Slowly, I detached myself

from people, the people I love,

the ones I cared for.

Lonely, I stayed in the dark

with no candle,

the candles I’d light to write a

folklore.

If I cry, I’d appear weak to the

world.

If I die, I’d be remembered for

my words and actions,

I’d be missed and fake-loved.

When will the root of my pain

be finally unfurled?