Why don't your tricks work on me, don't make me feel a single drop of real emotion? You words feel rehearsed and I an audience that doesn't belong on the stage with you.
Why do I see it all like a movie on a big screen, amused yet knowing it is all a performance? Where love is just a light and sound and I, the only one who has seen the ending.
Why don't your words ignite passion but deep suspicion, a constant intuitive prophecy that all your efforts are to win my hand not my heart? You speak of fire but I only see the illusion of a smoke in the air, a learned ache trying to teach the master how to mourn.
Why do I know you lie like I have heard it all before, know each phrase you chant for my poetic ears to fall but found me bored of your efforts? And so I sit, half smiling while you build your dream on a stage I've long dismantled.
Why do I see it all like a movie on a big screen, amused yet knowing it is all a performance? Where love is just a light and sound and I, the only one who has seen the ending.
Why don't your words ignite passion but deep suspicion, a constant intuitive prophecy that all your efforts are to win my hand not my heart? You speak of fire but I only see the illusion of a smoke in the air, a learned ache trying to teach the master how to mourn.
Why do I know you lie like I have heard it all before, know each phrase you chant for my poetic ears to fall but found me bored of your efforts? And so I sit, half smiling while you build your dream on a stage I've long dismantled.
❤5
It is disturbing how your art could mean anything in amateur eyes, how your poetry could evoke the wrong reactions and procure the wrong assumptions about you.
~Separate the art from the artist. The art remains forever yet the artist only knows of the finiteness of her time here.
~Separate the art from the artist. The art remains forever yet the artist only knows of the finiteness of her time here.
❤5
Let the Villain Die: An Eulogy for Our Addictions to the Dark and Damaged
In the grand theatre of the heart, each of us at least once becomes enamored with tragedy. We fall, not for gentleness, but for chaos dressed in leather and longing. I dare say, few among us ever truly recover from our Hardin, our spectral "Damon Salvatore', that beautiful calamity who tears through the soul like a storm pretending to be salvation. We name it passion, call it destiny, and kneel before it as though broken love were a god worth worshiping.
There is an old fever in us ancient and incurable that mistakes danger for depth. We are bewitched by mystery, seduced by the ones we cannot heal, and charmed by the ruin that promises to make us feel alive. We cling to them with trembling hope, whispering the delusion that if such a wounded creature could ever love us, then perhaps we too are worthy of gentle things. What grand irony, that we who crave peace so desperately insist on finding it in the arms of chaos.
But the truth, when it finally arrives, does not shout. It creeps in softly, like dawn through the curtains of a sleepless room. We begin to see that our love stories were not epics, but rehearsals of pain; not fated romances, but well-performed illusions. And in that cruel, necessary stillness; we face the hardest of reckonings: letting the villain die.
To do so feels like betrayal, yet it is an act of mercy to keep them alive in memory is to let their ghosts dine nightly on our peace. It is to doom ourselves to relive the theatre, curtain after curtain, long after the applause has died. We must unlearn this hunger for turmoil, this feverish need to translate suffering into meaning. Love should not wound to prove it exists.
Let us write their eulogy not in bitterness, but in understanding. Let the villains die, and with them, the belief that pain is proof of depth. Let the heart grow quiet, and the air clear. For there is a sovereign strength in softness, a revolution in stillness, and a kind of majesty in moving on.
So mourn them once more, if you must. Whisper your farewell to the chaos that once felt like home. Then step into your own light not as a savior, not as a survivor, but as something far greater: reborn, self-chosen, unashamedly calm.
For the story you now live needs no villain to be grand.
In the grand theatre of the heart, each of us at least once becomes enamored with tragedy. We fall, not for gentleness, but for chaos dressed in leather and longing. I dare say, few among us ever truly recover from our Hardin, our spectral "Damon Salvatore', that beautiful calamity who tears through the soul like a storm pretending to be salvation. We name it passion, call it destiny, and kneel before it as though broken love were a god worth worshiping.
There is an old fever in us ancient and incurable that mistakes danger for depth. We are bewitched by mystery, seduced by the ones we cannot heal, and charmed by the ruin that promises to make us feel alive. We cling to them with trembling hope, whispering the delusion that if such a wounded creature could ever love us, then perhaps we too are worthy of gentle things. What grand irony, that we who crave peace so desperately insist on finding it in the arms of chaos.
But the truth, when it finally arrives, does not shout. It creeps in softly, like dawn through the curtains of a sleepless room. We begin to see that our love stories were not epics, but rehearsals of pain; not fated romances, but well-performed illusions. And in that cruel, necessary stillness; we face the hardest of reckonings: letting the villain die.
To do so feels like betrayal, yet it is an act of mercy to keep them alive in memory is to let their ghosts dine nightly on our peace. It is to doom ourselves to relive the theatre, curtain after curtain, long after the applause has died. We must unlearn this hunger for turmoil, this feverish need to translate suffering into meaning. Love should not wound to prove it exists.
Let us write their eulogy not in bitterness, but in understanding. Let the villains die, and with them, the belief that pain is proof of depth. Let the heart grow quiet, and the air clear. For there is a sovereign strength in softness, a revolution in stillness, and a kind of majesty in moving on.
So mourn them once more, if you must. Whisper your farewell to the chaos that once felt like home. Then step into your own light not as a savior, not as a survivor, but as something far greater: reborn, self-chosen, unashamedly calm.
For the story you now live needs no villain to be grand.
❤1
Let us make something eternal,
something that outlives us, not to glorify our names, but to bind the pulse of humanity across time. Not legacy, but connection;not remembrance, but resonance.
Let it remind future hearts that we, too, once reached out through the quiet, hoping to be understood.
something that outlives us, not to glorify our names, but to bind the pulse of humanity across time. Not legacy, but connection;not remembrance, but resonance.
Let it remind future hearts that we, too, once reached out through the quiet, hoping to be understood.
❤3