Why me?
Why this life,
with all its weight,
its moments of chaos
and stillness
that never seem to make sense?

Why the days that drag,
heavy with nothing,
and the nights that swallow me whole,
when sleep feels like a forgotten friend
and the silence is too loud?

Why am I caught
between who I am
and who I’m supposed to be?
Why do I keep running
but never seem to reach the place
I thought was waiting for me?

The world keeps turning,
but I feel like I’m standing still—
a bystander in my own life,
watching moments slip past
while I try to figure out
why they never seem to matter.

Why me?
Why do I keep waking up,
fighting against the weight of the world
when it feels like everything
is moving forward without me?
Why do I chase things I can’t hold,
desire things I can’t touch,
reach for dreams that are always just out of reach?

I don’t have the answers—
I don’t think anyone does.
But I keep asking,
because somewhere in the question,
maybe there’s a reason
for all this wandering,
for all this searching,
even when the answers
never seem to come.

You speak in riddles,
like a child who can’t find the words
but craves the attention,
acting like love is a game
with no rules—
just laughter and little hurts
that fade as quickly as they come.

You want the fun,
the thrill of the chase,
the spark that fades after the first kiss,
but when the real work starts—
when it’s time to stay,
to put the pieces together
instead of breaking them apart—
you run,
like a child in the middle of a tantrum,
too tired to care,
too scared to try.

You give me your love in bursts—
sweet promises one minute,
shifting moods the next,
as if affection were a toy
you pick up and drop at will.
I am your game,
your distraction,
until the next shiny thing catches your eye,
and then you forget
how to play by the rules.

I’m not your mother,
I’m not here to fix your mess,
to clean up after your tantrums,
to pretend your immaturity is cute.
I’m not your playground
where you run wild
and leave pieces of me scattered
on the ground.

You want love?
Then stop playing,
stop hiding behind jokes
and acting like it’s all just a phase,
because I’m done being the one
who waits for you to grow up,
to figure out
that this isn’t a game anymore.

You came like a spark,
too quick,
too hot,
your hands on my skin
felt like fire—
but your touch was never warm,
just a burn,
a fleeting heat
that faded faster than it ignited.

I let you in,
gave you every part of me,
every kiss,
every breath,
thinking you’d stay,
thinking this was real.
But you only wanted the chase,
the thrill of something temporary,
a body to conquer
and then leave behind.

In the dark,
your whispers were sweet,
but empty—
a promise you never meant,
words that slipped from your mouth
like they were rehearsed,
never true.
I felt your hands all over me,
but they never truly touched me,
not the way you said they would.

I wanted you
in ways that made me forget
I was only a game to you,
an easy rush to fill your need,
your hunger for something
to hold until it wasn’t new anymore.
I burned for you,
but you were never the flame—
just the smoke
that faded away the moment I reached for more.

And when it ended,
I was left in the silence,
your name still hot on my lips,
but nothing else—
just the aftermath,
the emptiness
of something I gave too much to,
to someone who never cared enough
to stay.

It’s buried deep inside me,
a storm that never stops raging—
quiet but violent,
always there,
a ticking time bomb of memories
I can’t escape.

I wear it like a cloak,
this suffocating silence,
heavy on my shoulders
with every breath I take.
The world looks at me,
and they see someone whole,
someone “fine,”
but they don’t know
the battle raging beneath my skin,
the chaos I carry,
the weight of things
I’ll never say.

Some days, it’s a whisper—
just a thought that makes my heart race,
a flicker of something dark
lurking behind my eyes.
Other days,
it’s a scream,
louder than anything I’ve ever known,
ripping through my chest,
but it never escapes.
It’s trapped—
locked in a cage of my own making,
pounding against the walls
until I feel like I’m drowning.

I try to move forward,
to pretend it’s not there,
but it pulls me back,
grips me with hands I can’t see,
and drags me into the past,
where everything is broken
and I can’t breathe.

The shadows follow me,
always watching,
waiting for the moment
I slip,
for the cracks to show,
for me to fall apart.
But I don’t let them see it—
I hold it in,
buried deep beneath the surface,
like a wound that never heals.

And yet, somehow,
I keep going.
One foot in front of the other,
even though the ground feels like it’s sinking.
I keep walking,
fighting against the ghosts
that never let me rest.

I stand on the edge,
the weight of the world pulling me under,
and I don’t know how to breathe anymore.
The words are caught in my throat,
choked by pride,
by fear,
but they ache to break free—
I need help.

It’s strange,
this thing called needing—
I’ve spent so long
convincing myself I’m fine,
that I can carry it all,
that I’m strong enough to stand alone.
But my knees are buckling,
and my hands tremble
under the weight of silence.

I want to scream,
but I’m afraid of the sound,
of what it will reveal.
I want to ask,
but I don’t know how.
So I stay quiet,
a prisoner to my own hesitation,
wondering if anyone can see
how lost I am.

If you could hear me,
see past the walls I’ve built,
maybe you’d reach out—
just a hand,
a touch that says it’s okay,
that I don’t have to fight this alone.

But for now,
I wait in the dark,
holding onto this whisper of hope,
that somehow,
someone will know
that I need help.

Your hands find me in the dark,
familiar,
possessive,
as if they’ve memorized every inch of me,
the way I tremble when you’re close.

I don’t need words to know you’re near—
the heat between us
burns brighter than anything spoken.
I feel your pulse,
your fingertips carving paths
over my skin
like they’re craving something deeper,
something wild.

We move together—
slow, but urgent,
like the anticipation of a storm
gathering inside me.
Each kiss ignites something darker,
each breath a promise,
until the world blurs,
and I can’t tell
where you end
and I’m lost in you.

There’s no gentleness in this—
only hunger,
a desperate need that pulses with every touch,
every shift of your body
pressing harder,
deeper.
You taste me,
and I melt into you,
consumed by the rhythm of our bodies,
our desires folding into one.

The world outside disappears,
nothing but the thrum of your pulse
and the heat between us,
where we move as one,
bound by nothing but the need to feel
each other,
to be consumed by the fire we’ve started.

I can’t stop thinking about you—
not because I want to,
but because your presence lingers,
woven into the spaces
where my thoughts should rest.

It’s the way you move,
the softness of your voice,
the way everything about you
pulls at me
like I’ve been tied to something
I can’t untangle.
Even when I close my eyes,
I still see you,
still feel the echo of your touch
that hasn’t even happened yet.

There are moments,
quiet ones,
when I catch myself wondering
how your skin would feel
under my fingertips,
how your breath would taste
against my lips.
And I know it’s more than just desire—
it’s this deep,
aching pull
that I can’t explain,
can’t even escape.

It’s not just the way you look,
or the things you say,
but how everything about you
settles in me
like something permanent,
and no matter how hard I try,
I can’t shake the feeling
that you’re already inside me—
woven into the very thought of you.

He stumbles through the night,
the world spinning,
but he’s too far gone
to care.
The edges blur—
streets, faces, words—
nothing holds still,
and neither does he.

His laugh is louder than it should be,
a hollow sound that doesn’t fit
with the quiet darkness around him.
He reaches for something to steady himself,
but it’s all slipping away,
his grip, his thoughts,
even the cold air on his skin
feels distant now.

The bottle feels like a friend,
something warm to hold
when everything else is frozen—
a temporary escape,
a numbing of whatever hurts.
But he knows, deep down,
it’s never enough.
It never will be.

The night stretches out before him,
full of promises that won’t keep,
and he keeps walking,
keep drinking,
because there’s nothing else
to do.
And somewhere in the back of his mind,
he hopes the blur will be enough
to drown the ache,
even if just for tonight.

Her Perspective:

I watch him,
his easy smile,
the way others gravitate toward him
without effort,
without thought.
It’s effortless,
and I wonder how it feels
to be so wanted,
so noticed,
so unshakably secure in the space you take.

I laugh too,
but it’s different—
strained,
like I’m holding back parts of myself
that I wish I could let go.
I catch myself,
jealous of the way
his presence fills a room,
while I shrink into the corners,
wondering if anyone even sees me
or if they ever will.

I want what he has—
the attention,
the certainty,
the ease of being seen.
But I never say it out loud,
because who would understand
how much it burns
to want something so simple
and feel like you’re forever
chasing after it?

His Perspective:

She moves through the room
with a quiet power,
the way she holds herself,
like there’s more beneath the surface
that no one is allowed to touch.
And I watch—
not because I want to,
but because it’s impossible not to.

She catches the glances,
the quiet admiration,
but she doesn’t notice it—
doesn’t see how others
look at her the way I do.
She’s so consumed
with the idea that she’s invisible,
that she can’t see
how the world spins around her,
drawn to the light
she refuses to acknowledge.

I catch myself wishing,
just for a moment,
that I had that confidence,
that ability to walk through life
untouched by doubt.
But I don’t.
And in the quiet of my thoughts,
I wonder
if she knows
how deeply I envy the way
she’s allowed to be real,
and how I can’t
figure out how to make myself
feel the same.