《 Nyx Thinks 》

Liar. You do not want what is best for me. You do not love me. No. You desire me, to don the very shroud you wore as a child. And to covet the dreams you had, with wings crafted from the cinders of my own innocence and childhood. That is not 'Love.' #OC

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And I, my darling, am weary. Of caressing apologies on your lips for a sin I never committed. Of carving confessions on my body for forgiveness I beg for but shall never be granted. _____ You demand my ruin, then blame me for not ruining myself elegantly enough. For you, my darling, are enamoured, drowning in the love of a siren I do not resemble. Yet you make me wear her skin. Even if the moon sheds all it's layers, it can never be the sun. I'm but a human. #Atuneofbrokenhearts

I'm afraid I must ask, How do you sleep at night without a single ounce of guilt? wallowing in luxury build upon the blood of innocent, unfortunate lives, burning away in the hell you ignited. #scribble

To the instigators of war; Have you trained your soul to forget the way a bomb forgets the bodies it makes— scattered, scorched, blown open like roses in reverse? Tell me, when you wake, do you mistake the sunrise for fire, or has even the dawn become just another casualty, another light you snuffed out without a second thought? When you lie still at night, do the ghosts come to you, not as accusers, but as shadows so vast, so heavy, that they press you into the earth like another unmarked grave? Or worse, do they not come at all? Does the night stay empty, does the world keep turning, while you—untouched, simply close your eyes and dream? Lighting a fire that burns away millions. #war #scribble

My ears are full of too many "forevers" that turned into "just for now." #scribble

I have grown familiar; With kissing apologies into the mouths of men who mistake mercy for weakness. With being a season someone outgrows when the weather changes. With writing "stay" in languages they refuse to learn. #OC

They tell me grief softens with time. What a beautiful lie. It just learns to wear my skin better, until even I forget which screams are mine and which ones belong to the grave. #scribble

Hey everyone! Nyx here, I just wanted to say it would be great if you all could drop comments on the posts, your thoughts on the pieces/verses more often. It would help me understand your perspective, understanding and perception and also improve myself. I would love to interact with my readers more. Thank you, Stay safe out there.

How do you sleep at night after lighting the matches of war? How does your chest not cave under the weight of thousands you buried alive, when every breath you take is stolen from their graves? Does the moon not turn away, sick with the glow of missiles you launched at dawn? Do the stars not bleed in their constellations, watching you count your gold over a world you turned to stone? Or do you dream in ledgers, balance sheets of blood, columns of the dead, while mothers dig through rubble with their hands, and fathers hold the remnants of their names like shattered glass? #scribble

I'll kiss your lips but taste the end, write "forever" and play pretend; that promises won't turn to dust, that wanting you won't break my trust. #OC

My heart is a diary filled with names of people who never stayed long enough to read it. #scribble

They said "supporting role" like it wasn’t a death sentence. Like I didn’t lie awake praying for one shot, a single chance to prove my bones weren’t made of your leftovers. To prove I wasn't just there to elevate you. To prove my own worth. ____ I’ll rewrite the story in my own handwriting. Next season, they’ll chant my name till your trophies gather dust. #OC #draft

I’m tired of being your muse, your beautiful and tragic thing. You don’t love me, you love the pain my suffering brings. You love the idea of me, not the mess that I am. #OC #draft

I'm a wretched thing. Alive yet incomplete, Soft in the wrong places. I'll plead for warmth yet neglect embrace, a paradox I can't erase. My hands will pull you close all night, then push away at morning light. My words are bright, my smiles are wide, a golden mask I wear with pride. When you touch my hand, you'll feel the shake, a fragile heart about to break. Here I stand, my soul on fire, all smoke and mirrors, I'm just a liar. So I ask of you; do not fall in love, just let me be, I'm the architect of my own misery. #Atuneofbrokenhearts #HID

Hands that still smell of smoke though the fire's been dead for years. #lines

I catch my mother staring sometimes, her eyes tracing the hollows where my cheeks have given up. She doesn't recognize my emaciated frame, ashen face, or my brittle voice. She doesn’t recognize the thing that’s wearing her daughter’s skin. Neither do I. #OC

Trophy child. You were the sun, and I was the weed growing crooked in your golden light. A ghost in your shadow. Every trophy you raised cast a longer shadow— my A’s were alright, my wins were "That's nice, dear," my voice was background noise to your standing ovation. Every "Why can’t you be more like them?" a death sentence to my fragile soul, an exile. Your name was a monument; mine, a footnote on the family tree. __ One day I’ll stop counting myself in your leftover light. One day I’ll be someone's sun, not the ghost in your blinding lights. #OC

I'm not a poet. I'm a wound that bleeds ink. These words are the wretched shadow of a sob, a cry that never left my lungs. #draft

I have tried to write you something soft, but the page bled through where my fingers shook; ink becoming accusation, doubts becoming contempt, longing bleeding into betrayal, and the confession of love turns to the burning question of, "Why me? Why would you do this to me?" #scribble