You’re sitting on the couch,
head tilted back, eyes closed,
hands loosely at your sides.
The room smells faintly of old coffee
and the rain outside.
It’s a lazy kind of evening,
nothing urgent,
just the soft hum of time passing.

I sit beside you,
our shoulders touching,
neither of us saying much.
The only sound is the occasional creak
of the floorboards when I shift,
or the faint rustle of your clothes
as you adjust.

You don’t reach for me,
but I feel it,
the way your presence fills the space
without demanding anything.
The quiet speaks more
than we ever could.

I rest my head on your shoulder,
and for a moment,
it’s enough—
the weight of your body next to mine,
the simplicity of this space
where nothing needs to be more
than it already is.

We don’t need to do anything
but exist in this.

Your hand inches closer,
Just a whisper away,
And I can feel the heat rising,
Like a storm,
Brewing between us.

We don’t touch—
But god, how we want to.
The air thickens with it,
A tension you can taste
On your lips.

Every glance,
A promise unspoken,
Every movement,
A silent invitation
To cross that line
We both pretend we don’t see.

But we do,
We feel it,
The pull,
The fire,
The rush of something wild
We’re too scared to let go of.

She keeps her distance,
Not in the way you think—
Not about her clothes,
Not about the silence she wraps around herself.

It’s in the way she moves through the crowd,
Unmoved,
While the world tries to pull her in.

Her smile is sharp,
Barely there,
Like she’s holding back
Just enough to make you wonder
What she’s hiding,
What she’s not giving.

She’s done letting people take
Without offering something real in return.
She’s learned the power
Of keeping her cards close,
Of making them beg for a glimpse.

It’s not about shame—
It’s about control,
About taking what’s hers
And not giving a damn
Who thinks they deserve it.

We laugh like nothing’s wrong,
but I can feel it,
the tension just beneath the surface.
You know my secrets,
but you use them like ammo
when it suits you.

We’ve got history,
but sometimes I wonder
if we’re friends
or just stuck in this because we’ve been here too long.

One minute we’re talking like old times,
the next, we’re sizing each other up,
waiting for the first slip,
ready to call each other out.

It’s not hate,
but it’s not loyalty, either.
It’s a strange mix,
like a friendship with a catch.
I don’t know if I trust you,
but I still want you around.

We keep pushing and pulling,
holding on just enough
to not let go completely.
And somehow,
it feels like this is just how it is now.

I choose when I don’t need to think about it,
when your presence just feels right.
It’s the way a hand finds its place
without asking,
without hesitation,
just because it belongs there.

There’s nothing complicated,
just the feeling that things fall into place
when we’re close,
in the quiet moments that don’t need explaining.

I don’t need to decide,
I just know,
in the way we breathe together,
move together—
a shared space
without pressure,
just a knowing
that this is how it’s supposed to be.

I don’t ask for anything,
just let it happen,
in the way your voice
and your touch
are the only answers I need.

It’s exhausting,
watching you glide through life
like you’ve got everything figured out,
like the world was made
to showcase your brilliance.
Your every move is precise,
effortless—
like you never had to work
for any of it.

I hate how you make it look so easy,
how everything about you
is clean and polished
like there’s no shadow,
no crack,
no flaw to hold onto.
I stumble,
I fall,
but you?
You float above it all,
untouched,
unscathed by the things
that tear the rest of us apart.

Your smile,
it’s not even real—
it’s too perfect,
too rehearsed,
too bright for someone like me
who’s still trying to find a way out
of all their mess.

I hate how you never seem
to feel the weight
that pulls the rest of us under,
how you speak,
how you breathe,
like everything is just
a little too right.

But more than that,
I hate that I can’t stop looking,
can’t stop measuring myself
against the version of you
that’s always just a little better,
a little sharper,
a little more perfect
than I could ever be.

There’s a part of me
that wishes you’d stop—
not because I don’t hear you,
but because I can’t figure out
what you’re really saying.
Your voice fills the air,
but it leaves nothing behind—
just the echo of something
I can’t touch.

You speak in riddles,
with eyes that hide the answers,
your words bending and twisting
like a thread that slips through my fingers.
Every sentence feels like a doorway,
but I’m never sure
if it leads anywhere real.

I can’t decide if you’re speaking to me
or to something else,
something just beyond the surface,
and every time I try to understand,
the answer slips away.

I wish you’d stop,
not for peace,
but for clarity—
for a moment where the fog clears
and I can finally hear
what’s hidden in your silence.
Maybe then,
I’d understand.

You tell me how to feel—
like my emotions are a puzzle
you think you can solve with your words,
a script you expect me to follow.

“Don’t be angry,”
you say,
“it’s not worth it.”
But how do you know
what’s worth it to me?
How do you decide
what’s too much
and what’s not enough?

You tell me to smile,
to stop worrying,
like my heart is a switch
you can flick off.
But inside,
it’s a storm,
and you stand there,
telling me it’s all in my head,
that I’m too sensitive
for my own good.

You don’t know the weight
I carry—
the things I’ve swallowed
in silence,
the pieces of me
I’ve hidden away.
But you still try
to pull me out,
saying I’m sinking,
when you’ve never seen
the depth.

You think you can fix it,
control it,
as if my emotions are yours to command.
But you don’t understand—
they’re mine,
mine to feel,
mine to own.

So stop telling me how to feel.
Let me feel
without your rules,
without your judgments,
just me—
unfiltered,
alive.

They say I’m too much—
too much heart,
too many tears
that fall before I can stop them,
before I can wonder
if I should even try.

I wear my emotions raw,
unfiltered,
like skin torn open
to the air—
vulnerable,
aching with everything I feel
and everything I can’t hide.

I don’t know how to be less—
how to quiet the storms inside
or lock them away
where they won’t break through
like waves crashing
against the shore of me.

I feel everything—
the weight of every word,
the smallest touch,
the silence between moments.
I can’t turn it off,
can’t pull back
from the flood of thoughts
that surge and drown.

And they say I’m too much—
but I don’t know how to be anything else.
I don’t know how to shrink
the fire inside
into something small enough
to be palatable.

Maybe I am too much,
but I’d rather be this—
alive,
full of all the mess and the beauty,
than quiet,
empty,
incomplete.

You walk through the world,
face a smile
and eyes that pretend to see
the good in everything—
but I see the truth behind your mask,
the way your words twist,
warped and bent
to make your wrongs feel right.

You credit your cruelty
as strength,
your lies as protection,
your indifference as wisdom.
You wear your selfishness
like a crown,
expecting applause
for every moment you take
without giving.

You’ve convinced yourself
that the world owes you,
that your bad behavior is justified,
a defense against the chaos
you’ve created in your own mind.
But I see the cracks,
the way you hide behind excuses
that never touch the heart of the matter—
you’re afraid
to be wrong.
Afraid to face what you’ve done.

So you twist the truth
into something you can live with,
like a child who thinks
the lie is safer than the reality.
You don’t see it,
but your cruelty comes from fear—
fear of being exposed,
fear of being seen for who you really are.
But we all see it,
even if we don’t speak it.

You credit your behavior
like it’s an act of power,
but in the end,
it’s only a mask—
a fragile thing,
waiting to crack.