Umaruchai

It feels like my guts have been sliced open

and put on display,

like you wanted an audience

even if no one chose to watch.

They spill onto the floor in front of me,

thick and red,

and my tears turn into evidence

for a crime that will never be named.

I’m on my knees in it

blood pooling beneath me,

soaking into the cracks of the floor

trying to hold myself together

while my insides lie scattered

where everyone can see them.

People walk by.

They step around me.

They look anywhere but at this ghastly sight.

No one asks what happened.

No one notices that something inside me

has been ripped out with intent.

They act like this is normal,

like bodies don’t end up opened this way

unless they deserve it.

You cut me carefully.

Not wild.

Not emotional.

Like a hunter finishing a kill

in front of a crowd

that won’t admit they’re watching.

You knew exactly when to stop

right before I died

so I’d have to live with it.

There is blood everywhere

except on you.

You stand clean at the edge of it,

hands empty,

face calm,

while I’m choking on what you left behind.

You don’t look back.

You don’t have to.

This wasn’t heartbreak.

This was an execution.

Public and quiet at the same time.

A tragedy laid out in the open

that no one will testify to.

I stay on my knees,

still breathing for reasons I don’t understand,

hands red and shaking, useless in my lap.

My body is opened like a warning sign,

evidence laid out in plain sight

that no one bothers to document.

You don’t turn back.

You don’t have to.

You disappear into the crowd untouched,

clean enough to be believed.

I don’t collapse.

I don’t die.

That was the point.

You leave me alive so I have to remember,

so I have to live inside what you did

while the world helps you pretend

you never touched me at all.

They step around the blood.

They avoid my eyes.

They call the silence normal.

And the silence covers you completely,

leaving me kneeling in what you did

with nothing but the malice that took place that day.

the moon told me something about the sun,

and I told them something about you.

There’s a quiet melancholy

in the way you say my name

like it belongs to you

in theory,

but never in practice.

You speak in curiosity,

like I’m something you’re dying to understand,

but you never stay long enough

to actually learn me.

Your words reach for me,

soft, convincing, almost tender

but your actions…

they never follow.

They just stand still

While I keep hoping they’ll move.

And I hate that part

the part of me that still listens,

still leans in

every time you promise something

you’ve never once proven.

No

You only prove enough for a short satisfactory

It’s a different kind of hurt,

being desired in conversations of passing promises

but neglected in reality.

Like I only exist

in the version of me you talk about,

not the one standing right in front of you

waiting to be chosen.

There’s a heaviness to it now,

a slow, sinking truth

that you don’t lack the words,

you lack the will.

And that’s where the melancholy lives

not in what you say,

but in knowing

you’ll never mean it

enough to show me.

I wanted you in a quiet, honest way

not loud, not complicated,

just real.

I liked the way you spoke to me,

like I was something worth knowing,

like there was a reason

you kept coming back.

There was something warm in it

the way you said things,

the way you made it seem

like I mattered

beyond the moment.

And maybe that’s where I got lost…

because I believed you.

I believed in the curiosity you showed me,

the interest you promised,

the effort you said would come.

I didn’t ask for much

just your attention,

your consistency,

something that felt as real

as the words you gave so easily.

But somewhere between what you said

and what you did,

I started to feel it slipping

the pauses getting longer,

the silence getting heavier,

your presence turning into something

I had to wait for

instead of something that stayed.

And I kept trying to understand it,

trying to be patient,

trying to believe that maybe

you just needed time

but time only made it clearer.

You can say everything right

and still mean none of it

if your actions never follow.

And I feel

I was never the one

you were going to show up for.

Not the one worth consistency,

not the one you’d choose

when it required something real from you.

Just someone you could come back to

when it felt good,

say the right things to,

and leave in silence

without ever having to explain it.

And that’s the part that hurts the most

not that you didn’t know how to give me more,

but that you chose not to.

So now I’m left holding onto something

that only ever existed in your words,

realizing

I’m sick of fallen tears,

they stain everything I touch.

Broken promises of others tremble from my lips,

each word shaking like it knows

it won’t be kept.

Why

does grief arrive without asking,

sit heavy in my chest,

and refuse to leave?

I gasp like an angel

who lost their wings mid-fall,

still remembering the sky,

still reaching for it.

There’s a sticky ache in my throat,

like bubble gum I can’t swallow,

can’t spit out

every truth caught there,

waiting to choke me.

And my tears,

they don’t stop

they flood like the Nile,

ancient, relentless,

carrying the ruins of everything

Like a serpent’s tongue brushing my ear.

You told me everything I ever ached to hear

while poison rested patiently in your mouth.

I am haunted by the memory of you

a devil dressed as devotion,

a performer beneath borrowed light,

and I was the audience

who never questioned the script.

You played your part beautifully, my dear.

I stood and applauded

as my heart learned how to break quietly.

I believed you when you said forever,

forgetting it only survives in stories.

You were no prince

you were the lesson that stayed.

My tears fall for the lies you fed me,

but the performance

even angels would weep for it.

You wore your skin well,

a serpent passing for human.

I mistook your stillness for safety,

your silence for depth,

your control for love.

You never raised your voice

you didn’t need to.

You learned how to starve me gently.

You fed me pieces of yourself,

just enough to keep me believing,

just enough to keep me hoping,

just enough to keep me small.

I became fluent in your absence,

learned the language of waiting,

learned how to hold my breath

for someone

who was never planning to surface.

I shrank my needs into whispers,

folded my boundaries into apologies,

turned my instincts into doubts

all to make room for you.

You called it patience.

I called it love.

It was erosion.

And even now,

sometimes I miss the version of you

I invented to survive you.

Sometimes I grieve the man

who never existed

but lived fully in my chest.

Because the cruelest part

wasn’t the lie

it was how real you felt

while lying.

I still carry the scar of believing

that a venomous mouth

could ever speak a gentle truth.

I traced your lies like scripture,

memorized the way you almost meant them.

You spoke of futures

you never planned to stay for,

built homes in my chest

only to leave the doors swinging.

Even now, your voice lingers

in the softest parts of my memory

sweet enough to almost forgive,

sharp enough to remind me why I shouldn’t.

I untangle myself from the echoes of you,

from the version of me

who still believed in gentle endings.

You did not destroy me

but you taught my heart

how to recognize venom

by the way it says my name.

And maybe one day

I will thank you

for the warning,

for the disguise,

for the love that never was.

But tonight,

I let the truth sit beside me:

you were never a fairytale

just a beautifully spoken lie

7 minutes in heaven. A silly game you play at a sleepover. Feels childish, sure, since you’re all too old to be doing this, but being in your twenties doesn’t mean giggling with friends, whispering late at night, or feeling your stomach flip when you’re picked to go into a closet with the boy everyone knows you’ve had eyes for isn’t thrilling.

The door closes behind you, small and heavy, the smell of his cologne mingling with the faint dust of the closet. The timer starts. Tick. Tick. Tick. You can hear the faint laughter of everyone outside, the giggles bouncing off the walls, and somewhere in the back of your mind you think you should feel silly, but you can’t. Not now.

The orange-shaded lightbulb sways slightly above you when you pull it, casting everything in a warm, surreal glow. You can see every speck of dust floating like tiny stars, every strand of hair on his head, the way his jawline catches the light. You hold your breath without realizing it, the air thick around you, your heart hammering so loud it seems to fill the tiny space.

He chuckles softly, a sound that somehow vibrates through your chest, and leans closer. When his lips touch yours, for a moment, your mind blanks. Oh my god. I’m actually kissing him. This is real. It feels like the world has narrowed down to that one point of contact, that one small collision of warmth and heat.

Then he puts his hand on your waist, fingers warm and certain, like he already knows where you belong, and the other starts going up your shirt. The fabric shifts against your skin, slow but deliberate, and for a second your body freezes while your mind races. I’m not ready. The thought flashes sharp and sudden, but it doesn’t stop anything. His mouth doesn’t pause. His kisses grow deeper, heavier, more intense, like he’s sinking into you while you’re still trying to figure out how to stand.

He slips his hand into your jeans, and everything inside you scrambles at once. I don’t want this. It’s like he’s going to eat me whole. The air feels thicker, harder to pull into your lungs. It feels like a monster gnawing at your soul not loud, not violent, just consuming, like something taking more than you meant to give. Your heart drops into your stomach, your breathing picking up, fast and shallow, like your body is trying to outrun your thoughts.

Then the timer goes off.

The sound slices through the moment, loud and unforgiving. You jump back, hands shaking as you rush to fix your clothes, tugging at fabric, smoothing wrinkles that won’t smooth, trying to put yourself back together fast enough. The door opens and light pours in, along with laughter too bright, too loud. Your friends crowd around, smiling, teasing. “Ooo, you guys must have been having fun.”

All you can do is look at him. He laughs easily, scratching the back of his head, casual and relaxed, with the same hand that was just buried in your pants. The sight of it makes something ache deep in your chest. A thick, sticky feeling rises in your throat, like bubblegum lodged there, impossible to swallow. It’s humiliating—being mocked for something you weren’t even sure you wanted, something that still feels tangled and unfinished inside you.

Tears start to fill your eyes, hot and sudden, and the lump in your throat grows heavier by the second. You turn away quickly, rushing past everyone, hoping no one noticed the message written all over your face.

All

When I’m six feet deep,

and insects feast upon my heart,

they’ll taste the love I held for you

rich, stubborn, and unending.

They’ll know it wasn’t ordinary,

not the kind that fades with breath,

but a love so heavy it lingers

even in the silence of the earth.

And once they’ve tasted it,

they’ll search for it in everything they eat

a sweetness that can’t be named,

a devotion they can’t forget.

Even in death,

my love for you will wander the world,

carried by the smallest creatures,

seeking you as I always do

in everything I touch,

in every note I hum,

and every bite I take.

Let that hunger set the stage

for once they taste what I felt for you,

nothing else will satisfy

They’ll search through roots and rot and soil,

starving for the flavor of you

that only I would know

And no matter how far they crawl,

they’ll never find it again

because that kind of love

was only ever yours,

From knowing her,

I learned that some people walk with a kind of hurt

they never speak aloud.

She carries it well

chin lifted, eyes steady

but every so often her guard slips,

and the truth glimmers through her like a cracked constellation.

I pretend not to notice.

But I do.

I always do.

There’s a sorrow to her strength,

the kind you only see

if you watch long enough

how she swallows disappointment without flinching,

how she keeps loving a world

that’s taken more from her than it’s ever given back.

It’s a quiet tragedy,

and it pulls at something in me

I don’t admit out loud.

But here is the greed in me—

the part I’m ashamed to name:

I want to be the one she breaks for,

the one she trusts enough to fall apart in front of.

I want to be the reason her voice softens,

the shadow she lets into her light,

the witness she chooses

even when she swears she needs no one.

It is selfish, I know—

to want pieces of her that she guards like holy relics.

But knowing her has made me greedy for more.

From knowing her,

I’ve learned she is both the wound and the healer,

carrying the ache of a life too heavy

and the will to carry it anyway.

The sorrow inside her is old,

older than her years,

woven into every quiet breath she takes.

But the greed inside me

is newer

born from the privilege of seeing her

in the moments she thinks no one is looking.

And I am always looking.

Her laugh, even when forced.

Her resilience, even when she’s exhausted.

Her tenderness, offered sparingly

a rare, impossible thing

that makes me want to guard it with both hands.

It is wrong, perhaps,

but I want to keep it.

Keep her.

Keep the way she softens when she forgets to be strong.

From knowing her, I understand this:

she is a cathedral of contradictions

sorrow carved into her ribs,

hope burning where it shouldn’t,

and a heart that refuses to die

no matter how many times the world tries to dim it.

And though I have no right,

I am greedy for every part of her story,

every scar,

every moment I am allowed to witness.

From knowing her,

I have learned the terrible truth—

that some souls don’t just change you.

They claim you.

Quietly.

Completely.

( from her perspective)

From knowing her,

I learned that some girls carry their grief like a crown

silent, heavy, unseen by most,

but glittering under the right light.

She moves like someone who has survived too much,

yet refuses to let the world see her tremble.

I have watched her break

without making a sound.

I have seen her stitch herself back together

with nothing but stubborn hope

and the kind of strength that should not belong

to someone so soft-spoken.

She calls it “getting through.”

But I know better

it’s resurrection.

From knowing her,

I’ve learned that beauty isn’t gentle.

It’s sharp.

It’s the way she keeps loving

even when her heart is bruised raw,

the way she still reaches for the light

even when the darkness begs her to surrender.

There are nights when she looks up,

eyes tired, spirit burning,

and I swear the heavens hesitate—

as if even they can’t decide

whether she’s meant to be held or feared.

She walks that line too well.

From knowing her,

I’ve seen the truth she hides:

the world has taken more from her

than she will ever confess,

but she keeps giving

pieces of warmth, pieces of hope,

pieces of herself she thinks no one notices.

I notice.

She thinks she’s becoming whole again.

What she doesn’t realize

is that she’s becoming something more—

a storm with a heartbeat,

a prayer with teeth,

a girl who survived the impossible

and wears the aftermath like armor.

From knowing her,

I understand this now:

she is not meant to be understood by everyone—

only witnessed

by the few who can stand in her light

without flinching.

And I am one of the few.

I have watched her rise,

again and again,

and it has rewritten me.

From knowing her,

I learned what it means

to stand in the presence

of someone the universe tried to break

Oh I fear I’ll break your heart.

My overthinking leaves me weary,

wondering if there should ever be a tomorrow for you and I.

When I close my eyes, I see our future, our lives, our happiness.

But when I open them, my dear, I see only malice

and a promise that fails to deliver.

It is nothing less than brutally gut wrenching.

I wish time were less cruel.

I wish the heavens had answered my prayers for a man like you

when my life was still untouched, bright, and new,

not dripping with desperation and hungry despair.

But the heavens listen closely,

and fate bends for no one.

The words I let slip that day carried straight to their ear,

and they gave me exactly what I asked for:

you, my beloved.

Yet my thoughts run wild.

I wonder, when the winds rise high,

when the cold cuts through bone,

when the ground erupts beneath our feet

and the warm days turn bitter and joy goes missing—

would you grieve beside me and help me rise?

Or would you pull a veil over your eyes

and chase a paradise untouched scorched by flame ?

Would you turn from the girl with chaliced hands

and blood-stung nails,

the girl who clawed her way through mud,

through anything flesh or metal or beast

that dared to block her path?

Would you search instead for a girl with unbroken wings,

one lighter, softer, easier to love?

Would you forget the girl who couldn’t fly,

whose feathers were damaged

and whose wings dripped ichor?

Could you forget me?

I fear I’ve slipped into a quiet kind of madness,

my dear, my beloved.

I’m terrified ,of the fragile hope

that you might become the man

you whisper into my ear at night.

And the worst part is the not-knowing.

Not knowing if I’m cradling truth

or clutching a serpent’s tongue wrapped in promises.

Not knowing if this faith is love

or a slow, exquisite ruin.

The suspense keeps me sleepless,

gnawing at the edges of my chest

until doubt seeps through me like a slow poison.

And now—

I’m running out of breath, as if I’m inhaling winter itself,

out of belief, like a man who has fallen from god,

out of the trembling patience it takes

to wait for a man who cannot yet hold his own breath yet.

And if I lose my grip…

if I slip away…

tell me, my beloved—

would you reach for me,

or would you simply watch me fall

and call it fate?

My mind keeps slipping away.

Have I fallen from grace for doubting the very thing

I once prayed and cried out to the heavens for—

the thing I wept over, tore myself apart for?

Has the veil I cast aside to take espy of you, that

shown me a man who could bring me happiness,

or is fate playing some cruel joke,

driving me mad with this hesitation to trust?

If I accept my prayers…

if I believe you are the answer I begged for…

would you play your part with perfection,

a sharpened knife hidden behind your back

like a hunter waiting for a deer?

Would you slit my throat with quiet malice

and watch as the woman you conquered

crumbles before you,

or would you be everything I dared hope for?

Would you hold me with kindness,

love me without cruelty,

deliver the happiness you whisper into my ear?

The more I think this way, my dear,

the more I fear it is nothing but a washed-out fairytale,

a daydream carved from the mind of a woman

who wants better than she has known

and is losing herself in the wanting.

oh my darling

Perhaps the truth is simple:

you were the answer I prayed for…

but the heavens wept that day.

The skies crumbled in my wake,

the earth trembled,

and the rivers ran red with blood.

For I was no one more—

forgotten, unseen—

yet the ground quaked at its core.

No one may have mourned me,

but the skies turned dark as night

on a bright summer’s day.

No one may have mourned me,

but the world held its breath—

just for a moment.

Perhaps no one noticed,

but time itself stopped,

and the heavens were the first to see

as malice overturned my wake.

The heavens shall espy

what man refused to name—

a shadow cast upon the sun.

The stars dimmed out of pity,

their light bending to mourn my loss.

The moon hid behind its veil,

back turned in fear as it partly espied,

afraid to witness what I became.

No one may have mourned me—

but the heavens did that day.

And when the weeping ceased,

silence draped the earth like ash.

My name was buried in the wind,

my memory scorched into the soil—

branded deep, like hot iron

searing through fragile flesh.

No prayers rose for me,

only the hollow hymn of regret

echoing through empty skies.

The clouds hung heavy with sorrow,

bleeding rain upon my grave,

and even the dawn refused to rise.

The angels’ cries split the earth to it’s core,

their wings tattered in mourning.

The stars fell from grief,

their fire dimming into dust.

And in the stillness that followed,

the heavens bent low and whispered—