Please don’t weave yourself into my words unless you’ve first asked if they were stitched with you in mind. My writing is a tangle of old echoes and quiet storms, of ghosts and dreams not always named. What feels like a mirror may be a memory, what stings like truth may not belong to you. Let my silence answer before your heart does—some verses are simply the wind speaking to no one at all.
Edit: In simpler words please don't assume my writing is about you.





















