I Love You

I love you,

so maybe I should let you go.

That’s what they say…

if you love someone, set them free.

But please, don’t come back to me.

I love you with everything I am,

every fiber of my body,

every inch of my soul,

and that’s what terrifies me.

If I believe in this love so completely,

why do I keep hurting you?

Why can I break you

and still manage to breathe?

If I love you,

why do I leave you with bruises,

with scars,

with baggage you never asked to carry?

I don’t want to hurt you anymore.

I don’t want to be the reason you flinch,

the reason love feels like something

you have to survive.

I want you to live the life you deserve.

to love and be loved

in a way that makes you shine,

so bright the sun would be jealous.

I want you to hear the rain

and feel safe,

to stay in, stay close,

wrapped in the warmth of someone

who never makes you doubt

that you are enough

I can’t keep asking you to change for me.

I can’t keep piling weight onto your shoulders

and act surprised

when you collapse under the pressure.

I am so sorry

for who I have become,

for what I have turned this love into.

I know you think about leaving.

I see it in your eyes,

in the hesitation before you speak,

in the way you reach for the door

but never turn the handle.

It isn’t fair to keep you here.

Not when I know you want to run.

I won’t make you plan your escape.

I won’t force you to serve this sentence.

I will open the door,

hand you the keys,

walk away,

and never return.

Because you deserve more than this.

More than me.

Who is to Blame?

If drinking is my source of fun,

why does a good time

always mean running from myself?

If I have to quit because it turns me

into someone I swore I’d never be,

then who was I before. 

the one I was drowning at the bottom of every bottle?

And why was he so unhappy?

If I can’t be social without liquid courage,

then is the person I am

really so unbearable

that I have to shove him behind a mask,

blur the edges with beer goggles,

just to feel worthy of company?

Or was it the six shots at the bar

that numbed the thought

that no one likes me.

how could they,

when I don’t even like me?

And if I put the bottle down

and still hate the man staring back at me,

who is to blame?

I tell myself it’s just a phase,

a few drinks to soften the edges,

to make laughter come easier,

to turn silence into something I can dance to.

But the music fades,

and I am left

with the same thoughts I drowned last night,

floating to the surface,

demanding to be heard.

I wonder if the people around me

would stay

if I stopped drinking,

if I stopped performing,

if I was just me… 

raw, unfiltered,

with no liquid script to follow.

But I’ve worn this version of myself

for so long,

I don’t know if I’d recognize

the person beneath it.

I don’t know if I’d want to.

And maybe that’s the real fear.

not the drinking,

not the stopping,

but the reckoning that comes

with being sober enough

to meet myself.

How many times did I come home

smelling like whiskey and regret,

mumbling apologies

that meant nothing

because I would do it again next weekend?

How many times did he wait up,

hoping I would choose him

over the bar,

the bottle,

the need to be anywhere but home?

I thought love was a foundation

too strong to crack,

but I was the hammer,

swinging blindly,

never stopping to see what I was breaking.

And now, the silence between us

is louder than any drunken fight,

louder than slammed doors

or slurred confessions,

louder than I can bear.

I used to think I was drowning alone,

but I see now

I pulled him under with me.

I have felt my voice rise,

sharp and reckless,

words cutting like glass

before I even know I’ve spoken them.

I have seen his face change,

flinch,

the way someone does

when they don’t know

if the person they love

is about to become a storm.

I have thrown words like punches,

slammed doors just to hear them break,

let anger build into something violent,

even if all I ever wanted

was to be held.

I have watched his hands tremble

when I drink too much,

not because he’s afraid of me—

but because he’s afraid for me,

and that might be worse.

I don’t want to be a threat,

don’t want to be the reason

love starts to feel like something

he needs to survive.

I never wanted to hurt anyone—

especially not him.

I look at old pictures,

trace the outlines of the man I used to be,

the man who smiled without effort,

who loved with both hands open

instead of clenching his fists around a bottle.

Was I ever that man,

or have I just rewritten history

to make this version of myself

easier to stomach?

He loved me once,

but did he love me

or the idea of who I could be

before I let the alcohol reshape my edges

into something unrecognizable?

I tell myself I can find my way back,

but I don’t even know where to start.

I don’t even know

if the road still exists.

And if I’m not the same man

who fell in love,

how can I ever ask him

to love me again?

You Don’t Love Me

You don’t love me.

You love the polished version,

The one that smiles at the right time,

Laughs at your jokes,

And never spills over the edges.

You love the surface,

Not the cracks that run deep,

Not the darkness I tried to hide

But couldn’t keep from seeping through.

You loved the idea of me,

The clean, safe picture you painted,

Not the real me

The messy, raw, clawing-at-the-walls me.

You wanted a lover who’d never scream,

Who’d never shatter under the weight of his own mind,

Who’d never fucking need too much.

But I do.

I do.

Do you know how much it burns,

How much it hurts inside me,

Knowing you held the fantasy tighter than my hand?

Knowing you kissed my lips

But wished for someone softer, easier?

Do you know what it feels like

To love someone who looks at you like a goddamn project

Something to fix, to refine, to polish

Instead of something whole?

I gave you my broken pieces,

Hoping you’d hold them with care,

But you didn’t.

You looked at them like they were sharp,

Like they might cut you,

And I saw it

The flinch, the hesitation.

You didn’t want my shattered truths,

Only the parts that gleamed in the light.

And now, I am drowning in your indifference,

Furious and hollow,

Begging myself to stop aching for you.

Why do I grieve for someone

Who never loved me.

Only the shape of me,

The shadow of something easier to hold?

I want to scream,

To tear apart the image you built,

To make you see the real me

The angry, desperate, unlovable me.

But it won’t matter.

Because you don’t want the truth.

You never did.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part of all…

You made me believe I could be enough.

But I was never enough for you,

Not as I am.

The Weight of Worthlessness

I feel numb.

Not the peaceful kind,

Not the kind that softens the jagged edges of life.

This numbness is heavy,

Thick, like fog,

Suffocating in its emptiness.

I feel like I’m done.

Not with him, not with us—

God, no.

I love him,

I love what we’ve built,

The life we’ve woven together from shared dreams and crazy nights.

I don’t want to lose it.

I can’t.

But what if he’s already given up?

What if the warmth has faded from his touch,

The light dimmed in his eyes?

How do I convince him to stay

When I can barely convince myself

That I’m worth staying for?

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe no one should stay.

Maybe the hollow, silent voice that echoes in my head

Is telling the truth:

I am nothing.

I’ve done nothing.

I stopped growing the moment we met,

Stagnant in his shadow,

Content to drift while he stood tall.

And now, almost eight years later,

What do I have to show for it?

Nothing.

Just a worthless piece of shit,

Clinging to a life I don’t deserve.

It’s heartbreaking.

Shattering.

To look at myself and see only fragments

All sharp edges and broken glass.

I can’t fucking stand it anymore.

I can’t bear the weight of myself,

The endless screaming inside my own mind.

I don’t feel at home here,

In this head, in this heart,

In this hollow shell that carries my name.

I want out.

Not from love, not from him,

But from me.

From this unbearable existence,

This endless loop of shame and regret.

I want to be someone else,

Someone who feels worthy of love,

Worthy of a life.

But I’m trapped here,

In a body that feels foreign,

In a mind that won’t let me go.

Re-Runs

My eyelids are heavy, but my thoughts weigh more than the pull of sleep.  

I lie here, desperate for rest, but my mind runs marathons, replaying every wrong I’ve ever done.  

Guilt. Regret. Mistakes.  

They line up, one after another, marching through my consciousness like ghosts that refuse to be laid to rest.  

How do I escape these endless reruns of my past?  

Why can’t I just turn it off?  

Why is it always easier to remember the wounds than the healing?

Oscars

And the Oscar goes to

me—yes, to me, and God, I deserve it.

Every single day, I put on this mask

crafted with such care, just for you.

What you don’t see is that this performance is agony,

each smile a lie, each laugh a facade.

The nails I used to fix this mask so seamlessly

leave deep, aching scars when I get home.

What you don’t know is the real me,

the one hiding behind this charade.

And maybe it’s my fault for letting it go this far,

for not knowing how to be myself and let you in.

Who wants to be around the guy

who crumbles into a panic

at the mere thought of leaving the house to pay a bill?

Who wants to spend time with someone

who constantly cancels,

because the dread of possible anxiety

makes the idea of showing up unbearable?

The mask I drive into my skull

holds it all together, keeps me from falling apart.

But it’s not just one mask—I have a mask for every moment,

for every situation, until I no longer recognize myself.

And here I am, the award-winning actor,

playing a role I never wanted,

trapped in a performance I can’t escape,

longing for a chance to show you the face beneath.

Tired

I’m so fucking tired

of trying to heal

in a world that is broken.

Every step feels like a battle,

every breath a struggle

against the weight of a thousand thoughts.

The world spins in chaos,

a storm of pain and despair,

while I reach for fragments of hope,

trying to piece together a shattered self.

I'm tired of the masks I wear,

the endless performances

to hide the cracks,

to pretend I'm whole.

But deep down, I'm exhausted,

weary of the fight,

longing for a moment of peace

in this relentless whirlwind.

I’m so fucking tired

of trying to heal

in a world that doesn't care,

where brokenness is the norm,

and my pain is just another whisper in the wind.

So here I stand,

broken and weary,

fighting to heal,

even when the world feels like it's falling apart.

Fuck You, Depression

Fuck you, depression, you insidious beast,

you crawl into my mind, uninvited,

wreaking havoc, tearing me apart,

turning my life into a fucking nightmare.

You steal my joy, my peace,

replace them with your fucking darkness,

make me doubt every fucking step I take,

every decision, every breath.

Your lies are poison,

dripping into my soul,

telling me I’m worthless,

that I don’t deserve a single fucking thing.

You strip the color from my days,

turn my nights into endless battles,

make me question my very existence,

make me wish for an end to your relentless torture.

Fuck you for the sleepless nights,

the days spent in a fog of despair,

the constant fucking struggle

just to get out of bed, to face another day.

You turn my mind against me,

make me my own worst enemy,

a prisoner in a cage of your making,

trapped by your fucking lies.

But I won’t be your victim,

won’t let you win this fight.

I rage against you, depression,

with every ounce of my fucking being.

You won’t break me,

won’t steal my fucking soul.

I will fight, I will rise,

I will take back what’s mine.

So fuck you, depression.

I’m done with your lies, your pain,

your fucking darkness.

I will reclaim my life, my light,

and leave you in the dust.

Leap

Standing at the edge, heart racing,

looking down into the abyss of uncertainty,

I feel the weight of the decision

pressing hard against my chest.

Every day, the job—the grind, the relentless march,

has worn me down, drained me dry,

leaving me a hollow shell,

a mere shadow of who I used to be.

The pain, the stress, the suffocating pressure

has pushed me to this precipice,

where the only way out is to leap,

to leave behind the chains that bind me.

The terrifying decision looms large,

like a dark cloud threatening to swallow me whole.

But beneath the fear, a flicker of hope,

a whisper of what could be, if only I dared.

To create art again,

to feel the brush in my hand, the ink on my fingers,

to breathe life into the blank canvas,

to let my soul pour out in colors and shapes.

It's a calling I can't ignore,

a longing that has been buried,

smothered by the demands of a life

that isn't truly mine.

To express myself authentically,

to show the world the raw, unfiltered truth

of who I am, of what I feel,

is a dream I've clung to in the darkest of nights.

I see myself, free from the shackles,

creating not for approval, but for the pure joy of it,

for the healing it brings, for the release,

for the sheer exhilaration of being truly, utterly me.

The leap is terrifying, yes,

but it's also exhilarating, liberating,

a chance to reclaim my life,

to rediscover the passion that once burned so bright.

So here I stand, on the edge,

heart pounding, breath caught in my throat,

ready to jump, to take that leap,

to leave behind the pain and stress,

and dive headfirst into the unknown.

For in that unknown lies possibility,

a world where I can be free,

where I can create, express, and live

authentically, fearlessly, as the artist I was always meant to be.

Flowers In Your Heart

Love is what I live for.
I know—that’s a cliché.
I’m a twenty-something guy with a whole lifetime of experiences ahead of me.
But if life is about experiences,
what matters more than love?

I remember the first time a boy told me he loved me.
I remember every first “I love you.”
My body would fill with warmth,
my heart swelling
like flowers blooming from a garden I didn’t know I carried.

But I remember the goodbyes even more vividly.
I remember every:
“I love spending time with you, but this just isn’t going to work.”
Every:
“I’m not ready for anything serious.”
And I think:
With time.

With time, he’ll be ready.
With time, he’ll love me like I love him.
With time, my love will open his eyes.
With time, he’ll say what I know he feels.

But with time...
my heart just shatters again.

You see, my problem is that I love too much.
Too deeply.
Too completely.

And my brain?
My brain is wired like a house with faulty electrical
It makes me doubt everything I feel.
One minute I’m high on connection,
the next I’m spiraling over silence.

I drink to numb it
to outrun the voice that tells me I'm too much,
too intense,
too broken to be chosen.
But drinking just pulls the thread tighter.
It makes me reckless with hope.
It makes me believe things that might not be real,
and question the ones that are.

Sometimes I can’t trust my brain.
Not when my heart gets involved.
And when the two start arguing,
I get lost inside myself.

But still
If I care about you,
you will know it.
You will feel it in every word,
every silence,
every breath.

I give everything.
Even when you have nothing to offer back.
Even when I’m scraping myself off the floor just to keep showing up.
I don’t know how to not love that way.
I don’t know how to hide my heart.

And I’m told
"Let’s take this slow."
"I’m not ready yet."
"I think we could be amazing… just not right now."

So I wait.
That’s the thing
I wait.

I wait for the love to circle back.
For someone to make flowers bloom in my heart again.

I tell myself:
It will be worth it.
He will be the one.

But he isn’t.
He never is.

I am waiting for a train that never comes.
Waiting for rain in the desert.
Waiting for someone who doesn’t know how to love me back.

And I’m tired.
Tired of waiting.
Tired of sacrificing my peace just to feel worthy.

Love or not
you’re no good to me.
You’re not good for me.
Even if I understood you better than I understood myself.

The flowers in my heart?
Gone.
Wilted.
Petals scattered across a dusty floor I no longer recognize.

But I don’t blame you.

I blame myself.
Not for loving
but for letting the garden die.
For letting darkness in where roses once lived.

Because I loved those roses.
Even after I let you go,
they made me smile on the hard days.
They reminded me I could feel.

I’m not sorry I loved you.
Not sorry it overwhelmed you.
And I will never apologize for the depth of what I had to give.

Because I love.
That’s what I do.
I am a heart… with a body attached.
A soul that refuses to shrink.

Every day is a lesson.
And you
the ones I’ve loved
you are sermons.
You are reminders of who I am and what I deserve.

I won’t stop loving with my heart wide open.
Even if it scares people away.
Even if it scares me.

Because this heart is who I am.
And I’m learning… slowly
to love that person.
To trust that maybe I'm not too much.
Maybe I was just loving the wrong people.

So I will replant those flowers.
Tend to them gently.
Water them with truth, not wine.

Someday,
you will love.
Not with me,
but with someone.
And I hope when you do,
you let those flowers grow.