I forget sometimes that I play dead
while I’m alive in my head,
so I turn into a puppet,
performing for strangers I’ll never see again,
clapping along with the rhythm of a conversation
I don’t know how to join.

Simon Says: “Go back to your cage,”
and I obey,
letting the circus of my mind keep me entertained.

Self-destruction never felt so familiar,
but it’s a routine I know well,
so I hide there—
a place to forget the awkwardness of breathing
when the world is watching,
when I can’t be anyone but the ghost of myself.

See, I see dragons in the clouds,
pirates on the street,
and treasure buried in the spaces between words.
I’m Alice, falling,
finding safety in the rabbit hole
because it’s quieter there.

Forgive me if I hide in these thoughts
and call it peace,
but it’s not you,
it’s me—
a thousand thoughts running wild,
all seducing me,
a mental circus that can never sit still.

I wish my mind were kinder,
less demanding,
less sharp with its edges.

I wish it didn’t take everything so personally,
but rest is a luxury
I can never afford.

So, forgive me when my eyes glaze over,
and my thoughts wander—
concentration escapes me
like a dream that can never last.

Me, myself, and I are strangers
in a house we built,
but none of us are brave enough
to ask for help,
because the patience it takes to untangle these thoughts
feels like something I’ll never find.

I wish my answers came easier,
but when you ask,
what’s on my mind?
I choke on the words,
the answers taste like nothing at all—
“I’m fine,”
and I say it like a script,
memorized, rehearsed,
until I believe it.

The show must go on,
but it’s a performance I can’t keep up,
so I wear the mask of a clown
and hope no one notices
how much I’m pretending.

I’m buried beneath my thoughts,
and this little light of mine
is flickering,
waiting for someone to notice
that I’m lost in the dark.

So, let’s talk about distractions,
about the peace I fake,
the mask I wear,
and maybe then you’ll understand
why I disappear when I should be present.

Please, don’t judge the silence,
because it’s just me,
thinking out loud,
trying to find my way back.

Remember the way you’d fold into corners,
curling like leaves just to feel
the warmth of your own breathing,
the small life you made for yourself in that space—
a fortress of playing records, and studying, and honey lattes
hands reaching for corners to make a home.

That little room, those early hours,
you were everything and everyone to yourself
but in your marrow pulsed a gentler pulse,
one that said, I have always known heartbreak.
It sang in the spaces between your breaths,
beneath your olive skin, under your flecked flesh.

Sometimes I dial your number and can’t speak
because I am here, and you are there,
separated only by years and questions, but sprawled on familiar floors—
playing records, studying, sipping honey lattes,
acquainted by heartbreak.
A little bruised, but softer for it.

There are times I wish we’d live separate lives, ask nothing, and live,
but you fashioned my path, like clay in willing hands.
So, dear self, hold on to that little room—those honey lattes,
the records that spin our stories into the air,
and every loss, a lesson carved in lines of courage—
as we continue through life—steady, hand in hand.

I am 25.
This is a mood board, sprawling
Swatches of ambition, photographs pinned of places yet to see,
And pastel whispers of what feels true, but I think I like who I am becoming.
I drink an oat milk latte and walk around the house remembering who I was at 24—
Drafting text messages, never sent;
Creating worlds in fictional novels, characters that understood;
Spraying lavender on the pillow sheet, scaring the restless away.
I could write a million words about who I used to be, but I am 25.
I am floating and celebrating this chapter, feeling it expand and contract.
Everything has become clearer—homemade pasta, fuzzy socks, wearing lingerie, lighting cinnamon candles—(because) I didn’t love me.

I am 25. I’ve learned
To believe in my melancholy and that sometimes, things are out of my control; to taste the sweetness in the back of my throat, where my fear quietly waits; to turn pages, and write with fountain pens, and love myself in ways I have never.
I am 25 and I think I like who I am becoming.