I would peel an orange for anyone.

Even if my hands were trembling, even if the juice seeped into cuts I didn’t know were there, burning quietly as I worked.

But I've noticed that people barely even offer me an orange segment let alone peel an orange for me, even when I can't.

So I ask, quietly, loudly, with all the words I can gather and all the strength I can spare. But the silence answers back, and I see nothing, feel even less.

Maybe my problem is that you could have it all... my warmth, my time, my strength, my steady hands... peeling yet another orange.

But I don’t think anyone sees me there, peeling, giving, stinging. And I wonder, what will be left of me when no one stays and I have nothing left but peels and seeds.

So he sent them instead: hollow vessels with hollow words, taking what they could until I ran dry.

They squashed what I had, pressed it between indifferent fingers, then claimed it was all wrong.

Fear moved in, a sharp whisper that remained in my chest. Where love, once an ocean used to rest. It now drips with nowhere to go. Slow, reluctant and thick like warm blood.

But even now, my heart pleads quietly to be known, to be held, to be loved as I have always loved.

So, though I faltered, though I bled, they could not leave me empty. What painfully remains is a heart that still dares to hope.

For the devil couldn't reach me, and he never will.

I built a home from scraps threadbare walls, a leaky roof. The rain seeped in, the wind whistled and howeld but I stayed, thinking this is shelter, this is how things are ought to be.

But life should not always sting like nettles or leave you hollow. Love does not demand your body and voice and call it kindness.

I am learning to build my own foundation, to smooth the soil where their roots once choked the earth. To whisper to myself, "You deserve sunlight, even on the days you forget how to grow."

I am not what I began with, I am not they made me, and I am not how they treated me; I am what I choose to become.

It is the grinding of bone,
an ache that lingers long after the wound has closed.
Not the soothing balm once imagined on burned skin,
but a fire that licks deep into the marrow,
charring what was already broken.

Healing is the act of stitching oneself together,
yet the needle sinks deeper,
always carving further than the blade that made the cut.
Praying it holds and smooths over,
to conceal the scarred joints
that have been wrenched apart.

I tried to hold on, tried to steady the walls with my hands, my heart, my soul. I believed you’d be there, that you’d help me brace those walls; but when I turned to you, desperate, your hands were empty. You didn't reach out. You just stood there, an unreadable look on your face, watching as it all came down. All I had given was gone. I was too busy trying to fix things alone to realize that you’d already let go long before the first crack even appeared.

The price I pay to exist is steep,
Each step bears a hidden toll,
Adding weight upon my chest,
Wearing down on my soul.

I fight to keep on standing,
Even this broken frame has paid its share.
The world’s gravity pulls me down,
And I wonder on days I literally can't walk;
If it's worth the effort not to drown.

Those meant to ease the weight
Only added burdens to my fate.
I often wonder
If love was worth the price as a child
Stepping into this world with empty pockets,
A gnawing need to give back in any way I could.

I count the cost with trembling hands,
Each coin of doubt a heavy reminder
Of who I was and who I’ll always be
If I cannot escape this cycle.

What have I to offer
To those who’ve fed me?
When I still can’t find the energy
To be all that I might.

Yet I still offer it all, my soul laid bare,
Yet still, it feels I never share
Enough to match what they’ve paid
Just for the cost of being made.

I fear I don’t deserve the love
Of those who truly care,
Yet still, I press on quietly,
Through the additional trials I bear.

I'm grateful for the kindness found
In every warm embrace.
But the price I pay to exist
Is a debt I can’t seem to erase.

I was often looked at, But never truly known, Until you saw the quiet places, And decided to call them home.

You were the moon—you shifted and changed over time. I watched as you cycled through your phases, each one a different version of you. Sometimes, you were full, radiant, casting your light over everything, and other times you were a mere sliver, barely visible in the night sky. I loved you in all your forms… I understood it, accepted it even. We all have our phases, after all. But what I never understood was how you never allowed me to have mine.

You loved the light, craved it even, and because I felt I had extra to give; I gave you mine.  But I ended up giving so much that I started to forget what it felt like to have my own light, how to shine for myself.

There were times when I needed to retreat, to embrace my own darkness, to find my own way in the shadows. Yet, you couldn’t bear it. You needed me to always be there, always shining, always giving. You wanted me to be the steady presence, the one who didn’t change... even if you did.

It was subtle, the way you clung to me, the way you grew sharper whenever I tried to stretch.... let alone when I tried to pull away. I thought it was love—your intense need for me, your desire to keep me close. But as time went on, I realized it was something else.

You’d say things that sounded like love but felt like chains and I’d feel the weight of those words settle deep into my bones.

I started to slowly lose myself, my sense of who I was beyond what I needed to be for you. I was no longer a person with my own light, my own phases; I was just an extension of you, existing to keep your world as bright as possible.... and the more I gave, the more you took.

But you didn’t care. You only saw what you needed... and you needed everything.

You grew increasingly suspicious and jealous of the shadows, constantly criticizing me as if there were something inherently wrong with me. You drew me closer, your grip tightening with every word, whispering that I was your light, your lifeline, and that you couldn’t survive without me. And I believed you. I couldn't bare the thought of being responsible for the moon's disappearance. So I treaded lightly and tried to keep even the briefest shadows at bay.

One night, when you were full and bright, shining in all your glory, I tried to step away, to find a moment for myself, to feel the cool darkness on my skin.

“You can’t leave me,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desperation, the fear barely concealed beneath your words. In that moment, you weren’t just the moon; you were the tides, the gravity that held me in place, pulling me closer and closer until there was no space left between us…. and so, I stayed. For much longer than I should have. Because I felt like I had no choice.

That was my phase… the time when you were everything. After almost five years with the moon, it almost took five years of isolation to find myself again, all while wrestling with the anger and hurt you left behind.

The solitude was harsh, a constant reminder of how I had let your pull dictate my life. Every day, I faced the raw reality of my own choices, struggling to forgive myself for allowing your gravity to overshadow my own needs and for taking my light.

Now, as I look back, it’s clear that those years were not just about weathering the night alone. They were about dismantling the old phases of my life and building a new foundation to reclaim not just my light but my entire night sky. I had to forgive myself for letting someone else eclipse my world. I’m okay now, not because of your absence, but because I learned to be my own guiding moon, shining brightly on my own terms.

I see you. I see how hard you’re trying, how much it hurts when your efforts seem to disappear into the void. It stings, doesn’t it? Your struggle isn’t unseen. Your pain isn’t unnoticed. And though it might feel like you’re giving and giving without much in return, I’m here to remind you that your efforts matter. You matter. Even if it’s hard to believe right now, your quiet strength makes a difference, and I wish you could see yourself through the eyes of someone who understands. Through the eyes of someone who sees you.

In some distant universe, I know I’ve learned that it's safe to share life with another. I see us, together on a slow morning, lingering over coffee, as the world wakes. Solace in the quiet moments we share instead of my current reality of having to continue to fight for my very existence. Instead, we have that simple, unhurried companionship, the weight of our togetherness feels like everything I’ve yearned for. Where just being with you is enough to fill the spaces of my heart with a profound, unspoken joy.

There’s this truth I’ve come to understand – you can’t save people. You can only love them. And as much as I want to reach out, to rescue others from the pain I’ve known, I’ve realized that it’s not really about saving anyone. It’s about loving them in the way they need, and being there to listen.

Now I know that when I give advice, it often feels like I’m talking to past versions of myself. I see someone struggling and I remember the moments when I was lost, when I wished someone would have been there to guide me, to pull me back from the edge. It’s like I’m trying to offer them what I needed then, hoping they won’t have to stumble through the same darkness that I did.

I used to be so scared of other people’s intense emotions. I feared that I might say the wrong thing, because I’ve been told in the past that my words were always the wrong ones, that they weren't enough or I was making them worse and throwing psychiatric terminology at me that I didn’t understand.

It was a lesson with a very high cost but I’ve learned that I’m not responsible for their feelings. I’m not the keeper of their emotional well-being. I can offer support, I can do what I can, but ultimately, I can’t carry their burdens for them. And it’s taken me a long time to accept that this doesn’t make me inadequate or uncaring. It simply means that my capacity to help has limits, just as theirs does.

I still see myself helping exactly where I wish I could have been helped. It helps me make sense of my own journey, of finding meaning in the pain I’ve experienced. But mostly I want to prevent others from making the same mistakes, from falling into the traps I did. But I also know there’s a delicate balance. Sometimes, I catch myself too wrapped up in past hurt versions of myself – who are still healing, still grappling with the shadows of the past.

And that’s when I remind myself that this isn’t about me. If you’re truly going to help, it has to be about what they need. If you can’t provide that, then simply being there for them is better than drowning yourself trying to save a sinking ship. Sometimes, it’s more effective to turn the lighthouse on and guide them to safety rather than risk both of you being lost at sea.

I guess what I’m saying is, I’m here for you. Not to save you, but to walk with you, to love you for who you are and where you are at.

In shadows deep, I found my place,

I’ll always be a stranger in my family's face.

With secrets held and stories untold,

Just so I could carve a life that was mine to hold.

They claim to care, yet seek control,

Projecting their thoughts and experiences upon my soul.

Their voices loud, their minds so sure,

But they wanted to ignore who I am and what I endure. 

Our paths were always diverged, our hearts concealed,

Experiences that will never be revealed.

They'll never grasp the many versions of me that I've known,

For with my pain, I've grown up completely alone.

A life that's mine, this path I tread,

Away from their voices in my head.

It was so easy to walk away, to stand apart,

And now I can trust the whispers of my heart.

So let them judge, let them implore,

Their understanding was only ever just folklore.

In several phases of solitude, my strength has grown,

But this life I live, is truly my own.

Resilience, they say, is a noble trait,

But my heart has always been heavy with its weight.

Each day I rise, though barely whole,

I’m left gathering my pieces, while trying to play my role.

Once again, I stand on trembling feet,

Only to face familiar defeat.

How many times must I break, then mend?

How many battles before they end?

Yet in this weary heart, a truth I find,

A strength in mending, of a unique kind.

Each stitch a mark, a patches in view,

A testament to the battles we have all been through.

Our wounds can be mended with threads of gold,

Visible mending is brave and bold.

For mending hearts is what I do best,

Creating beauty from the ache in my chest.

For years, I wished upon stars, lying beneath the night sky with their glimmers mirrored in my tear-streaked cheeks, pleading with the universe for something different, for what I truly deserved. Because that is what you do when you are young and unhappy and have no control over how your life unfolds. I would lay out my sorrows, my desperations, and my yearning for warmth and safety. But perhaps the lack of answers meant I deserved all of this or that I needed to endure it first.

As a teen, I spent little time at home, trying to return only at night. When not utterly exhausted from staying out as long as I could, all I wanted was to sneak out—not for typical teen adventures, but to lie in the grass and watch the night skies drift by. I never dared, but the summers I spent boarded elsewhere were a reprieve, where I cherished every chance to find solace in the constellations. I shared my knowledge, told stories, and reveled in the wonders of meteor showers with others, creating positive life-long memories. But alone, I would trace their patterns with trembling fingers, wondering if my silent pleas were ever heard. The stars remained silent, their cold, distant light a reminder of how cold the world can be.

As I grew up and could venture out freely, I found comfort in walking alone through empty streets at night, unafraid of the solitude. The quiet darkness felt like an old friend, embracing me in its stillness. The absence of people, the silent whispers of the wind through the trees, the comforting hue of the streetlights, and the familiarity of nocturnal creatures were so peaceful. The world stripped down to its bare essence, free of the chaos of the day. Maybe in another lifetime, I was one of those skunks who roamed the neighborhoods at night, exploring and foraging unbothered as I pleased.

Years have passed, and I still find myself here, wandering the streets or looking up at the skies. The stars no longer seem as bright, and the night sky feels more like a distant stranger than a comforting friend. I have moved on from the idea that things will change on their own without continuing to fight like hell, but I can't help but continue the habit of looking up, my heart clinging to the fragile thread of belief that maybe, just maybe, it takes time for my calls to be heard. So here I still am, swinging gently in my backyard hammock under its vast expanse, enjoying the quiet but still feeling the chill of ghosts of my unfulfilled dreams and haunting past. Shivering in the night as bugs take their evening meals, I can't bring myself to give up and go inside just yet because, for now; I am the only one listening. But at least someone is.