POETRY.
A journal for my poetry
Sometimes, I feel as if I have nothing to offer.
Like I’m only here to please, please, please.
To be there when they want me.
Never when I want them.
I’m here to be a statuette.
An object that will linger in their mind for just a moment,
Before it fades into nothing.
It feels as if I’m here to be gazed upon,
To be ogled or ordered around.
Then dropped like a leaf to the sidewalk.
Is this truly what life should be?
I love, like I have nothing to lose.
I will forever love with my whole heart,
With so much ease it is almost guaranteed
To end in pain.
In heartbreak or loss.
To me, it’s all in,
Or all out.
And I cannot bear a life without you.
So I fear I will set myself up over, and over.
Again and again.
I’ll let myself be hurt, for I truly love you.
Most people crave at least some attention.
And I hate to say, I’m no different.
I go overlooked by all,
By peers and family and friends.
And I give, and give,
But never get.
Is it so, so wrong,
To seek the attention in older men..
To seek what I’ve never received.
i learned to love
through filtered light —
messages sent at 2 a.m.
from men who knew
what brand of perfume
meant "notice me."
they call me darling,
like it’s ancient scripture,
and i believe them
like a good girl should.
they have
wallets full of world,
hands that type slow
like they’re sculpting me —
bit by bit,
into something soft enough
to crave.
i send pictures
with shadows just right,
angles that say
"i'm here, and aching."
they reply
with metaphors
and maybe venmo.
love,
in this century,
is often mistaken
for attention.
but god —
do i love the mistake.
I was fifteen, night-lit skin,
typing truths I never said aloud.
He was kind, and twice my age—
a voice too deep, a laugh too proud.
He said I sparkled through the screen,
"so mature," he'd gently tease.
I drank his praise like morning rain,
and bloomed for him, eager to please.
Every “hi” was dopamine,
each “baby” carved into my spine.
And though I knew he wasn’t mine,
I felt adored—at least, online.
Now I scroll through echoes left,
his words still warm, but not quite right.
A ghost I fed with teenage dreams,
and pieces of my softer light.
Fourteen, and fading in my skin,
no one asked how I was, or why.
But they did — in glowing text,
men with faces cropped and dry.
“Beautiful,” they'd write at night,
older hands on newer keys.
I’d blush in dim-lit quiet pride,
as if I meant something—finally.
They liked the way I didn’t know,
called me perfect, called me sweet.
I gave them words, I gave them time,
they gave me praise—and made it feel like heat.
And I knew it wasn’t love, not quite.
But it filled the cracks inside my chest.
So I stayed online and fed the ache,
mistaking crumbs for tenderness.
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