Alright—here's a darker, poetic version, like something you'd scribble on a fogged-up mirror at midnight or whisper to your shadow:
I am the storm behind the silence.
Ocean-hearted, midnight-souled.
I crave the roar of waves and the hum of a bike beneath me—
fast, loud, and unapologetically alive.
Books bleed my truths in ink-stained whispers—
dark romance, twisted fates, broken souls.
I don't do small talk or fake smiles.
I am honesty with a blade,
empathy with a curse,
love with obsession.
Touch me and I'll flinch.
Keep me close and I'll cling like your last breath.
I'm not soft—I'm sacred.
Not cold—just careful.
I don't follow. I don't beg.
I ride—
with fury in my eyes and loyalty like fire in my lungs.
Speak nonsense, and I'll leave your ego bleeding.
Look into my face, it'll tell you all you need to know.
No masks. No sugarcoating. No time for games.
I am not for the faint.
I'm for the real, the raw, the relentless.