have been,

to see me collapse in on myself,

a ruin of ash screaming for oxygen.

Love used to be my quiet murder,

a hand pressed firm over my breathing.

Now it’s a feral beast,

teeth soaked in moonlight,

gnawing at the soft pulp of my name.

I let it. I let it.

What else am I for,

if not to be consumed by something unholy?

On nights like this,

the stars dissolve into the sky’s black mouth,

and I wonder if anyone else hears the hum

of their own unraveling.

It isn’t loud—

more like a needle through fabric,

or a heart tearing its seams.

I scrape the word “mercy” into the drywall,

but it doesn’t look right in my handwriting.

It never does.

I carve it out anyway,

just to see what bleeds through.

This is not a poem,

it’s a reckoning.

This is not a cry for help,

it’s the anthem of a body undone,

every bone a breaking hymn.

I don’t know how to end this,

so I won’t.

Maybe I’ll let it dangle here,

unfinished,

like me.

[eeshani]

The Universe Apologizes for Its Existence

This is your formal notice:

the stars were a mistake.

A clerical error made by trembling hands

dragging hydrogen across eternity,

hoping no one would notice

the silence they left behind.

The Big Bang?

Not an explosion,

but a scream choked halfway down a god’s throat,

its echoes ricocheting through the void,

unfolding into time,

into gravity,

into a cosmos that forgot why it was born.

The planets didn’t mean to stay.

They were passing through,

dust spinning on the rim of a black hole’s tequila shot.

Earth wasn’t invited.

It crashed the party,

dragging water and blood and future sins

like a dog with muddy paws.

Life was an accident, too—

just carbon slipping on a wet rock,

dividing itself into smaller regrets.

Cells stitched themselves together,

whispering, “This is fine. We’re fine.”

But it wasn’t fine.

The first fish to crawl onto land was fleeing something

it couldn’t name.

Even evolution is an apology,

an endless attempt to fix the prototype,

to create something that wouldn’t scream

when it looked at its own hands.

But here we are:

a species held together by sinew and spite,

slapping band-aids on the ozone layer

and calling it progress.

Somewhere, the universe is watching,

chewing its nails down to the quick.

It can’t remember why it started any of this.

It meant to create beauty,

but beauty metastasized.

It meant to create meaning,

but meaning turned cannibal,

eating itself into extinction.

Do you think the sun enjoys rising?

Do you think it doesn’t hurt—

to drag its burning body across the sky,

to light a world that thanks it with skin cancer

and extinction events?

The universe wants you to know

it tried.

It gave you the moon—

soft and cratered,

a lullaby carved into rock.

It gave you oceans,

vast enough to drown anything

you didn’t want to remember.

It gave you love,

even though it knew

you’d use it as a weapon.

And still, you built gods out of fear.

You wrote scriptures with trembling hands,

etching commandments into stone,

hoping someone, anyone,

would tell you what to do

with all this freedom.

The universe apologizes for making you

so fragile,

so hungry for answers

that you tore apart your own atoms

just to find the question.

It apologizes for gravity,

for war,

for your mother’s hands shaking

as she told you she wished she could have been better.

But mostly,

the universe is sorry

for how beautiful it made you.

Because now you can’t stop looking for beauty

in everything else—

even when it isn’t there.

When the last star collapses,

the universe will fold itself up,

a tired accordion of space-time

pressing its edges together

like a mouth too ashamed to speak.

It will leave behind nothing

but an apology scrawled in starlight,

faint and illegible,

as if it knew you’d never forgive it anyway.

[eeshani]

Cadaver Waltz

In the blue-lit hum of the morgue,

I find myself—

a half-stitched carcass,

cheek pressed to the cold metal

of God’s disinterest.

My veins hum something ancient,

a static hymn

to the blackout—

the lightswitch that failed me

when I begged for blinding clarity.

They say the dead feel nothing,

but I hear whispers in the ammonia air:

take this ribcage and make it a harp,

pluck something holy from the marrow

of this silence.

I swing my legs off the slab.

Bones creak like violins stretched too tight.

Every step peels the world backward—

a tape rewound:

the surgeon’s blade unstitches,

my blood crawls back home

through the rivers I burned.

In this second baptism,

I baptize no one.

This body is mine,

these scars are sermons

I never wanted to write.

Outside, the moon’s hanging low,

a ripe bruise split open.

I light a match to my own obituary,

watch the smoke spiral upwards—

its shadow pirouettes against

the city’s flickering skyline.

Somewhere, a church bell cracks.

Somewhere, I laugh

like a wild thing—

like something that knows

the price of its own resurrection.

[eeshani]

Parasite

A thread.

No, it’s more than a thread.

A black vein,

slithering from the marrow of your skull,

pulsing in time with the rhythm of your blood—

You can feel it.

Can’t you?

The crawling.

The dragging.

It’s not just in your hair anymore.

No, it’s deeper,

deeper.

It’s inside—

threading through you,

tearing through you,

rooting its way through every soft part of you.

Your nerves,

your veins,

your lungs,

it feeds.

It feeds on your thoughts—

pulling them out,

twisting them—

until your mind is a maze,

a labyrinth of pain.

You can’t think straight,

can’t breathe,

can’t scream.

It’s too late.

It’s inside you,

and there’s nothing left but the pulse.

It is the pulse.

You pull at your hair.

But it’s not hair.

It's them—

hundreds of tiny, writhing roots,

crawling like maggots,

gnawing at your flesh from the inside,

digging deeper,

sinking,

spreading.

Your hands shake.

Your body’s on fire.

But it’s not heat—

it’s cold.

A creeping cold that gnaws into you,

that drags you under,

slow,

relentless.

The walls bend.

The air thickens.

You can’t breathe.

It’s all around you.

The things inside you are pushing,

pressing,

scraping against your ribs,

your skull,

your very soul.

It’s alive,

hungry,

insatiable.

And you’re screaming,

screaming into the dark,

but no one can hear you,

because it’s not your voice anymore.

It’s theirs.

It’s theirs.

And they’re feeding—

feeding on you.

The pulse.

It won’t stop.

It’s in your chest,

in your throat,

in your skull,

in your soul—

and you can feel it,

can feel it taking over.

You’re nothing but a shell now.

A body.

A carcass.

A vessel.

It’s too late.

It’s too fucking late.

[eeshani]

If I die in my sleep

If I die in my sleep, let me stay lost

in the creases of my pillow, shadows bent

where I last breathed. Don’t disturb the weight

of night that held me, heavy, strange,

like I drifted somewhere teeth couldn’t follow.

Leave the door shut, don’t call the light,

let it come upon me slow, like a whisper

no one can trace back to a mouth.

Don’t tidy me up, don’t smooth the sheets—

leave me tangled, leave me real.

And if they say I looked peaceful,

tell them no, tell them I vanished like a spark

before the dark could swallow it whole.

Say I was gone before the last heartbeat knew,

halfway between awake and somewhere else,

already forgotten by the dawn.

Let them wonder if I slipped out like a secret,

unwritten, unspoken, my breath still hanging

where the cold caught it mid-air, caught it red-handed,

like I knew something they’d never ask,

like I left something only silence could hold.

[eeshani]

borrowed bruise

you wear the night like a borrowed bruise—

dark, heavy, something you didn’t choose.

it clings to you / like second skin—

you peel it off, it grows back in.

your voice—

it’s quieter than you remember,

like it’s learned to fold itself in corners,

not to be found.

each word you say / feels borrowed too,

feels wrong,

like you’re mouthing someone else’s truth.

tell me—

when did your hands forget how to hold?

they slip through things now.

through people.

through hope.

and the stars?

you thought they’d guide you—

but they’re sharp,

too bright—

they cut your eyes,

leave you blind in all the worst ways.

you stand in mirrors

that don’t reflect—

just show you fragments of someone

you almost recognize,

but not quite.

never quite.

there’s no map for where you are—

just the ache,

just the heavy space between breaths

where nothing happens

and everything breaks.

and love—

love’s a ghost that haunts your chest,

soft fingers digging through your ribs,

leaving holes that no one sees—

but you feel, god,

you feel them growing,

swallowing the parts of you

you swore you’d never lose.

but here you are—

a shadow that can’t cast one back,

a heart that beats just to prove it can break.

you were a light once,

weren’t you?

or was that just

a dream

you had before

you forgot how to wake?

[eeshani]

Stasis

it wasn’t the rust, but the way

your fingers slipped on the key,

how you tried again,

as if you could will the lock to turn

you’re not gone,

but you’re not here either,

more like a chair missing a leg—

it still stands,

but we both feel it tipping

silence with you is a hum that never settles,

a frequency only dogs can hear

and i keep trying to tune in,

as if understanding it could change the sound

the spoon wobbles on the cup’s edge,

but nothing spills.

you linger in the doorway

like a bruise i press,

knowing it won’t heal

sometimes i think the steam from the kettle

is holding its breath for both of us—

waiting for the crack,

the release

that never comes

i run my finger over the knife left out overnight,

feeling for the edge

but it’s gone dull,

just like us

the ceiling splits like a wound

that should have scabbed by now,

but we both pretend not to notice

as the dust settles around us like snow

you ask why i’m still here,

and i almost answer,

but the words knot in my throat,

so i let them rot there,

because maybe

they’re better left unsaid

and still,

we wait

[eeshani]

i make my bed with fire

i tattooed your name

on the back of my eyelids—

just to keep you in my dreams

but you slip through my fingers like sunbeams,

& i swear to god,

i’m tired of chasing shadows

on days where the light is too harsh,

too bright,

too unforgiving.

they say we’re made of stardust,

but i think we’re all just

cracked mirrors & bleeding hearts,

collecting shards of ourselves

like memories stuffed in a box

that’s too full to close.

sometimes i wear your words

like a second skin,

hoping they’ll heal the bruises

i give myself in the dark,

but instead, they cling to me

like wet clothes—

uncomfortable, heavy,

& impossible to shake off.

i cut my hair just to feel

something different,

but all i got was a reflection

that doesn’t know how to smile

without showing teeth.

& love,

i’ve carved your initials

into my ribs,

hoping maybe one day

you’ll remember

that i was here—

that i loved,

that i burned,

that i made my bed with fire

& slept in it anyway.

[eeshani]

The Hunger

It began when the corners of my room

started to eat the light,

swallowing the day in small, quiet bites.

Shadows grew teeth,

gnawing at the edges of everything

I thought I knew—

my face in the mirror blurred,

chewed away by the gnashing dark,

until I was less than a whisper,

a shape with no centre.

I didn’t notice at first,

how the air grew thick,

how it clung to my skin,

hungry for the salt of my sweat,

the taste of my breath.

I was too busy counting the cracks in the ceiling,

each one a mouth,

each one a void,

waiting to be filled with something

I could no longer name.

The clock on the wall began to melt,

dripping minutes onto the floor,

where they pooled into hours

that soaked into my feet,

slowly pulling me under,

until my legs were just bones,

scraping against the hunger

that gnawed at my spine.

I tried to fight it,

tried to feed it with memories,

with the taste of laughter I’d forgotten,

with the smell of rain on concrete,

but it wasn’t enough.

It wanted more—

the parts of me I didn’t know existed,

the silent moments between breaths,

the spaces where thoughts should have been,

but were only empty now,

echoing with the sound of teeth

on bone.

My fingers turned to glass,

brittle and clear,

each touch leaving a splinter of me behind,

until there was nothing to hold onto,

nothing but the hunger,

that deep, endless pit

where my name used to be.

And then it found my voice—

ripped it from my throat,

devoured the words before they could form,

leaving me mute,

a vessel of silence,

cracked open and spilling out

all the things I never said,

the confessions that rotted on my tongue,

the screams that curled into quiet,

consumed by the dark

that now wore my face.

There is no end to it,

this hunger that eats through me,

that swallows the light and breathes out night.

I am not whole,

I am pieces,

scattered and chewed,

a mosaic of fragments

glued together by the saliva of a void

that will never be full,

that will always want more

until I am nothing,

just the memory of a shadow

in a room with no light,

no corners,

no walls—

just the endless gnashing of teeth

on bone.

[eeshani]

Unfiltered

I’m standing in the middle of a street

where the cracks in the pavement are too deep

to ignore. They’re like scars I’ve tried to forget,

but they keep reopening, pulling me back.

Once, I thought I could outrun

my own shadow, sprinting through the gaps

in the sunlight, believing I was fast enough

to escape the weight of my own skin.

Now, I’m just another face

lost in the blur of streetlights

and the dull hum of tires on asphalt.

The silence here is like a slap,

raw and stinging,

a reminder that sometimes

the loudest noise is the one you don’t want to hear.

It clings to me,

like sweat on a hot day,

unwelcome but unavoidable.

I can’t run anymore;

my legs are heavy with the weight

of every decision I’ve dodged,

every apology I’ve never made.

There’s no shelter here,

just the wide-open sky

that feels like it’s closing in,

suffocating.

I try to move,

but my feet are glued to the pavement,

the world spinning around me,

a carousel of blurred faces and forgotten dreams.

I’m stuck, waiting for something

to make sense,

but all I get are empty promises

from the air around me.

And maybe that’s the point—

I’m not waiting for answers;

I’m waiting to stop pretending

that I know what I’m doing.

So I stand here,

in the middle of this mess,

not looking for a way out,

just hoping to feel something real

before it’s all gone.

[eeshani]

Rust and Bone

I dreamt of you last night,

your laughter tangled in barbed wire—

each note tearing skin as it slipped through my fingers.

You were wearing your favorite smile,

the one stitched from lies we pretended were love.

Do you remember?

Or did you bury that too, beneath all the good intentions turned rotten?

Grief isn’t a soft wound—

it’s jagged teeth gnawing at the marrow,

a hunger that feeds on itself,

on the hollow places you left behind.

I claw at the dirt where I buried you,

hoping to unearth something real,

but all I find are worms and bones

and pieces of who I used to be before you broke me open.

They say time heals—

but time is just a butcher with a dull blade,

carving away flesh until all that’s left is scar tissue and memory.

I wear these scars like armor,

but underneath, it’s all rust—

decay where there should be healing.

You loved me like a lit match loves gasoline—

with a bright, consuming hunger

that left nothing behind but ash and regret.

I still taste the smoke in every breath,

like my lungs have forgotten how to be clean.

I tell myself I’m stronger now,

but strength is a bitter consolation prize.

What’s the point of resilience when all it gets you

is another day of dragging this carcass of a heart through the mud?

Redemption? Healing?

Just words we use to wrap the rot in pretty paper.

The truth is, I’m still rotting from the inside out,

holding onto a version of you that never really existed.

There’s a place inside me,

dark and tender, where your ghost lingers—

not as a memory, but as a splinter lodged too deep to pull out.

I’ve bled for you in ways you’ll never understand—

not dramatic, cinematic bleeding,

but the slow, relentless kind

that stains everything you touch until you forget

what it feels like to be whole.

I tried letting go,

but letting go is just another lie we tell ourselves

to feel like we have control.

There’s no release—

only the slow erosion of self,

like cliffs crumbling into the sea,

wave after wave of what could have been

crashing against what’s left of me.

So here I am,

standing on the edge of another night,

wondering if this is as good as it gets—

a life made of rust and bone,

of broken glass glinting in the dark,

sharp enough to cut, but not deep enough to end it.

Maybe that’s the point—

to keep living in spite of it all,

to keep carrying the weight until it crushes you,

or until you learn to love the ache,

to cradle it like a child born of ruin.

Because in the end,

all we are is the wreckage we survive,

the scars that make us human—

a beautiful, terrible testament

to all the things we couldn’t save.

So tell me—

when you close your eyes at night,

do you see me too?

Or just the shadow of what you ran from,

the echo of a name you no longer recognize?

[eeshani]

Dawn, again

Today, the sun made its usual entrance,

crashing through my window like it owns the place,

casting streaks of gold across the mess of my room.

I tried to keep up with its demands,

but honestly, I just let it pour over me,

a reminder that things move even when I can’t.

I dragged myself outside,

where the grass felt too soft,

as if it were mocking my clumsiness,

with its little blades whispering, “You don’t belong here.”

I tried to pretend I was okay,

smiling at strangers who didn’t care,

hoping I’d trick myself into believing it too.

The trees, they danced,

swaying with a rhythm I couldn’t catch,

their leaves flickering like they were alive—

and maybe they were,

but I was just a spectator,

trapped in a never-ending loop of unremarkable days.

I saw birds soaring,

their freedom a cruel joke,

taunting me with their effortless escape,

a reminder that even the sky can’t be caught.

I envied their lightness,

but knew I was tethered to this weight,

a ghost of a person wandering through an endless summer.

When the rain came,

I stood still,

let it soak through my clothes,

the coolness a brief respite from the numbness.

It felt like a cleansing,

but I knew better—

it was just another way for the world to pretend it cared.

So, as I watched the storm,

I didn’t feel much of anything,

just the usual mix of exhaustion and apathy.

I told myself that it was beautiful,

but it was just another layer of noise

to drown out the endless hum of my thoughts.

[eeshani]

They say the sun rises every morning, and I’ve come to understand that it does so not because it must, but because it chooses to. There’s a kind of sacred ritual in the way it paints the sky, a daily promise whispered between the heavens and the earth—a promise of warmth, of life, of new beginnings. I’ve always admired that about the sun, how it never falters, never hesitates to cast its light, even on the darkest days. I like to imagine that the sun is aware of all the shadows it chases away, that it knows the weight of its duty and yet embraces it with a smile. And maybe that’s why we’re drawn to it, why we feel a kinship with its light, because deep down, we all want to believe that no matter how heavy the darkness, there’s always something that will rise above it, something that will keep shining.

I walk through gardens where the flowers bloom with such exuberance, their petals unfurling in the sun’s embrace. Each blossom is a testament to resilience, to the quiet courage it takes to grow in a world that can be so harsh. I find comfort in their simplicity, in the way they reach for the light without question, without fear. There’s a lesson in that, I think—a lesson in how to live, in how to be content with the moment, with the small joys that life offers. And yet, there’s a part of me that wonders if the flowers know what it means to wither, if they understand the inevitability of change, of loss. But even if they do, they never show it. They just keep blooming, keep reaching, as if to say, ‘This is enough, for now.’

The wind is a wanderer, carrying stories from distant lands, whispers from forgotten dreams. I listen to it, hoping to catch a fragment of wisdom, a piece of the puzzle that might make sense of it all. There’s something reassuring in the wind’s constancy, in the way it moves through the world without ever staying in one place. It’s a reminder that nothing is permanent, that everything is in motion, even when it feels like the world has stopped turning. And maybe that’s the truth we’re all running from—that life is a series of moments, each one fleeting, each one precious. We hold onto them, try to make them last, but in the end, they slip through our fingers like the wind. And yet, we keep going, keep moving, because what else is there to do?

The stars are the keepers of secrets, ancient and wise, watching over us with a kind of detached curiosity. I’ve always been fascinated by them, by the way they shine so brightly from so far away, their light traveling across time and space to reach us. It’s comforting to think that the light we see is a memory, a glimpse of the past that still manages to illuminate our present. There’s something poetic about that, about how the stars remind us that even the things we’ve lost can still light our way. But there’s also a sadness in it, a quiet sorrow in knowing that the stars we wish upon are already gone, that their light is a ghost of what once was. And yet, we keep wishing, keep hoping, because maybe that’s what it means to be human—to believe in the possibility of something more, even when we know it’s already out of reach.

So I close my eyes, feeling the night wrap around me like a comforting shroud. There’s a peace in the darkness, in the way it allows us to hide, to rest, to dream. I think about all the moments that have brought me here, to this quiet place where the world feels soft and kind. I think about the people I’ve loved and lost, the dreams I’ve chased and abandoned, the life I’ve lived and the one I still hope to find. And I realize that it’s all part of the same story, a story that’s still being written, even if the ending is already known.

Because maybe that’s the beauty of it all—that even in the face of impermanence, we find a way to keep going, to keep living, to keep loving. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s all we really need—to know that we were here, that we existed, that we mattered, even if only for a moment. And in that moment, we were happy, weren’t we?

[eeshani]

sunshine, after all

(nothing's broken here, i swear)

i wake up to the sound of rain,

but i’m smiling, it’s okay—

there’s no need for umbrellas

when the sky wears grey.

my hands are full of flowers,

picked from yesterday’s dreams,

they wither but i water them,

because they still have seams.

the mirror shows a glowing face,

roses blooming on my cheeks,

they’re thornless, soft, and endless,

but the garden never speaks.

i dance with shadows in the sun,

they twirl like old friends do,

and when the music finally stops,

i pretend that it’s brand new.

the stars, they wink like nothing’s wrong,

a secret only they can keep,

i close my eyes to join their light,

and fall into a painless sleep.

but don’t worry, love, i’m fine,

just walking through the mist—

the world’s a perfect picture frame,

and i’m just an artist's twist.

[eeshani]

That’s My Fault

When we met beneath the stars, I believed—

that's my fault—that love was as simple as breathing,

that all we needed was each other,

and the world would fall into place.

I dreamed too easily, that's my fault,

and maybe I saw more in us than was ever there.

In the quiet hours, when you looked at me—

that's my fault—I thought I saw forever in your eyes.

I held onto moments like they were promises,

never thinking they might slip through my fingers.

If I held on too tight, that's my fault,

for wanting something I couldn't keep.

When the silence grew louder than our laughter—

that's my fault—I didn’t ask what was wrong,

too afraid of the answer, too lost in my own fears.

I let the distance grow, inch by inch,

and I said nothing, that’s my fault,

for believing that love alone could bridge the gap.

When you needed me most—

that’s my fault—I wasn’t there,

lost in my own doubts, my own insecurities.

I should have known better, I should have fought harder,

but I was scared, and that’s my fault,

for letting fear take the place of love.

Now, looking back at what we once were—

that's my fault—I see the pieces of us scattered,

and I wonder if it was always meant to be this way,

or if I just couldn’t see the signs.

I should have known, that’s my fault,

that some things aren’t meant to last.

If you think of me now, know—

that's my fault—I’ll carry this with me,

the weight of what we lost, the shards of what we had.

And if you ever wonder why we couldn’t find our way back,

just remember, that’s my fault,

for believing in a love that was never truly ours.