It sounds like waves, sounds like the rain, and all the broken parts of me answer back. Psithurism The sound of wind moving through the trees. A reminder of a slower world. A sound that feels familiar, as though something ancient within us still remembers it.

I’ve been walking a fine line so long, the fall feels less like a threat and more like a direction.

Oh darling, I'm breathing. But darling, I'm dead. - Ticus poetry

Fading from sight, yet blooming beautifully in every nightmare.

One day soon, I will disappear entirely.

The darkness keeps collecting pieces of me.

The ghosts of melancholy hang from my heart like rusted chains, heavy with old winters.

I can’t shake the sadness; it settled into my bones and signed its name there.

i l o v e y o u b e l o n g s t o t h e w i n d

people are like flowers, don't hold them too tightly, let them open in their own time and breathe... forcing anything crushes the soul

Maybe we'll meet again someday. Probably not.

I woke up on the wrong side of you.

It was all a dream, wasn't it? A lovely dream, but a dream just the same.

End of May feels like November.

Some women inherit pearls; I inherited the ancient language of storms.

Jealous of the ocean

Asking a girl to change is like asking the moon to hide its scars.

Heart laced with ash, I keep rising from fires that were lit by hands I once trusted.

I bloom only where the light forgets to reach.

Some women wear perfume; I wear the lingering scent of burned bridges and old hexes.

I buried my grief in the garden and woke to a field of thorns.

You're not broken; you were trained by chaos.

He loves me. He loves me not.

I wear exhaustion like eyeliner — thick enough to make the world mistake my damage for beauty.

It won’t be long now — even the grave feels closer than tomorrow.

Some of us didn’t inherit happiness — we inherited the grief nobody else could carry.

My silence isn’t peace — it’s the sound of every ruined thing inside me finally giving up on being heard.

Ever stare off into space and feel the endless black peel back your ribs, licking at the raw marrow of your fears?

My interest in human interaction is akin to the sun begging the night to stay.

Never said I was perfect.

My head feels like a locked room full of demons clawing at the walls for a way out.

The only reconnecting I want to do is with nature.

Your opinion of me is just background noise, and I stopped mistaking static for truth a long time ago.

The sadness is always there, like a friend, like a lover, like a ghost that learned my name before I did.

We traded souls for screens, and called the loneliness connection.

I learned long ago that if I couldn’t be loved, I could still haunt.

The silver lining for me is that the world is finally crazier than the voices in my head…

Age doesn’t knock—it just starts speaking through your tired eyes.

People who never shut the fuck up usually have the least to say.

I’m so tired, even my ghosts have stopped pacing the halls.

Portraits from the Edge of Sanity

Disappear from my sight before the worst parts of me remember your name.

The sweetest things survive in silence, far from the mouths that ruin them.

Melancholy crowns my shadow.

Portraits from the Edge of Sanity

Kiss the edge of my disdain.

Numb to it all, I watch everything pass through me like it was never meant to stay.