Growing up, I thought love was about giving.

Giving your time.
Giving your loyalty.
Giving a damn.
Giving pieces of yourself to someone because you believed they’d hold them carefully.

Then she came into my life.

And I gave.

At first, I didn’t mind.
It felt good.
Like I had finally found someone worth showing up for.
Someone worth building something with.

So I started changing.

Not because she told me to.

She never had to.

I just wanted to be enough for her.

So I became quieter.
Stopped saying certain things because I knew she wouldn’t understand.
Stopped doing things I loved because she didn’t care about them.
Started thinking twice before I spoke.
Started watching myself through her eyes instead of my own.

I called it compromise.

Maybe it was.

But sometimes I wonder if I was just slowly giving myself away.

I stopped writing.
Stopped dressing the way I liked.
Stopped seeing people who knew me before her.
Stopped being the guy I was when nobody was watching.

Piece by piece, I made myself smaller.

And the fucked-up part?

She never even asked me to.

She liked me like that.

The version of me that was always there.
Always available.
Always adjusting.
Always making room for her.

And I kept doing it because I loved her.

I kept telling myself that this was what love looked like.

You sacrifice.
You compromise.
You stay.
You make it work.

So I stayed.

Even when I was tired.
Even when I was angry.
Even when something inside me was screaming that I wasn’t myself anymore.

There were promises.
Arguments.
Apologies.
Late-night calls.
Long silences where neither of us knew what to say.

And somewhere in all of that, I lost track of myself.

One day I looked in the mirror and realized I didn’t recognize the guy looking back at me.

I saw a guy who forgot how to laugh without wondering if she’d like it.

A guy who used to have dreams.
Used to write.
Used to dress how he wanted.
Used to have his own people, his own life, his own fucking identity.

Now everything somehow led back to her.

I had shrunk myself so much to fit into her world
that there was barely anything left of mine.

And that’s the part nobody tells you about losing yourself.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

Nobody wakes up one morning and decides,
“Today, I’m going to become someone I don’t recognize.”

It happens slowly.

One compromise at a time.
One silence at a time.
One “it’s fine” at a time.

Until one day, you realize you’ve spent so much time trying to be loved
that you forgot how to be yourself.

Growing up, I thought love was supposed to make you feel more alive.

But loving her made me feel like less of a man.

Not because she destroyed me.

Because I let myself disappear trying to keep her.

And now I’m sitting here trying to find my way back.

Trying to remember what I liked.
What I wanted.
What I believed in.
Who I was before I started measuring myself by how well I fit into her life.

I think I lost myself for her.

And maybe the hardest truth I have to accept is this—

She never even asked me to.

I did it myself.

Because I loved her so much
that somewhere along the way,

I forgot that I was supposed to love myself too.

-Infamous knight

The nurse said it could be any day now. She said it like people say “rain’s coming,” eyes already somewhere else, trained to move on. I nodded like I was agreeing, but inside, a thousand doors creaked open — old rooms I never visited, voices I buried under busy schedules and evening news.

I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours. Not much else to do when you’ve got machines doing the breathing for you. It’s strange how something so still can hold so much of your life.

That ceiling has seen me laugh so hard I scared the neighbours. It’s seen me press my palms together and beg a God I never fully trusted to keep my daughter breathing through the night. It’s watched me sleep alone more times than I ever meant to.

It’s a plain, white ceiling — nothing fancy. A slight water stain in the corner from when the roof leaked in ’94. I never fixed it. Meant to, but life always had other plans, didn’t it?

I think about my wife, Precious. God, that woman could kill a man with silence. She had a way of looking right through me — not in a cruel way, more like she was searching for the man she married and wondering if I’d buried him somewhere beneath my ego.

She left three years ago. Cancer. Took her quietly, like a thief. I remember sitting right here in this very bed, holding her fingers like I was anchoring myself. She smiled — I don’t know how she managed that — and said, “Don’t become a ghost after me.”

I think I did.

My son, Albert, hasn’t called in weeks. I don’t blame him. I wasn’t always a kind father. I was good with bills and bad with birthdays. Showed up for his graduation like it was a board meeting. Clapped, smiled, shook hands. Then came home and poured myself another drink.

He wanted to be a painter. I told him to be an engineer.

He listens now. He makes machines talk. But I haven’t heard him say “Dad” like it meant anything in years.

Funny thing is, I’m not asking for forgiveness. I don’t think I deserve it. But I hope, one day, he lies in a warm bed, with a child snoring softly beside him, and thinks, “I became better than him.” That would be enough.

The nurse came in just now. Said I should try to eat something. I asked her to read me a page from the book on my table. It’s Precious’s copy of The Heart of the Matter. Her fingers turned the pages so often, the edges are worn like soft cloth. I close my eyes and let her voice echo into the corners of the room.

When she’s gone, I whisper, “Thank you.”

Not to the nurse.

To the ceiling. To the night. To the moments that hurt and healed in equal measure. To the invisible thread that held me together when I should’ve broken apart.

I used to be afraid of dying. Now I think I’m more afraid of being forgotten.

But maybe — just maybe — if someone remembers the man who once held a girl’s hand like it was a lighthouse... if someone hears Albert speak to his own son gently... if someone finds a letter in the back of a drawer that says, “I tried” — then I won’t be.

The light flickers. The air feels thin, softer than before.

I think this is it.

I reach for the ceiling with my eyes.

And it reaches back...

#Infamous_Knight

Can you be the place

where I can rest

not just this body,

but whatever is left of me?

These dead eyes,

that have seen too much,

might finally sleep.

And maybe,

when they open to your face,

they’ll remember what life feels like.

I know it’s a lot to ask.

And I’m being selfish.

But for too long,

I’ve been searching for something

without even knowing what.

And now...

I think it might be you.

Could you be that?

The thing I’ve been looking for,

so I don’t have to look anymore?

I’m tired.

This body feels heavy.

Could I leave some of that weight here,

just for a while,

just to know what it feels like

to breathe without sinking?

Can you be that place for me?

Where this stubborn,

selfish,

confused soul

can finally rest.

"Perhaps this is a lot to ask."

🔱🍁⚜️

I smiled in places

where I should’ve stayed silent,

nodded when I meant

to say I’m tired.

There are poems

I never wrote,

because they sounded too much

like confessions.

And some days,

I feel like a sentence

that paused for too long—

not lost,

just waiting

for the right reader.

I keep people

like old letters—

creased, familiar,

unopened too long

to return.

But if you're reading this,

maybe you're someone

who’s felt that too—

that ache of being understood

a little too late.

And maybe

we don’t need to explain

everything we’ve survived.

Sometimes it’s enough

to just sit

in the silence

and know someone else

knows...

🔱🍁⚜️

"What I Mean When I Say I Love You"

When I say I love you,

I don’t just mean I’m drawn to you —

I mean I notice you.

The way you read —

eyebrows softly furrowed,

like you’re challenging the author

but still willing to forgive them.

How your coffee often sits untouched,

its warmth fading slowly,

because your mind wandered again—

not away from the world,

but deeper into it.

I love the way you walk,

like the ground isn’t quite real yet —

as if you’re still deciding

whether to stay or fly.

The way you worry,

quietly folding your fears

into corners no one sees,

like letters never mailed

but written a thousand times.

I see the way your hair falls

across your face

when you're focused or flustered —

as if even gravity pauses

just to touch you gently.

I remember how you

love listening to music

while cooking —

how your body moves

not just to the rhythm of a song,

but to the rhythm of comfort,

of warmth,

of giving without asking.

You don’t just care —

you carry.

People, moments,

gentle burdens that aren’t even yours,

as if the world left them

for your hands specifically.

You laugh like it's a secret

you’re willing to share,

and your voice —

it isn’t loud,

but it lingers like a feeling

you can’t quite explain.

I know how you tilt your head

when you're trying to

understand,

how your silence says more

than most people’s paragraphs.

And when I say "I love you,”

I don’t mean forever

in the way stories tell it.

I mean now,

fully,

exactly as you are —

with your half-cold coffee,

your songs in the kitchen,

your storms wrapped in silence,

your hair falling like poetry across your face.

I don’t want to change you.

I just want to keep noticing

everything the world forgets to see.

So when I say "I love you,”

what I really mean is —

I see you.

And I’m staying.

For the quiet days.

For the loud nights.

For the moments you can’t speak

and the ones you wish would last longer.

I’m all yours —

not just for a chapter,

but for every line

life writes with you in it...

🔱🍁⚜️

I want to feel

every shape that love can take...

heartbreak,

the quiet kind of sadness,

the happiness that cracks you open.

I want it all.

Every bond I build,

every betrayal I bleed,

every moment love touches

soft or sharp.

Before my soul leaves this body,

before it drifts into whatever comes after,

I want it to carry the weight

of every feeling

love ever carved into me.

For us,

love is a gift

or a curse...

I want to know.

I want to write

with everything I’ve lived,

with the way I saw it,

and put it down in my notebook.

So it can say:

"This is how I saw love."

🔱🍁⚜️

There are moments when I catch myself adjusting my words, softening my truth, or changing my tone — not because it feels right, but because I’m afraid of being misunderstood by people who were never really trying to understand me in the first place.

I start to wonder what they must be thinking,

if they’re quietly judging me,

if my name becomes part of someone else’s story when I’m not around —

and it stings more than I’d like to admit.

But then I remember:

what they think of me is built from their own fears, their own mirrors, their own lives —

and none of that has anything to do with who I truly am.

If someone’s opinion of me can be changed by whispers or assumptions,

they never saw me clearly to begin with —

and I don’t need to carry the weight of someone else’s blurry vision.

I have spent too long folding myself into shapes that felt safe,

when I was born to be whole,

even if that wholeness takes up space that makes others uncomfortable.

I am not perfect, but I am real —

and if being real means being too quiet, too bold, too emotional, too honest,

then I will still choose to be real, every time.

Because I’m no longer searching for a place in someone else’s world —

I’m learning to build one within myself.

One where I don’t have to earn rest, love, or softness.

Where I can be fully seen without explanation,

and where I no longer need to prove that I deserve to exist exactly as I am.

- Infamous Knight

He always forgot things.

Keys, books, sometimes even shoes.

But never people.

Never me.

It was raining the first time we met —

he offered me half his umbrella

and the whole of his heart.

Just like that.

No questions asked.

For years,

he walked into rooms like light,

fixing little parts of my life

without ever knowing he was doing it.

And I —

I was the quiet one,

the careful one,

the kind who keeps love in pockets

and takes it out only

when no one’s looking.

But he never minded.

he just stayed.

Like music that didn’t need a melody to matter.

Then one day,

he said he had to go home

for a while.

His mother was ill.

Just a few days.

he left his umbrella behind —

"Just in case it rains while I’m gone."

It did rain.

Two days.

Then seven.

Then thirty.

I called.

No answer.

Texted.

Nothing.

I told myself stories:

He lost his phone.

He’s busy.

He’ll come back when the sky clears.

Then I found the letter.

Tucked in the folds

of the umbrella he left behind.

"I didn’t want to leave like this.

But the storm inside me

was louder than I let you see.

I didn’t forget you.

I just forgot how to stay.

I’m sorry I loved you

only in the moments I thought I deserved to."

Now every time it rains,

I carry that old umbrella —

not because it keeps me dry,

but because it holds the last part of him

that didn’t walk away.

~Infamous Knight

Do you think poetry is only for poets?

For those who know big words, metaphors, and forms?

Me:

No… poetry is for the breathing.

For the ones who feel everything and say nothing.

It doesn’t belong to language.

It belongs to awareness.

Stranger:

But I never understood most poems.

Am I not made for them?

Me:

Poetry isn’t written to be understood

it’s written to be felt.

It’s not a math problem…

it’s more like the sky.

You don’t need to measure it to know it’s beautiful.

Stranger:

So what is poetry, really?

Me:

Life.

Every single thing is poetry

when you stop looking at it

like data.

The way a child falls asleep mid-sentence…

The way leaves fall one by one, not all at once

The pause in a conversation that says more than words...

It’s all poetry.

Stranger:

Even science?

Me:

Especially science.

The way the heart beats without asking permission.

How stars are born out of collapse.

How silence between atoms makes space for everything else

That’s music.

That’s poetry wearing a lab coat.

Stranger:

And life?

Me:

Life is a poem being written breath by breath.

Some days rhyme.

Some don’t.

But the rhythm… the rhythm never leaves.

We’re all just stanzas

trying to make peace with the spaces between us.

Stranger:

Then who is a poet?

Me:

Anyone who has ever hurt,

healed,

noticed,

or waited.

Anyone who’s ever looked at the ordinary

and felt something sacred.

Stranger:

So I can write too?

Me:

You already do.

In your silence.

In your survival.

In the way you keep going

even when nothing makes sense.

That’s the most honest poetry there is...

you’d feel this exhausted,

searching for energy in places

and faces that didn’t see you.

You’ve been worn down by the weight

of things that once brought you joy,

now just distant memories.

Every day feels like the same loop,

like you’re stuck in yesterday,

too tired to break free,

too drained to keep going.

But listen to me:

You don’t deserve this weight.

You are stronger than you think,

even when it feels impossible.

You deserve rest,

you deserve peace,

and you deserve to heal.

You are enough.

You don’t have to pretend to be okay

when you’re not.

You don’t have to carry this alone,

and it’s okay to rest.

Life is like a storm,

and you are the tree,

standing strong,

even when the winds feel too harsh.

The sun will shine again,

and one day,

you’ll look back and see how far you’ve come.

#Infamous Knight

her shadow long in the fading light.

"What’s your dream?" she asked,

her voice soft, but there was something heavy about it.

I leaned against the tree,

pretending to think.

"A house in the mountains," I said,

"with big windows to watch the world,

but cozy enough to keep it out.

Warm sunlight every morning,

and quiet nights with stars."

She smiled faintly,

but it didn’t reach her eyes.

"Just a house? That’s it?"

I stepped closer,

letting my voice drop.

"No, not just a house.

A home

with laughter, books,

and someone to share it with.

Someone who’d steal my coffee

and take all the blankets,

but make everything feel right."

She tilted her head,

her lips curving a little.

"And what if they’re not perfect?

What if they bring chaos,

tears, and bad days too?"

I met her gaze,

my voice soft but sure.

"Then I’ll take the chaos,

the tears,

every bad day

as long as they’re with me.

Because even on their worst days,

they’d still be my peace."

She looked away,

her eyes shining,

her voice almost gone.

"That sounds like a dream

too good to be true."

I stepped closer,

close enough to feel her breath.

"Dreams are just wishes we chase," I said.

"And this one?

It’s got your name on it."

Her cheeks turned pink,

but doubt still lingered in her eyes.

"And what if I leave?

What if the mountains get cold,

or the stars don’t keep me?"

I smiled, bittersweet.

"Then I’ll light a fire every night

and wait for you to come back.

Because you’re the reason

I’d keep the windows open

and the coffee warm."

She laughed softly,

a tear slipping down her cheek.

"You’re impossible, you know that?"

I reached out,

gently brushing the tear away.

"And you’re unforgettable," I whispered.

"So stay.

Be my chaos,

my peace,

my everything."

For a moment,

there was only silence,

the kind that pulls you close.

And then she smiled,

a real, beautiful smile.

"Maybe," she said,

"just maybe,

you’re my dream too."