I don't think I should love,
or let anyone love me.
It feels like a setup,
like inviting someone into a house
I already know will collapse.
I've checked for cracks,
but the foundation is hollow,
and no matter how hard I knock,
there's only an echo
where my heart used to be.
I tell myself it's trauma—
a story that doesn't end neatly,
a bruise that never blooms into clarity.
But sometimes I wonder,
maybe I'm just broken in a way
that doesn't ask for fixing.
They say you can't pour
from an empty cup,
but no one ever tells you
what to do
if the cup shatters in your hands.
I watch people feel,
like they're tasting colors
I can't even see.
I smile when I'm supposed to,
laugh in the right places,
but it's choreography,
not instinct.
I think of children sometimes,
and the thought turns heavy,
like their small hands would reach for me
and find nothing solid to hold.
It's easier to stay alone,
to keep my chaos from spilling
into someone else's life.
It's not sadness, really,
just a quiet void—
and maybe that's worse.
Because when you stop feeling,
you stop believing
you ever could.
