static between us.

I used to answer every message,

laughter seep soft light through open blinds,

but now the blinds, they’re stuck

the light burns now.

My friends still knock, 

of course they do,

they’re amazing.

yet, their voices soft

like they’re afraid to wake,something inside me.

But I’m already awake—

too awake,

trapped in the sad silence of my own mind,

where everything moves too fast

or just not at all.

I tell them I’m tired,

but it’s not the kind of tired

that sleep can solve.

It’s the kind that seeps into your bones,

turns your reflection into static,

your name into a stranger’s.

I scroll past their life,

their plans,

their happiness—

and guilt claws at my throat.

till I can no longer breathe

“just let me breathe.”

I argue with myself, knowing it’s no use.

They think I don’t care.

But I do.

I just can’t reach them, not yet…

the brick walls my mind has built around my body.

One day, maybe,

I’ll remember how to open the door again.

Until then,

please know—

the distance isn’t rejection.

It’s survival.

and i NEED to survive.

for me,

for them,

for my future.

such a higher cost

I can’t yet calculate.

my love awaits

I dream of resting on your chest,

Your heartbeat slowing mine to rest.

The steady rhythm, soft and near,

A song of safety I can hear.

My arm would circle ’round your waist,

A perfect hold, a gentle place.

Where silence hums, where shadows part,

And I can give you all my heart.

Your fingers weaving through my hair,

A quiet touch beyond compare.

Each stroke a promise, sweet, unspoken,

A vow of love that can’t be broken.

The world could spin, the night could fade,

But in your arms I’m unafraid.

For all I want, for all I need,

Is you beside me—guaranteed.

So let me dream, and let me stay,

Curled in your warmth till break of day.

With every sigh, with every glance,

I’m lost in love, in our romance.

blossoms in Cardiff

I run through these sacred streets of Cardiff,

where it’s said nothing big really grows?

yet in my steady hands I hold the tea that calms

that warms my dreams that only I can understand.

knees scraped on disheveled cobblestoned pavement,

shoe laces, free and untied.

I sketch in pinks and silvers,

A runway silently waiting for me.

the light—bright and visible,

yet out of reach,

each blossom muttering my name,

one day that name will be known.

from small town corners to big city lights,

I’ll weave my visions, stitch by stitch,

and though they said it could not happen here,

my designs will waltz through castle streets and will be seen.

Silent Collapse

I’m dying where no eyes can reach,

a quiet erosion, a breaking beneath.

The outside still breathes, still smiles, still stands—

while inside, I’m dust slipping through my own hands.

It’s easier this way, invisible grief,

no stares, no questions, no chance of relief.

If they saw the wars I’m forced to fight,

they’d vanish, afraid of the weight of my night.

I want to speak, I ache to confess,

but the words dissolve into tears, into mess.

Cry, and cry, and cry again—

a flood that drowns paper, yet spares all my friends.

I will not place my burden down

on shoulders too soft, too fragile, too proud.

It’s mine to carry, mine to defend,

a silent collapse with no visible end.

Better unseen, better unknown,

for when people see storms, they leave you alone.

So I’ll die in the dark while the daylight pretends,

that I’m whole on the surface,

though broken within.

the weight of wait

minutes that pass appear like bruises,

purpling on my pale skin with each tick of the clock.

its hands weapons,

weapons she aims at me.

i tell myself “tomorrow will be better”

her hands will soften,

her voice will quiet,

but will it?

but as tears fall from my eyes,

the rage behind hers begins to fade,

something clicks within her head,

she snaps out of the trance like spell,

she cast upon herself.

”I’m so sorry” ,

”it won’t happen again!” ,

”I promise!” ,

she’d say.

but her promises—

paper like, thin.

tearing at the slightest

and lightest touch.

i gather the scraps,

sticking them together,

the tape, my hope,

and all I need is hope.

but tape peels

and loses its stick.

but somehow—

my heart is still stuck to yours,

no matter how many times you shatter it.

so I press the pieces close to my chest,

hoping for warmth,

praying for safety,

safety from the new you.

the version that isn’t mine.

your anger, poison,

deadly but secret.

only shown to those who look—

but nobody ever looks.

I was forced to,

my eyes glued open.

she’d make sure I’d see,

but knew I wouldn’t say anything.

I still swallow it,

because love tastes like sacrifice.

my way out,

leaving feels worse than staying.

every second that stretches,

an elastic band around my throat,

but I don’t try to escape, no.

i wait, i wait for the impossible.



deep down knowing it will never happen,

but praying it does,

because there’s too much weight—

when it comes to waiting for you.

Behind the curtain

in honour of TS12!

Beneath velvet drapes, I hear the hush

The crowd waits, the air is warm with promise.

In the mirror, I whisper to myself the prophecy,

The Fate of Ophelia written in my painted eyes.

I’ve been told I have the glamour of Elizabeth Taylor,

But beauty is a costume,

and some nights it feels more like armor than skin.

Under rhinestones and pearls,

I carry the quiet shimmer of Opalite,

a stone said to hold the moonlight,

and every secret I’ve never dared to sing.

Somewhere in the wings,

there is a Father Figure who believes in me

more than I believe in myself,

and the weight of being the Eldest Daughter

means I must always look steady,

even when the stage beneath me shakes.

I’ve been known to Ruin the Friendship

in the name of ambition—

not proud of it, but

in this world,

sometimes you choose survival over sentiment.

Still, a part of me is Actually Romantic,

keeping love letters in perfume-stained drawers,

dreaming of a day when I won’t have to pretend

that applause is enough.

I’ve scribbled a Wi$h Li$t

of everything I want—

not just fame,

but a cottage where I can breathe,

a piano with keys worn smooth by joy,

and someone who will never leave during winter.

I walk through the wooden corridors backstage,

trailing my fingers against the grain of Wood,

breathing in the scent of something

older and truer than my own story.

Of course, they’ve tried to erase me.

A headline screams CANCELLED! in sharp black letters—

but paper burns easily,

and I rise from ash like it’s just part of the act.

Sweetness still lives in me.

Call it naivety, call it foolish hope,

but I keep jars of Honey in my dressing room

and I stir it into my tea

as if it can make the whole world gentler.

And now,

curtain call—

I step into the light,

sequins catching every eye,

breathing life into my story:

The Life of a Showgirl—

dancing, defiant,

every heartbreak turned into a standing ovation.

neverland in my pocket

I still hum the songs with the easy rhymes,

cartoon voices dancing in my mind.

Plastic magic wands sleep in my drawer,

stickers and glitter like secret treasure maps

I can’t throw away.

But the clock ticks louder now.

People my age trade dreams for deadlines,

stuffed animals for tax forms.

They laugh at bright colours,

as if joy is too childish to keep.

I hide my playlists,

skip the opening theme songs

when someone’s near.

I’m scared they’ll see the fairy dust on my sleeves

and brush it off like lint.

Yet part of me clings

to the safety of bedtime stories,

the simple spell of a Saturday morning cartoon

because growing up

shouldn’t mean putting down

everything that made me believe.

If I ever let go,

I hope my fingers stay stained

with crayon colours and sugar dreams,

so even in the grey world,

I carry a pocket of Neverland

just for me.