#mzx

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It’s barely been a week.

I didn’t get this job to survive.

I wanted something for myself—experience,

a little extra in my pocket.

But here I am,

clocking in to keep the lights on.

Not because I chose to—

because I had to.

I never wanted to be like them:

the rich kids too lazy to drive,

too full of nothing to work.

Crashing new cars like it’s a game,

living in mansions they didn’t earn,

saying there’s no purpose in a paycheck.

They had everything

handed over without a word.

And I?

I took my shot the second I could,

poured everything into helping my mom

as our world collapses

under rising costs and shrinking hope.

People say,

“Gas and groceries would be cheaper…”

but they don’t see her—

crying in my arms,

saying she’s sorry I have to carry this weight.

I wasn’t supposed to be our only chance.

I was supposed to be a kid

with dreams,

not a lifeline.

And I’ll admit it—

I envy them.

The ones who have the world wide open

but never take a single step.

The ones who want more

while doing nothing.

It makes you wonder—

what did this world become?

We’re just strange creatures

on a floating rock,

spinning through endless space,

surrounded by stars that burn

and orbs we’ll never touch.

Life began millions of years ago,

built from dust and time-

and now look at us.

Greedy.

Cruel.

Controlling.

Exhausting each other for nothing.

It breaks my heart to know

my younger self believed

she could be something.

That this world was good.

That dreams were real.

But she won’t make it.

She’ll be just another name—

working a job she hates

until she burns out…

unless she blows the candle out first.

—————————————————————————

I look at myself—

how strange my face looks.

How weird.

I’m drunk.

I know that.

And just like

every

single

time

for the past three months—

I cry.

I cry.

Because I miss him.

And I hate that.

I would never say that out loud.

Crying in a bathroom,

searching for warmth

in someone else’s sink.

If things had ended differently,

I’d be in bed,

on the phone with him,

half-asleep, safe.

Not here. Not like this.

Instead I’m here,

vomiting in a friend’s bathroom sink.

Choking on my own memories.

Rinsing my face,

but nothing comes off.

He did me so wrong.

So why won’t he leave my mind?

I always remind myself of him—

and I hate that.

And still—

I blame myself

for the mess he made.

Why did I ruin it?

Why didn’t I change

the way he wanted?

But I don’t regret it.

Would I really have wanted

to drag myself through a life

where my whole world

was just him?

Where I vanished?

Every thought

wrapped around his gravity.

I lost my confidence.

I lost my name.

But it didn’t matter

because I had him.

And that was enough to quiet the noise.

He just wanted what was best for me.

But his best

was a hollow version of me.

If I had changed for him,

I’d be buried too deep

to ever climb out.

I’m glad

I didn’t get that far.

Now I’m sitting beside her.

You hated her.

You thought we had something.

We didn’t.

But this summer—

she helped me.

Carried pieces of me

I didn’t even know I dropped.

And now?

I want to kiss her.

And I would never say that out loud.

Why.

Why.

Why is that in my head?

She likes me.

I know she does.

And I like her too.

But not enough.

Not in the way I wish I did.

And I hate myself for that.

I should stop.

I should quit.

But I won’t.

Can’t.

Don’t know how.

School creeps closer—

and I can’t see him again.

Not him,

not his girlfriend,

not the girl I used to dream about late at night,

not the one-week thing,

not the two-week performance,

not the girl I confessed to—

not out of pity—

but…

Why?

Why did I say it?

I never saw myself until now.

Not my piercings.

Not my reflection.

What am I?

I look like my father.

If I wanted to—

I could shave my hair.

Disappear.

Start again

as a boy.

That’s how unsynchronized

my face is.

Like I was sketched wrong,

by someone who gave up halfway through.

Everything feels heavy.

And I don’t know.

I don’t know

why I’m like this.

An experiment

with so much potential

just to end up

breaking

my own

bones.

I just want to go home.

—————————————————————————

I can’t keep doing this—

dragging my heart through the ruins

just to hear you call it drama.

And still, I sit in the quiet

letting your voice—

that voice I used to trust—

drip soft lies down my throat

like honey gone sour.

Your hands look the same,

but they don’t remember how to hold me.

Maybe they never did.

Maybe I was always clinging to the idea of warmth.

I tell you what I need.

Not with screaming. Not with blame.

Just a trembling voice

asking to be seen.

You stare through me

like I’m inconvenient,

like I’ve ruined a perfectly good silence

with the burden of wanting love to mean something.

“If you have to wonder whether you love me,”

I said,

“then you already know the answer—

you just don’t want to be the one to say it”

You didn’t fight for me.

Not even with words.

Just that same empty stare,

the one you save for things you’re done pretending to care about.

And then you went—

sat with them.

The people you used to swear disgusted you.

But she was there,

and I guess that changed everything.

Your loyalty evaporated

the moment someone prettier

laughed at your jokes.

I hope they keep laughing.

I hope it’s worth it.

And still, I look for you.

Some piece of you.

The boy I met when your eyes still carried light.

When your hands felt like safety,

not hesitation.

When you touched me

without guilt tucked beneath your fingernails.

But I can’t keep trying to resurrect

a version of you

that died the moment I asked for more.

I am not too much.

I am not a question you can’t answer.

I am not light that needs dimming

to make you feel whole.

You apologized months too late.

I stood there and nodded

while everything inside me cracked open.

I told you it meant nothing.

I told you you meant nothing.

And now, every day, I say it again.

I say it like a prayer,

like a spell,

like a survival instinct.

And one day—

maybe I’ll believe it.

————————————————————————

I’ve always held a quiet flame,

never loud, never wild—

just a soft, unspoken thing

resting where it wasn’t mine to name.

Last year, a class—your voice knew my name before I ever said it.

You smiled, and something small

unfolded in me.

Still, you were taken.

And I just starting something of my own.

Time passed.

I’d catch glimpses of you

and think, God, he’s still so cute.

But I kept my distance,

watched the shape of your happiness

without ever trying to trace it.

Then summer came,

and I found your name again—

single this time.

You told me happy birthday—

early, even.

No reason to.

You just did.

And somehow,

that one-line kindness

dug in deeper than I thought words could.

You—

the boy with the curls,

who makes music

with the raw edge of feeling.

Dark, maybe.

But unafraid.

You speak in songs

what most would choke back.

I don’t know exactly why I like you.

What is it about you?

Something in the way you move—

unbothered, but burning.

That hair.

That sound.

The way your presence

feels like unfinished lyrics.

I just do.

I just can’t not.

Nothing will come of it.

But still, I’d see you in the halls—

eyes darting,

hoping you’d glance my way.

Even when she held your hand.

I wondered if you ever noticed me at all.

A selfish ache.

Guilt like a shadow behind my steps—

quiet but present.

Want is worse.

I just wish—

not for a love story,

not for forever—

just for something.

Something real,

with you.

Tell me why the person I wrote this about contacted me two days later, and we’ve interacted ONCE like two years ago!?

I was in fact a flower that caught his eye, three years ago…(╥‸╥)

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Your dark essence draws me in —

you remind me of a black bat flower,

mimicking a creature most would fear,

yet there’s no fear in you,

only a hush of mystery

I want to know by heart.

Your baggy clothes, your music,

your own small world blooming

wild behind tired eyes —

I admire how you keep it yours,

unclaimed by anyone’s idea

of who you should be.

You’re beautiful,

like the light touch of crimson

veining through the flower’s black petals.

I wonder —

if something ever grew between us,

would it last a season,

or take root for years?

Am I even a flower that caught your eye,

or have I been lost inside my mind,

collecting every half-smile

like seeds I pray will sprout?

Would what we share rot,

the way the flower’s scent turns sour —

or would it linger,

significant as the flower itself:

mysterious, intriguing,

more raw than elegant.

You’re unafraid —

you speak your darkness out loud,

while others would choke on it.

I hope my bright petals,

my softer colors,

are enough to draw you closer —

enough to bloom something

from nothing at all.

Instead of loosing progress in my healing I decided a poem would be better, everything said and done. •^•

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We ended two months ago —

you ran to the same girl

you swore I didn’t need to worry about.

Days after you broke me,

you were hers.

I admit I wasn’t perfect —

I lived inside my regret —

but you were worse,

tearing at every misstep I made,

preaching purity while your hands

were never clean.

You were always cleverer than me —

I could never defend myself

against your cutting tongue.

When we split, I was lost,

hollow,

after I’d carved everyone else out of my life

because you didn’t approve.

Even when my words stumbled,

and my love was quiet,

I sacrificed everything I was

for you —

until I couldn’t remember

who I was,

what I liked,

how to feel anything

without your permission.

I rebuilt myself —

and I hated to admit

I was better off without you.

You were supposed to be my future,

my leader.

Then, on some random Monday night

in the dead of summer,

you texted —

I’m sorry.

I didn’t see it until later,

answered with a single ?,

and you left me on read.

Why?

Why after two months?

Why dig me up

when you’ve buried me so deep

and replaced me so easily?

A hollow apology —

were you checking

to see if I’d still crawl back?

You know I wouldn’t forgive you —

and I won’t.

Still, thank you —

you taught me what it means

to value myself.

I refuse to search

for your reasons,

to bleed again

digging for meaning

where there is none.

I’ve made peace

with never knowing.

You steered every moment

until you broke me open

and left me gasping for answers

that won’t come.

My hatred for you festers —

I won’t let you disturb my sleep

with another word.

I refuse to waste

one more heartbeat

on your ghost.

Your disrespect cut deep enough

for a lifetime —

and I will never question again

how you ever dared

to call that love.

————————————————————————

I dream of dying young,

a flower that closes before dusk,

leaving no faith

to parchment or permission —

no stamp of worthiness

from a god made of paper.

I envy people

who burn for a goal,

who throw themselves

into the furnace of ambition.

I smolder in a quiet corner —

smoke, not flame.

A daughter

who disappoints,

a sister who drifts,

a friend who fades.

No plan —

only the wish to graduate

and vanish before

the final exam.

Inside me,

a smaller me —

a puppeteer in the dark,

tugging my limbs.

Sometimes I wake up:

these hands —

how do they open and close?

Why do I move?

What is this fragile machine

called body, called world?

I don’t feel human.

I am the ghost in the machine,

comfortable in my unreality.

When I feel — truly feel —

the emotion burns like

a foreign sun:

is this how they feel,

these humans I name

like another species?

I sip poison, breathe smoke,

call it living.

Everything repeats —

the wheel, the cage, the wheel again.

I question every grain of sand

and the desert never answers back.

I hate not knowing.

I hate knowing there is

nothing to know.

If being real means

running forever

toward a finish line

that never arrives —

then let me go

before I begin.

I’ve started to pick up writing again and I like how this turned out the transition could be better but ehhh :)

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You’re a flower I got told not to touch for the well of my being,

and yet I still did,

with no regrets—

to be able to see your beauty closer,

feel it in my hands.

It was such an honor to have you.

Yet you stung me,

just like everyone had warned me you’d do.

And still, I didn’t mind it.

Your perfection was worth more than the pain

I felt through my veins

as I slowly began to shut down.

Your poison was addicting—

with every touch, I worsened.

But I came to fate:

you were the last thing I wanted to see

before I was completely gone.

With no regrets,

and surrounded by negativity,

you were a blinding light.

And I was a moth,

unable to keep away from such a thing,

unable to notice the cracks in you.

Slowly, your brightness wore off,

and I still flew around you,

hoping for you to shine bright like you once did.

But my hopes were too high—

high enough to still stay

when you shut off,

flickering ever so often,

letting off just enough glow

to make me stay.

But it crushed me

to realize I’d have to look for another light—

not because I wanted to,

but because

you stopped shining.