Evidence

I carry every interaction like a heavy stone—

each unanswered text, each casual “no,”

the way my name gets lost in group conversations

while I count the hours between hellos.

I wish I could reach through the screen

with steady hands, send messages

that don’t apologize for existing,

that don’t end with “sorry, never mind.”

There’s a person I am in crowded rooms—

laughing at the right moments,

making quirky remarks,

trying so hard to fill the space with safe observations—

and another who waits by the phone.

If I could be the friend I see in others,

the one who calls just because,

who doesn’t rehearse vulnerability

or calculate the weight of caring too much,

maybe then the distance would collapse.

Maybe then I’d stop translating silence

into evidence of my own forgetting,

and learn that love doesn’t always echo back

in the exact shape we send it out.

I cared too deeply for you.

So to undo that,

I tried to learn everything—

to gather the facts,

assemble the clues,

predict the way you'd leave.

But I never knew enough

to see that you'd go

just as you arrived:

so soon, so sudden,

like a ghost in the wind.

The Mirror's Truth

Today I cracked open like an egg,

spilling truth across the kitchen floor—

I hunger for their eyes on me,

these friends who think they know my truth.

I wake each morning heavy-limbed,

dragging shadows from my dreams,

hating the stranger in the mirror

who stares back with hollow eyes.

But when I'm with them, oh—

I spin myself into gold thread,

weaving stories from my days

that make me shimmer, make me red

with borrowed light. I craft a self

they cannot help but love and praise,

while my true face hides behind

this mask I've worn for countless days.

The weight of pretense burns my chest—

they know a ghost, a pretty lie.

I fear if I should show my truth,

their love would wither up and die.

So here I stand between two selves:

the one they love, the one I hate.

A fraud who craves what frauds can't have—

acceptance that might come too late.

But maybe in this breaking down,

this seeing clearly for the first time,

there lives a seed of something real—

a chance to climb out of this mime.

Maybe it's not too late to try

to let the mask slip, piece by piece,

to risk their love for something true,

to find, at last, a kind of peace.

it hurts so damn much

when my mind loops back

to that voice in the dark—

the one that knows my name

but not my worth.

it whispers like truth,

repeating the lie:

i will never be enough,

never be worth love,

not even to myself.

Proof

I write these poems

to somehow convince myself of my worth,

that I am happy and okay—

that the voices in my head are wrong

when they whisper I will forever be alone,

that no one will ever care for me.

All these careful lies I construct

because of a hollow space in my brain

that never seems to quiet,

an echo chamber of doubt

that swallows every reassurance.

I write these poems

so I can hold physical proof

in my trembling hands

that I am in control,

that my words can build gardens

in the spaces between my ribs

where loneliness lives.

But how many poems must I write

before I finally believe them?

How many times must I spell out

I am loved

I am worthy

I am happy to exist

before these black marks on white paper

become more than wishes—before they become truth?

It's all something I've heard before

but never in words; always through action.

The same mantra into the digital void,

As if repetition could make it holy.

"It's been a busy day. Let's talk later."

I became a forensic linguist,

analyzing the timestamp between sent and seen,

counting the heartbeats in your delayed replies,

and reading the scripture of your absence.

The findings did not surprise me.

The mystery solved itself.

At the end of the day, later never came.

Those first three days, your messages

arrived like morning newspapers,

full of headlines about your ordinary miracles:

coffee shop encounters, deadline victories,

the small rebellions of a Tuesday.

I collected them like pressed flowers

before the silence started its slow approach,

excavating spaces between your words.

Your texts became postcards from a distant country.

You promised transparency, swore against ghosts,

yet here you practice the art of careful haunting:

present enough to keep hope burning,

but absent enough to starve the flame.

How do you balance

the want to be alone

and the need to be known?

My world fills with silence

and the dread that I will never find

any sort of connection—

with a companion or myself.

Must I learn to depend on myself alone,

always rummaging for reasons

to love my own company

when it gets harder

each day that passes,

going home to an empty room—

no messages waiting,

no calls to look forward to,

no body to rest against.

How do I become better at being alone?

And why do I feel empty in the presence of others?

Would someone please tell me

how to balance

the want to be alone

and the need to be known?

Somehow there’s always something missing,

that I want to find in other people.

a massive void that I can’t farctate—

so I attempt, in every conversation,

with a friend, a stranger, family, lover,

to let it all flood my senses, and feel

whatever it is that i can’t seem to feel.

But nothing ever feels right.

then i started to look inwards, and found,

that there was never a void—

It was all just discontent,

a friend of unhappiness.

I would rather be happy and alone

than spend a miserable time waiting

for a text that will never come—

Better to dance in empty rooms

to music only I can hear,

to laugh at movies meant for one,

to cook small meals with extra care.

Better to walk through morning light

without checking my phone,

to read whole books in single breaths,

to make a sanctuary of my own.

There’s peace in not expecting

what was never meant to be,

in choosing my own company

over hollow promises that flee.

I’ve learned that waiting

is just another word for hoping

someone else will fill the spaces

I can fill myself.

So let me be content

in this quiet contentment,

let me find joy in solitude’s gift—

the freedom to be whole

without apology,

without the weight

of unanswered messages

dragging down my heart.

I choose the lightness

of my own presence

over the heaviness

of their absence.

In a way,
he helped me realize it all—

something that's lived in me


for years but never acknowledged.

It was there, hiding in plain sight:


the need to be apparent and obvious,


clawing its way out of my ribs—


the need to be wanted.

And not only romantically,


but in ways where people 

would call my name,


search for my voice, 

hold my hand.


In ways that would validate my right to exist.

What I really need is to realize


that my right to exist should rest


in the way I can hold myself steady,


in feeling the love I never had for myself,


in being secure within my own thoughts—


so I don't need anyone else to fill the quiet.

In a way,
he helped me realize 

I was afraid
of being alone


when there's nothing to be afraid of.

There’s fear in figuring out who you are

but there is also excitement.

Anxious, pacing, unnerving, delight.

All these emotions rise when you realize

there’s so much in life and in you

that you haven’t known yet.

Time will help you move—

but people will help you know.

There are no small roles in your life;

the person you met at a random bar

might just be the person

who will bring you harsh realities.

Or the sister you grew up with

might give you an example

of what it looks like if you just

let go and give it a chance. 

You just have to be open to the experience—

open to knowing what’s missing.

And, though, there is fear in finding out,

there is also joy to being handed all the pieces.

All you have to do is be open to putting 

it all right in place to see a world worth living.

Dismantling Love

I have come to dismantle


my own idea of what love


should look and feel like—

to finally arrive at the truth


that I am loved, 

despite the silence,


the absence, 

the yearning,


and the loneliness that visits.

The love I give is real


and what I receive may be too.


I cannot know for certain,


but this love I carry
asks nothing in return.

I am free to offer my heart


without waiting for an echo.


My love accepts what comes


without demanding what cannot be given.

I release the hunger
for validation,


the need for proof.

Love becomes acceptance—


of what is,


of what isn't,


of the space between.

Here are evidence that love is dead — and I am its murderer.