I was talking with the moon last night.
the moon told me something about the sun,
and I told something about you.
( not mine just love this poem)

shark vs the universe

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@umarichani
I was talking with the moon last night.
the moon told me something about the sun,
and I told something about you.
( not mine just love this poem)
my sweet melancholy
Thereās a quiet melancholy
in the way you say my name
like it belongs to you
in theory,
but never in practice.
You speak in curiosity,
like Iām something youāre dying to understand,
but you never stay long enough
to actually learn me.
Your words reach for me,
soft, convincing, almost tender
but your actionsā¦
they never follow.
They just stand still
While I keep hoping theyāll move.
And I hate that part
the part of me that still listens,
still leans in
every time you promise something
youāve never once proven.
No
You only prove enough for a short satisfactory
Itās a different kind of hurt,
being desired in conversations of passing promises
but neglected in reality.
Like I only exist
in the version of me you talk about,
not the one standing right in front of you
waiting to be chosen.
Thereās a heaviness to it now,
a slow, sinking truth
that you donāt lack the words,
you lack the will.
And thatās where the melancholy lives
not in what you say,
but in knowing
youāll never mean it
enough to show me.
I wanted you in a quiet, honest way
not loud, not complicated,
just real.
I liked the way you spoke to me,
like I was something worth knowing,
like there was a reason
you kept coming back.
There was something warm in it
the way you said things,
the way you made it seem
like I mattered
beyond the moment.
And maybe thatās where I got lostā¦
because I believed you.
I believed in the curiosity you showed me,
the interest you promised,
the effort you said would come.
I didnāt ask for much
just your attention,
your consistency,
something that felt as real
as the words you gave so easily.
But somewhere between what you said
and what you did,
I started to feel it slipping
the pauses getting longer,
the silence getting heavier,
your presence turning into something
I had to wait for
instead of something that stayed.
And I kept trying to understand it,
trying to be patient,
trying to believe that maybe
you just needed time
but time only made it clearer.
You can say everything right
and still mean none of it
if your actions never follow.
And I feel
I was never the one
you were going to show up for.
Not the one worth consistency,
not the one youād choose
when it required something real from you.
Just someone you could come back to
when it felt good,
say the right things to,
and leave in silence
without ever having to explain it.
And thatās the part that hurts the most
not that you didnāt know how to give me more,
but that you chose not to.
So now Iām left holding onto something
that only ever existed in your words,
realizing
I was never anything more than a passing fancy.
I miss you because of how easy it was for you to love me.
You made it look so easy,
like loving me was never something
you had to think about.
Like I was always enough
without trying.
And then you left.
like it was just as easy
to stop loving me
as it was to start.
You promised forever,
said it like you meant it,
But I guess forever
only exists in the movies
where people donāt change,
and lovers donāt leave.
šš½āÆ šš½ā“šš°š½š ā“š» šā“š, š¾š šš¾ššš¾šš° šāÆ.
Intent
It feels like my guts have been sliced open
and put on display,
like you wanted an audience
even if no one chose to watch.
They spill onto the floor in front of me,
thick and red,
and my tears turn into evidence
for a crime that will never be named.
Iām on my knees in it
blood pooling beneath me,
soaking into the cracks of the floor
trying to hold myself together
while my insides lie scattered
where everyone can see them.
People walk by.
They step around me.
They look anywhere but at this ghastly sight.
No one asks what happened.
No one notices that something inside me
has been ripped out with intent.
They act like this is normal,
like bodies donāt end up opened this way
unless they deserve it.
You cut me carefully.
Not wild.
Not emotional.
Like a hunter finishing a kill
in front of a crowd
that wonāt admit theyāre watching.
You knew exactly when to stop
right before I died
so Iād have to live with it.
There is blood everywhere
except on you.
You stand clean at the edge of it,
hands empty,
face calm,
while Iām choking on what you left behind.
You donāt look back.
You donāt have to.
This wasnāt heartbreak.
This was an execution.
Public and quiet at the same time.
A tragedy laid out in the open
that no one will testify to.
I stay on my knees,
still breathing for reasons I donāt understand,
hands red and shaking, useless in my lap.
My body is opened like a warning sign,
evidence laid out in plain sight
that no one bothers to document.
You donāt turn back.
You donāt have to.
You disappear into the crowd untouched,
clean enough to be believed.
I donāt collapse.
I donāt die.
That was the point.
You leave me alive so I have to remember,
so I have to live inside what you did
while the world helps you pretend
you never touched me at all.
They step around the blood.
They avoid my eyes.
They call the silence normal.
And the silence covers you completely,
leaving me kneeling in what you did
with nothing but the malice that took place that day.
Coated in red.
The depth
Iām sick of fallen tears,
they stain everything I touch.
Broken promises of others tremble from my lips,
each word shaking like it knows
it wonāt be kept.
Why
does grief arrive without asking,
sit heavy in my chest,
and refuse to leave?
I gasp like an angel
who lost their wings mid-fall,
still remembering the sky,
still reaching for it.
Thereās a sticky ache in my throat,
like bubble gum I canāt swallow,
canāt spit out
every truth caught there,
waiting to choke me.
And my tears,
they donāt stop
they flood like the Nile,
ancient, relentless,
carrying the ruins of everything
I hoped would last
You promised forever and spoke it softly,
Like a serpentās tongue brushing my ear.
You told me everything I ever ached to hear
while poison rested patiently in your mouth.
I am haunted by the memory of you
a devil dressed as devotion,
a performer beneath borrowed light,
and I was the audience
who never questioned the script.
You played your part beautifully, my dear.
I stood and applauded
as my heart learned how to break quietly.
I believed you when you said forever,
forgetting it only survives in stories.
You were no prince
you were the lesson that stayed.
My tears fall for the lies you fed me,
but the performance
even angels would weep for it.
You wore your skin well,
a serpent passing for human.
I mistook your stillness for safety,
your silence for depth,
your control for love.
You never raised your voice
you didnāt need to.
You learned how to starve me gently.
You fed me pieces of yourself,
just enough to keep me believing,
just enough to keep me hoping,
just enough to keep me small.
I became fluent in your absence,
learned the language of waiting,
learned how to hold my breath
for someone
who was never planning to surface.
I shrank my needs into whispers,
folded my boundaries into apologies,
turned my instincts into doubts
all to make room for you.
You called it patience.
I called it love.
It was erosion.
And even now,
sometimes I miss the version of you
I invented to survive you.
Sometimes I grieve the man
who never existed
but lived fully in my chest.
Because the cruelest part
wasnāt the lie
it was how real you felt
while lying.
I still carry the scar of believing
that a venomous mouth
could ever speak a gentle truth.
I traced your lies like scripture,
memorized the way you almost meant them.
You spoke of futures
you never planned to stay for,
built homes in my chest
only to leave the doors swinging.
Even now, your voice lingers
in the softest parts of my memory
sweet enough to almost forgive,
sharp enough to remind me why I shouldnāt.
I untangle myself from the echoes of you,
from the version of me
who still believed in gentle endings.
You did not destroy me
but you taught my heart
how to recognize venom
by the way it says my name.
And maybe one day
I will thank you
for the warning,
for the disguise,
for the love that never was.
But tonight,
I let the truth sit beside me:
you were never a fairytale
just a beautifully spoken lie
I wanted to be real.
7 Minutes in Heaven
7 minutes in heaven. A silly game you play at a sleepover. Feels childish, sure, since youāre all too old to be doing this, but being in your twenties doesnāt mean giggling with friends, whispering late at night, or feeling your stomach flip when youāre picked to go into a closet with the boy everyone knows youāve had eyes for isnāt thrilling.
The door closes behind you, small and heavy, the smell of his cologne mingling with the faint dust of the closet. The timer starts. Tick. Tick. Tick. You can hear the faint laughter of everyone outside, the giggles bouncing off the walls, and somewhere in the back of your mind you think you should feel silly, but you canāt. Not now.
The orange-shaded lightbulb sways slightly above you when you pull it, casting everything in a warm, surreal glow. You can see every speck of dust floating like tiny stars, every strand of hair on his head, the way his jawline catches the light. You hold your breath without realizing it, the air thick around you, your heart hammering so loud it seems to fill the tiny space.
He chuckles softly, a sound that somehow vibrates through your chest, and leans closer. When his lips touch yours, for a moment, your mind blanks. Oh my god. Iām actually kissing him. This is real. It feels like the world has narrowed down to that one point of contact, that one small collision of warmth and heat.
Then he puts his hand on your waist, fingers warm and certain, like he already knows where you belong, and the other starts going up your shirt. The fabric shifts against your skin, slow but deliberate, and for a second your body freezes while your mind races. Iām not ready. The thought flashes sharp and sudden, but it doesnāt stop anything. His mouth doesnāt pause. His kisses grow deeper, heavier, more intense, like heās sinking into you while youāre still trying to figure out how to stand.
He slips his hand into your jeans, and everything inside you scrambles at once. I donāt want this. Itās like heās going to eat me whole. The air feels thicker, harder to pull into your lungs. It feels like a monster gnawing at your soul not loud, not violent, just consuming, like something taking more than you meant to give. Your heart drops into your stomach, your breathing picking up, fast and shallow, like your body is trying to outrun your thoughts.
Then the timer goes off.
The sound slices through the moment, loud and unforgiving. You jump back, hands shaking as you rush to fix your clothes, tugging at fabric, smoothing wrinkles that wonāt smooth, trying to put yourself back together fast enough. The door opens and light pours in, along with laughter too bright, too loud. Your friends crowd around, smiling, teasing. āOoo, you guys must have been having fun.ā
All you can do is look at him. He laughs easily, scratching the back of his head, casual and relaxed, with the same hand that was just buried in your pants. The sight of it makes something ache deep in your chest. A thick, sticky feeling rises in your throat, like bubblegum lodged there, impossible to swallow. Itās humiliatingābeing mocked for something you werenāt even sure you wanted, something that still feels tangled and unfinished inside you.
Tears start to fill your eyes, hot and sudden, and the lump in your throat grows heavier by the second. You turn away quickly, rushing past everyone, hoping no one noticed the message written all over your face.
All
From just having seven minutes in heaven
Devour
When Iām six feet deep,
and insects feast upon my heart,
theyāll taste the love I held for you
rich, stubborn, and unending.
Theyāll know it wasnāt ordinary,
not the kind that fades with breath,
but a love so heavy it lingers
even in the silence of the earth.
And once theyāve tasted it,
theyāll search for it in everything they eat
a sweetness that canāt be named,
a devotion they canāt forget.
Even in death,
my love for you will wander the world,
carried by the smallest creatures,
seeking you as I always do
in everything I touch,
in every note I hum,
and every bite I take.
Let that hunger set the stage
for once they taste what I felt for you,
nothing else will satisfy
Theyāll search through roots and rot and soil,
starving for the flavor of you
that only I would know
And no matter how far they crawl,
theyāll never find it again
because that kind of love
was only ever yours,
and only ever mine.
will it?
From Getting to Know Her
From knowing her,
I learned that some people walk with a kind of hurt
they never speak aloud.
She carries it well
chin lifted, eyes steady
but every so often her guard slips,
and the truth glimmers through her like a cracked constellation.
I pretend not to notice.
But I do.
I always do.
Thereās a sorrow to her strength,
the kind you only see
if you watch long enough
how she swallows disappointment without flinching,
how she keeps loving a world
thatās taken more from her than itās ever given back.
Itās a quiet tragedy,
and it pulls at something in me
I donāt admit out loud.
But here is the greed in meā
the part Iām ashamed to name:
I want to be the one she breaks for,
the one she trusts enough to fall apart in front of.
I want to be the reason her voice softens,
the shadow she lets into her light,
the witness she chooses
even when she swears she needs no one.
It is selfish, I knowā
to want pieces of her that she guards like holy relics.
But knowing her has made me greedy for more.
From knowing her,
Iāve learned she is both the wound and the healer,
carrying the ache of a life too heavy
and the will to carry it anyway.
The sorrow inside her is old,
older than her years,
woven into every quiet breath she takes.
But the greed inside me
is newer
born from the privilege of seeing her
in the moments she thinks no one is looking.
And I am always looking.
Her laugh, even when forced.
Her resilience, even when sheās exhausted.
Her tenderness, offered sparingly
a rare, impossible thing
that makes me want to guard it with both hands.
It is wrong, perhaps,
but I want to keep it.
Keep her.
Keep the way she softens when she forgets to be strong.
From knowing her, I understand this:
she is a cathedral of contradictions
sorrow carved into her ribs,
hope burning where it shouldnāt,
and a heart that refuses to die
no matter how many times the world tries to dim it.
And though I have no right,
I am greedy for every part of her story,
every scar,
every moment I am allowed to witness.
From knowing her,
I have learned the terrible truthā
that some souls donāt just change you.
They claim you.
Quietly.
Completely.
Irrevocably.
From Knowing Her
( from her perspective)
From knowing her,
I learned that some girls carry their grief like a crown
silent, heavy, unseen by most,
but glittering under the right light.
She moves like someone who has survived too much,
yet refuses to let the world see her tremble.
I have watched her break
without making a sound.
I have seen her stitch herself back together
with nothing but stubborn hope
and the kind of strength that should not belong
to someone so soft-spoken.
She calls it āgetting through.ā
But I know better
itās resurrection.
From knowing her,
Iāve learned that beauty isnāt gentle.
Itās sharp.
Itās the way she keeps loving
even when her heart is bruised raw,
the way she still reaches for the light
even when the darkness begs her to surrender.
There are nights when she looks up,
eyes tired, spirit burning,
and I swear the heavens hesitateā
as if even they canāt decide
whether sheās meant to be held or feared.
She walks that line too well.
From knowing her,
Iāve seen the truth she hides:
the world has taken more from her
than she will ever confess,
but she keeps giving
pieces of warmth, pieces of hope,
pieces of herself she thinks no one notices.
I notice.
She thinks sheās becoming whole again.
What she doesnāt realize
is that sheās becoming something moreā
a storm with a heartbeat,
a prayer with teeth,
a girl who survived the impossible
and wears the aftermath like armor.
From knowing her,
I understand this now:
she is not meant to be understood by everyoneā
only witnessed
by the few who can stand in her light
without flinching.
And I am one of the few.
I have watched her rise,
again and again,
and it has rewritten me.
From knowing her,
I learned what it means
to stand in the presence
of someone the universe tried to break
and failed.
The Edge Between Faith and Fear
Oh I fear Iāll break your heart.
My overthinking leaves me weary,
wondering if there should ever be a tomorrow for you and I.
When I close my eyes, I see our future, our lives, our happiness.
But when I open them, my dear, I see only malice
and a promise that fails to deliver.
It is nothing less than brutally gut wrenching.
I wish time were less cruel.
I wish the heavens had answered my prayers for a man like you
when my life was still untouched, bright, and new,
not dripping with desperation and hungry despair.
But the heavens listen closely,
and fate bends for no one.
The words I let slip that day carried straight to their ear,
and they gave me exactly what I asked for:
you, my beloved.
Yet my thoughts run wild.
I wonder, when the winds rise high,
when the cold cuts through bone,
when the ground erupts beneath our feet
and the warm days turn bitter and joy goes missingā
would you grieve beside me and help me rise?
Or would you pull a veil over your eyes
and chase a paradise untouched scorched by flame ?
Would you turn from the girl with chaliced hands
and blood-stung nails,
the girl who clawed her way through mud,
through anything flesh or metal or beast
that dared to block her path?
Would you search instead for a girl with unbroken wings,
one lighter, softer, easier to love?
Would you forget the girl who couldnāt fly,
whose feathers were damaged
and whose wings dripped ichor?
Could you forget me?
I fear Iāve slipped into a quiet kind of madness,
my dear, my beloved.
Iām terrified ,of the fragile hope
that you might become the man
you whisper into my ear at night.
And the worst part is the not-knowing.
Not knowing if Iām cradling truth
or clutching a serpentās tongue wrapped in promises.
Not knowing if this faith is love
or a slow, exquisite ruin.
The suspense keeps me sleepless,
gnawing at the edges of my chest
until doubt seeps through me like a slow poison.
And nowā
Iām running out of breath, as if Iām inhaling winter itself,
out of belief, like a man who has fallen from god,
out of the trembling patience it takes
to wait for a man who cannot yet hold his own breath yet.
And if I lose my gripā¦
if I slip awayā¦
tell me, my belovedā
would you reach for me,
or would you simply watch me fall
and call it fate?
My mind keeps slipping away.
Have I fallen from grace for doubting the very thing
I once prayed and cried out to the heavens forā
the thing I wept over, tore myself apart for?
Has the veil I cast aside to take espy of you, that
shown me a man who could bring me happiness,
or is fate playing some cruel joke,
driving me mad with this hesitation to trust?
If I accept my prayersā¦
if I believe you are the answer I begged forā¦
would you play your part with perfection,
a sharpened knife hidden behind your back
like a hunter waiting for a deer?
Would you slit my throat with quiet malice
and watch as the woman you conquered
crumbles before you,
or would you be everything I dared hope for?
Would you hold me with kindness,
love me without cruelty,
deliver the happiness you whisper into my ear?
The more I think this way, my dear,
the more I fear it is nothing but a washed-out fairytale,
a daydream carved from the mind of a woman
who wants better than she has known
and is losing herself in the wanting.
oh my darling
Perhaps the truth is simple:
you were the answer I prayed forā¦
and the ruin I was never meant to survive
No one may have mourned me
but the heavens wept that day.
The skies crumbled in my wake,
the earth trembled,
and the rivers ran red with blood.
For I was no one moreā
forgotten, unseenā
yet the ground quaked at its core.
No one may have mourned me,
but the skies turned dark as night
on a bright summerās day.
No one may have mourned me,
but the world held its breathā
just for a moment.
Perhaps no one noticed,
but time itself stopped,
and the heavens were the first to see
as malice overturned my wake.
The heavens shall espy
what man refused to nameā
a shadow cast upon the sun.
The stars dimmed out of pity,
their light bending to mourn my loss.
The moon hid behind its veil,
back turned in fear as it partly espied,
afraid to witness what I became.
No one may have mourned meā
but the heavens did that day.
And when the weeping ceased,
silence draped the earth like ash.
My name was buried in the wind,
my memory scorched into the soilā
branded deep, like hot iron
searing through fragile flesh.
No prayers rose for me,
only the hollow hymn of regret
echoing through empty skies.
The clouds hung heavy with sorrow,
bleeding rain upon my grave,
and even the dawn refused to rise.
The angelsā cries split the earth to itās core,
their wings tattered in mourning.
The stars fell from grief,
their fire dimming into dust.
And in the stillness that followed,
the heavens bent low and whisperedā
āShe was no one⦠yet we wept for her.ā
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