Gedichten

I hate it—hate what we’ve become, how we silence the words that tremble on the edge of our lips, how we bury our truths in the shadow of each other’s eyes. I hate that we hide, that we smother our feelings in the dark, but is it fair to hate, or am I wrong even to feel this rage? Am I the villain in my own sorrow?

I want to cry, to weep rivers of anger and dread— dread of the unknown, the unknowable, for it is the unknown that wounds, and I am not strong enough to bleed again.

Come to me. Tell me that everything will be alright, whisper that the storm will pass, that the tides will shift, and I will finally hold what I deserve in trembling hands.

I long to be saved. This war within me—this battle of hate and love— it’s suffocating. It can strangle a soul,
leave no air for hope to breathe.

And so, I stand at the edge of myself,
a battlefield littered with pieces of who I am, who I could be, and who I fear I’ll never become. The hatred and the love—they are twin storms, tearing through me, yet leaving me hollow.

But perhaps, in the silence after the storm, I will find the courage to gather the wreckage, to rebuild from the ruins of my aching heart. And though I may never understand why I burn with both fire and frost, I will rise—scarred but breathing, broken but alive.