Bronze_And_Verse - Hello Poetry

I was fifteen, and I had spent three weeks imagining how it would go. I wanted it to be the kind of soft that makes the Oregon rain stop— a slow lean, a hand that didn't feel like a grip, a moment where I could finally drop the "Sleeper Build" and just be a girl who was new to the world. I wanted to say, "I’m terrified, so please, just be kind to me." But we were out on that blanket in the grass on Fessenden, and the stars felt like cold eyes watching for a mistake. I let her think I was a player. I sat there with my jaw locked, acting like I’d done this a thousand times, acting like I wasn't currently shattering into a million pieces of glass. I lied because in my house, being a "beginner" meant being a target, and I’d rather be a "savage" than a victim. She used tongue—wet and hurried and tasting like the cherry gloss she stole because she didn't have anything of her own, either. It wasn't a kiss; it was a collision I wasn't allowed to stop. And I just mirrored it, cold and tactical, mimicking a rhythm I’d only ever seen in the movies my mother called a "death sentence" to watch. I wanted her to pull back and see that my eyes were filled with tears. I wanted her to notice that I didn't know where to put my hands. I wanted to tell her that my father sent my bike to the dump this morning just to watch the "pride" leave my face, and my mother hasn't looked me in the eye since the day I came out, and I am only fifteen and I am so, so tired of being "strong." I wanted to ask her if we could just... look at the sky. I wanted the gentle. I wanted the quiet. I wanted the soft. But I kept the mask on. I played the General. I let her be rough because I was too proud to ask for mercy. I let her believe I was a hollow thing she could just occupy, because in that house of "Law and Order" and "Trumpie" silence, vulnerability felt like a court-martial. I traded the only "gentle" I ever almost had for a reputation I was already too exhausted to keep. I walked home tasting the salt and the cherry-flavored regret, looking at the "Resistance" signs in the neighbor’s yard and feeling like the biggest fraud in the city. I won the battle—she walked away thinking I was a player. But I lost the fifteen-year-old girl who just wanted to be held. I’m still training for the Trident. I’m still the Doc. But every time I hear "Little Talks," I think about that blanket, and how I ruined the only peace I ever found by being too "savage" to let anyone see the girl beneath the lead.

0

Jan 21

Jan 21, 2026 at 7:34 PM UTC

Soft

I was fifteen, and I had spent three weeks imagining how it would go. I wanted it to be the kind of soft that makes the Oregon rain stop— a slow lean, a hand that didn't feel like a grip, a moment where I could finally drop the "Sleeper Build" and just be a girl who was new to the world. I wanted to say, "I’m terrified, so please, just be kind to me." But we were out on that blanket in the grass on Fessenden, and the stars felt like cold eyes watching for a mistake. I let her think I was a player. I sat there with my jaw locked, acting like I’d done this a thousand times, acting like I wasn't currently shattering into a million pieces of glass. I lied because in my house, being a "beginner" meant being a target, and I’d rather be a "savage" than a victim. She used tongue—wet and hurried and tasting like the cherry gloss she stole because she didn't have anything of her own, either. It wasn't a kiss; it was a collision I wasn't allowed to stop. And I just mirrored it, cold and tactical, mimicking a rhythm I’d only ever seen in the movies my mother called a "death sentence" to watch. I wanted her to pull back and see that my eyes were filled with tears. I wanted her to notice that I didn't know where to put my hands. I wanted to tell her that my father sent my bike to the dump this morning just to watch the "pride" leave my face, and my mother hasn't looked me in the eye since the day I came out, and I am only fifteen and I am so, so tired of being "strong." I wanted to ask her if we could just... look at the sky. I wanted the gentle. I wanted the quiet. I wanted the soft. But I kept the mask on. I played the General. I let her be rough because I was too proud to ask for mercy. I let her believe I was a hollow thing she could just occupy, because in that house of "Law and Order" and "Trumpie" silence, vulnerability felt like a court-martial. I traded the only "gentle" I ever almost had for a reputation I was already too exhausted to keep. I walked home tasting the salt and the cherry-flavored regret, looking at the "Resistance" signs in the neighbor’s yard and feeling like the biggest fraud in the city. I won the battle—she walked away thinking I was a player. But I lost the fifteen-year-old girl who just wanted to be held. I’m still training for the Trident. I’m still the Doc. But every time I hear "Little Talks," I think about that blanket, and how I ruined the only peace I ever found by being too "savage" to let anyone see the girl beneath the lead.

43

The Ode to the Almost Maybe Maybe I almost let the darkness keep me in this bed, watching the shadows stretch like ink across the ceiling, wondering if the air would always feel this heavy, or if the floor was a cliff I wasn't ready to walk off. But the sun caught a grain of dust, and it looked like a star. Maybe I almost believed the voice that said the fog would never lift, that my bones were made of lead and my thoughts of salt, convinced that the world outside was a place I no longer belonged, a vivid, rushing dream for people who didn't feel like ghosts. But I felt the cold air on my skin, and it tasted like a beginning. Maybe I almost left the sheets in a mountain of yesterday’s grief, surrendering the room to the unmade and the unsaid, letting the clutter of my mind become the clutter of my sanctuary, until the bed was a grave instead of a resting place. But my hands found the hem of the quilt and remembered how to pull. Maybe I almost decided that today wasn’t worth the struggle of standing, that the simple geometry of a bed made was a futile exercise, a small, meaningless flag planted on a mountain of nothing. But then I saw the sharp, clean corners, and I knew I had won the first war. Maybe I almost stayed silent while you sat right beside me, counting the seconds in the gaps between our words, terrified that if I moved an inch, the "just friends" bridge would snap, and we would both fall into the water we’ve been staring at for years. But the silence was getting too loud to ignore any longer. Maybe I almost accepted that "just friends" was the only map we’d ever have, a safe, circular route that avoids the peaks and the valleys, keeping us in a permanent autumn where nothing grows and nothing dies, just two people orbiting a sun they are too afraid to touch. But I am tired of the cold, and I am ready to burn. Maybe I almost let the fear of losing you keep me from truly loving you, choosing the comfort of a lie over the bruising truth of a chance, protecting a version of us that was never meant to be enough. But a cage is still a cage, even if the bars are made of kindness. Maybe I almost watched the sand of our potential slip through my fingers, treating our "maybe" like a handful of dry earth instead of a seed, letting the wind carry away the parts of us that were meant to take root. But I am closing my fist now, holding onto the grit and the gold. Maybe I almost convinced myself that a "maybe" was safer than a "yes," because a "maybe" can’t break your heart, but it can’t fill it either, and I’ve spent too long living on the crumbs of what might have been. But today, I am hungry for the whole, terrifying feast. Maybe I almost let the stars go out because I was too tired to look up, forgetting that Atticus said the dark is just the space between the light, and that my own darkness is just the canvas for the shot I’m about to take. But I am looking up now, and the sky is absolutely crowded. Maybe I almost gave up on the magic of a Tuesday morning, but maybe I almost—almost—didn't realize that by making this bed, I was making room for you, for me, and for everything we’re about to become

0

Jan 19

Jan 19, 2026 at 1:56 PM UTC

An Ode to the Almost and the Maybe

The Ode to the Almost Maybe Maybe I almost let the darkness keep me in this bed, watching the shadows stretch like ink across the ceiling, wondering if the air would always feel this heavy, or if the floor was a cliff I wasn't ready to walk off. But the sun caught a grain of dust, and it looked like a star. Maybe I almost believed the voice that said the fog would never lift, that my bones were made of lead and my thoughts of salt, convinced that the world outside was a place I no longer belonged, a vivid, rushing dream for people who didn't feel like ghosts. But I felt the cold air on my skin, and it tasted like a beginning. Maybe I almost left the sheets in a mountain of yesterday’s grief, surrendering the room to the unmade and the unsaid, letting the clutter of my mind become the clutter of my sanctuary, until the bed was a grave instead of a resting place. But my hands found the hem of the quilt and remembered how to pull. Maybe I almost decided that today wasn’t worth the struggle of standing, that the simple geometry of a bed made was a futile exercise, a small, meaningless flag planted on a mountain of nothing. But then I saw the sharp, clean corners, and I knew I had won the first war. Maybe I almost stayed silent while you sat right beside me, counting the seconds in the gaps between our words, terrified that if I moved an inch, the "just friends" bridge would snap, and we would both fall into the water we’ve been staring at for years. But the silence was getting too loud to ignore any longer. Maybe I almost accepted that "just friends" was the only map we’d ever have, a safe, circular route that avoids the peaks and the valleys, keeping us in a permanent autumn where nothing grows and nothing dies, just two people orbiting a sun they are too afraid to touch. But I am tired of the cold, and I am ready to burn. Maybe I almost let the fear of losing you keep me from truly loving you, choosing the comfort of a lie over the bruising truth of a chance, protecting a version of us that was never meant to be enough. But a cage is still a cage, even if the bars are made of kindness. Maybe I almost watched the sand of our potential slip through my fingers, treating our "maybe" like a handful of dry earth instead of a seed, letting the wind carry away the parts of us that were meant to take root. But I am closing my fist now, holding onto the grit and the gold. Maybe I almost convinced myself that a "maybe" was safer than a "yes," because a "maybe" can’t break your heart, but it can’t fill it either, and I’ve spent too long living on the crumbs of what might have been. But today, I am hungry for the whole, terrifying feast. Maybe I almost let the stars go out because I was too tired to look up, forgetting that Atticus said the dark is just the space between the light, and that my own darkness is just the canvas for the shot I’m about to take. But I am looking up now, and the sky is absolutely crowded. Maybe I almost gave up on the magic of a Tuesday morning, but maybe I almost—almost—didn't realize that by making this bed, I was making room for you, for me, and for everything we’re about to become

49

It’s January 15, 2026, and the air in this room tastes like static. I’m fifteen, turning sixteen, and for a year I’ve treated my youth like a cage I had to break. While everyone else was chasing a status, I was chasing a shadow— the shadow of a SEAL Corpsman I was building out of my own raw bone. This wasn’t a hobby. This was my evacuation plan. My one-way ticket out of a life that felt like a slow-motion burial in a town that only breathes through its gills. I’ve spent twelve months turning my body into a machine that doesn't quit. But the real work happened in the dark, with a headset and a notebook, twisting my tongue into the shapes of a world that doesn't speak "suburban." Ana huna—I am here. I whispered it until it lived in my pulse. Anta bi-khair—You are okay. I practiced the lie until it sounded like a miracle. I wanted to be the healer who could reach into the red and speak the language of the ground where the blood was spilling. But 2026 has arrived with a mouth full of ash and a heart made of spreadsheets. The 2026 Defense Authorization Directives have landed, and they smell like a funeral. The new NAVADMIN 264/25 policy isn’t "progress"—it’s a blockade. They call it "Gender-Neutral Standardization," a clinical lie used to build a wall of iron. They’ve enforced a "highest male standard" that treats the female frame like an engineering flaw, erasing the metrics of agility and endurance as if they were just "pretextual" noise. They’ve turned the Physical Readiness Program into a gate that only counts the weight of the engine, never the heat of the fire. I’m not here to be sad. I’m here to be a problem. I am angry that a year of my blood is being treated like a typo in a D.C. boardroom. I can pack a wound in a sandstorm and tell a dying man La takhaf—Don't be afraid— but the Pentagon’s 2026 mandates say I’m a "liability." They want "lethality," but they’re throwing away the healer who speaks the enemy's tongue because I don't fit the new, rigid mold of a linebacker. They are trading the soul of the Corpsman for a metric that favors bulk over bone-deep grit. They’ve taken my "way out" and paved it over with red tape and "optimized" garbage. Ayna al-bab?—Where is the door? They think they’ve locked it because they changed the weight of the key. But listen to me: You can change the rules, you can move the finish line, you can tell me the 2026 Military Directives say I don't belong. But you cannot legislate the "warrior" out of a girl who has already outgrown you. I am sixteen, I am fluent in the rescue, and I am not going away. The Trident might be your symbol, but the hunger is mine— and no pen in Washington is sharp enough to cut the heart out of a girl who has already learned how to survive the people who were supposed to lead her

0

Jan 15

Jan 15, 2026 at 1:19 PM UTC

Untitled 3

It’s January 15, 2026, and the air in this room tastes like static. I’m fifteen, turning sixteen, and for a year I’ve treated my youth like a cage I had to break. While everyone else was chasing a status, I was chasing a shadow— the shadow of a SEAL Corpsman I was building out of my own raw bone. This wasn’t a hobby. This was my evacuation plan. My one-way ticket out of a life that felt like a slow-motion burial in a town that only breathes through its gills. I’ve spent twelve months turning my body into a machine that doesn't quit. But the real work happened in the dark, with a headset and a notebook, twisting my tongue into the shapes of a world that doesn't speak "suburban." Ana huna—I am here. I whispered it until it lived in my pulse. Anta bi-khair—You are okay. I practiced the lie until it sounded like a miracle. I wanted to be the healer who could reach into the red and speak the language of the ground where the blood was spilling. But 2026 has arrived with a mouth full of ash and a heart made of spreadsheets. The 2026 Defense Authorization Directives have landed, and they smell like a funeral. The new NAVADMIN 264/25 policy isn’t "progress"—it’s a blockade. They call it "Gender-Neutral Standardization," a clinical lie used to build a wall of iron. They’ve enforced a "highest male standard" that treats the female frame like an engineering flaw, erasing the metrics of agility and endurance as if they were just "pretextual" noise. They’ve turned the Physical Readiness Program into a gate that only counts the weight of the engine, never the heat of the fire. I’m not here to be sad. I’m here to be a problem. I am angry that a year of my blood is being treated like a typo in a D.C. boardroom. I can pack a wound in a sandstorm and tell a dying man La takhaf—Don't be afraid— but the Pentagon’s 2026 mandates say I’m a "liability." They want "lethality," but they’re throwing away the healer who speaks the enemy's tongue because I don't fit the new, rigid mold of a linebacker. They are trading the soul of the Corpsman for a metric that favors bulk over bone-deep grit. They’ve taken my "way out" and paved it over with red tape and "optimized" garbage. Ayna al-bab?—Where is the door? They think they’ve locked it because they changed the weight of the key. But listen to me: You can change the rules, you can move the finish line, you can tell me the 2026 Military Directives say I don't belong. But you cannot legislate the "warrior" out of a girl who has already outgrown you. I am sixteen, I am fluent in the rescue, and I am not going away. The Trident might be your symbol, but the hunger is mine— and no pen in Washington is sharp enough to cut the heart out of a girl who has already learned how to survive the people who were supposed to lead her

41

I’m tired of being a one-woman army. I’ve spent three years building a "Sleeper Build" out of bone and lead, and honestly? My shoulders are starting to cramp from carrying the whole sky by myself. I’m looking for a Friend—someone my own age (15–21ish)—who sees the world through the same "savage" lens I do, to co-author a collection of duets. Think of the song "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men. I want that back-and-forth, "you-say-I-say" rhythm where we finish each other’s thoughts because we’ve lived the same shipwreck. I’ve been a "Doc" for everyone else; I’m looking for someone who can be a "Safe Harbor" for me, and I’ll be one for you. The "Application" (If you can call it that): The Age Cap: If you have a favorite brand of lawn fertilizer or you remember life before the iPhone, you’re too old to be my "Little Talks" partner. I love the "Grandfather Sweaters" and mentors on this site, but for this, I need a peer. I need someone who knows what it feels like to have their bike sent to the dump now, not thirty years ago. The "Grit" Check: You have to be okay with the Portland rain. I want a partner who knows that "savage" doesn't mean "mean"—it means you survived. If you’ve ever had to "rip the joint" and leave a home that didn't want the real you, you’re my kind of people. The Philosophy: No "Trumpie" rhetoric. My parents already have a monopoly on "law and order" in this house. I need a #Resistance co-conspirator who sees the "forty-six ghosts" on North Fessenden and feels that same ache in their chest. The "Little Talks" Vibe: We aren't just writing poems; we’re having a conversation. I’ll be tough on your metaphors because I care about the craft, but I’ll also be the one offering a band-aid when the world gets too loud. I’m a "Doc"—I’m mean to the "General," but I’m kind to my crew. The Dream: A collection called "The Ghosts of North Fessenden." Ten poems where we talk about track meets, Navy dreams, and the phone calls we never wanted to end. If you’re out there, and you’re a fellow "ghost in the machine" who is tired of being "counted out" by your own kitchen table—drop a line. Let’s make something that actually feels like peace.

0

Jan 12

Jan 12, 2026 at 10:29 PM UTC

WANTED: A Kindred Ghost (For a "Little Talks" Project)

I’m tired of being a one-woman army. I’ve spent three years building a "Sleeper Build" out of bone and lead, and honestly? My shoulders are starting to cramp from carrying the whole sky by myself. I’m looking for a Friend—someone my own age (15–21ish)—who sees the world through the same "savage" lens I do, to co-author a collection of duets. Think of the song "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men. I want that back-and-forth, "you-say-I-say" rhythm where we finish each other’s thoughts because we’ve lived the same shipwreck. I’ve been a "Doc" for everyone else; I’m looking for someone who can be a "Safe Harbor" for me, and I’ll be one for you. The "Application" (If you can call it that): The Age Cap: If you have a favorite brand of lawn fertilizer or you remember life before the iPhone, you’re too old to be my "Little Talks" partner. I love the "Grandfather Sweaters" and mentors on this site, but for this, I need a peer. I need someone who knows what it feels like to have their bike sent to the dump now, not thirty years ago. The "Grit" Check: You have to be okay with the Portland rain. I want a partner who knows that "savage" doesn't mean "mean"—it means you survived. If you’ve ever had to "rip the joint" and leave a home that didn't want the real you, you’re my kind of people. The Philosophy: No "Trumpie" rhetoric. My parents already have a monopoly on "law and order" in this house. I need a #Resistance co-conspirator who sees the "forty-six ghosts" on North Fessenden and feels that same ache in their chest. The "Little Talks" Vibe: We aren't just writing poems; we’re having a conversation. I’ll be tough on your metaphors because I care about the craft, but I’ll also be the one offering a band-aid when the world gets too loud. I’m a "Doc"—I’m mean to the "General," but I’m kind to my crew. The Dream: A collection called "The Ghosts of North Fessenden." Ten poems where we talk about track meets, Navy dreams, and the phone calls we never wanted to end. If you’re out there, and you’re a fellow "ghost in the machine" who is tired of being "counted out" by your own kitchen table—drop a line. Let’s make something that actually feels like peace.

13

I’m tired of being a one-woman army. I’ve spent three years building a "Sleeper Build" out of bone and lead, and honestly? My shoulders are starting to cramp from carrying the whole sky by myself. I’m looking for a Friend—someone my own age (15–21ish)—who sees the world through the same "savage" lens I do, to co-author a collection of duets. Think of the song "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men. I want that back-and-forth, "you-say-I-say" rhythm where we finish each other’s thoughts because we’ve lived the same shipwreck. I’ve been a "Doc" for everyone else; I’m looking for someone who can be a "Safe Harbor" for me, and I’ll be one for you. The "Application" (If you can call it that): The Age Cap: If you have a favorite brand of lawn fertilizer or you remember life before the iPhone, you’re too old to be my "Little Talks" partner. I love the "Grandfather Sweaters" and mentors on this site, but for this, I need a peer. I need someone who knows what it feels like to have their bike sent to the dump now, not thirty years ago. The "Grit" Check: You have to be okay with the Portland rain. I want a partner who knows that "savage" doesn't mean "mean"—it means you survived. If you’ve ever had to "rip the joint" and leave a home that didn't want the real you, you’re my kind of people. The Philosophy: No "Trumpie" rhetoric. My parents already have a monopoly on "law and order" in this house. I need a #Resistance co-conspirator who sees the "forty-six ghosts" on North Fessenden and feels that same ache in their chest. The "Little Talks" Vibe: We aren't just writing poems; we’re having a conversation. I’ll be tough on your metaphors because I care about the craft, but I’ll also be the one offering a band-aid when the world gets too loud. I’m a "Doc"—I’m mean to the "General," but I’m kind to my crew. The Dream: A collection called "The Ghosts of North Fessenden." Ten poems where we talk about track meets, Navy dreams, and the phone calls we never wanted to end. If you’re out there, and you’re a fellow "ghost in the machine" who is tired of being "counted out" by your own kitchen table—drop a line. Let’s make something that actually feels like peace.

0

Jan 12

Jan 12, 2026 at 10:28 PM UTC

Untitled

I’m tired of being a one-woman army. I’ve spent three years building a "Sleeper Build" out of bone and lead, and honestly? My shoulders are starting to cramp from carrying the whole sky by myself. I’m looking for a Friend—someone my own age (15–21ish)—who sees the world through the same "savage" lens I do, to co-author a collection of duets. Think of the song "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men. I want that back-and-forth, "you-say-I-say" rhythm where we finish each other’s thoughts because we’ve lived the same shipwreck. I’ve been a "Doc" for everyone else; I’m looking for someone who can be a "Safe Harbor" for me, and I’ll be one for you. The "Application" (If you can call it that): The Age Cap: If you have a favorite brand of lawn fertilizer or you remember life before the iPhone, you’re too old to be my "Little Talks" partner. I love the "Grandfather Sweaters" and mentors on this site, but for this, I need a peer. I need someone who knows what it feels like to have their bike sent to the dump now, not thirty years ago. The "Grit" Check: You have to be okay with the Portland rain. I want a partner who knows that "savage" doesn't mean "mean"—it means you survived. If you’ve ever had to "rip the joint" and leave a home that didn't want the real you, you’re my kind of people. The Philosophy: No "Trumpie" rhetoric. My parents already have a monopoly on "law and order" in this house. I need a #Resistance co-conspirator who sees the "forty-six ghosts" on North Fessenden and feels that same ache in their chest. The "Little Talks" Vibe: We aren't just writing poems; we’re having a conversation. I’ll be tough on your metaphors because I care about the craft, but I’ll also be the one offering a band-aid when the world gets too loud. I’m a "Doc"—I’m mean to the "General," but I’m kind to my crew. The Dream: A collection called "The Ghosts of North Fessenden." Ten poems where we talk about track meets, Navy dreams, and the phone calls we never wanted to end. If you’re out there, and you’re a fellow "ghost in the machine" who is tired of being "counted out" by your own kitchen table—drop a line. Let’s make something that actually feels like peace.

13

In Portland, the rain is just a cold spit in the eye, and the "Rose City" feels less like a home and more like a battleground. I’m standing in the kitchen, feeling the weight of expectation on my shoulders, watching the world through a window my mother cleans with the fervor of a woman trying to keep everything as she believes it should be. My old man is leaning over his eggs, his familiar hat sitting on the table. He hears the news and mutters his usual commentary. He believes he’s upholding a way of life, a set of values he thinks defines a true citizen. He looks at me and sees a "legacy," a blonde-haired blueprint for a future he can understand and control. He doesn’t see the girl who’s been exploring her own identity, the girl whose heart holds experiences he couldn't comprehend with all his carefully constructed boundaries. He thinks I want to join the Teams to continue his "heritage." He thinks the Navy SEALs represent his ideals. He’s wrong. I don’t want the Trident to be a symbol for his version of the world. I want the Trident because I want to prove my own strength and capability. I want to be able to stand on my own two feet so I never have to feel as small as he makes me feel at dinner. Outside, they’re dealing with the complexities of the world, people facing difficult situations, but to my mother, it's just the expected order of things. She’s humming a hymn, her focus on her own sense of rightness, while I’m pushing my limits in the basement until the floorboards seem to resonate with the tension between us. I am exploring my identity, I am frustrated, and I am training for a future they don't fully understand. While they’re concerned with "purity," I’m learning how to endure and overcome challenges. While they’re vocal about their beliefs, I’m building my resilience against the pressures they exert until I can stand firm in my own truth. They want a daughter who fits neatly into their mold. Instead, they’re getting someone forged by different fires. I am a person in training, shaping my own destiny, and once I gain that inner strength, once I am in control of my own path, I’m never coming back to this house of stifling expectations. Let them hold onto their rigid views. I’m learning how to navigate around them. I’m learning how to build my own world from within. **** it up, Buttercup. The change isn’t coming. I’m already here, becoming who I am.

0

Jan 12

Jan 12, 2026 at 8:56 PM UTC

**** it up, buttercup

In Portland, the rain is just a cold spit in the eye, and the "Rose City" feels less like a home and more like a battleground. I’m standing in the kitchen, feeling the weight of expectation on my shoulders, watching the world through a window my mother cleans with the fervor of a woman trying to keep everything as she believes it should be. My old man is leaning over his eggs, his familiar hat sitting on the table. He hears the news and mutters his usual commentary. He believes he’s upholding a way of life, a set of values he thinks defines a true citizen. He looks at me and sees a "legacy," a blonde-haired blueprint for a future he can understand and control. He doesn’t see the girl who’s been exploring her own identity, the girl whose heart holds experiences he couldn't comprehend with all his carefully constructed boundaries. He thinks I want to join the Teams to continue his "heritage." He thinks the Navy SEALs represent his ideals. He’s wrong. I don’t want the Trident to be a symbol for his version of the world. I want the Trident because I want to prove my own strength and capability. I want to be able to stand on my own two feet so I never have to feel as small as he makes me feel at dinner. Outside, they’re dealing with the complexities of the world, people facing difficult situations, but to my mother, it's just the expected order of things. She’s humming a hymn, her focus on her own sense of rightness, while I’m pushing my limits in the basement until the floorboards seem to resonate with the tension between us. I am exploring my identity, I am frustrated, and I am training for a future they don't fully understand. While they’re concerned with "purity," I’m learning how to endure and overcome challenges. While they’re vocal about their beliefs, I’m building my resilience against the pressures they exert until I can stand firm in my own truth. They want a daughter who fits neatly into their mold. Instead, they’re getting someone forged by different fires. I am a person in training, shaping my own destiny, and once I gain that inner strength, once I am in control of my own path, I’m never coming back to this house of stifling expectations. Let them hold onto their rigid views. I’m learning how to navigate around them. I’m learning how to build my own world from within. **** it up, Buttercup. The change isn’t coming. I’m already here, becoming who I am.

47

Yo... Check the feed. It’s 2026 and the skyline looks like a fever dream, Blue lights bouncing off the ice, Slicing through the Minneapolis gray. They call it a “surge,” Like it’s just the tide coming in, But tides don’t carry zip-ties and glocks. Tides don’t leave a mother named Renee Bleeding out in the slush of a Tuesday afternoon. My family? They’re at the table. They’re talking about "law and order" over *** roast, While I’m watching the Roosevelt kids Spill out of the doors like a broken dam. The news says “officer-involved,” But the streets say “execution.” The Mayor is filing lawsuits, The Governor is calling for peace, But how do you find peace in a city Where the air tastes like pepper spray and fear? They’re putting up fences at the Whipple Building. Concrete blocks to hold back a storm of grief. The agents are masked up, Looking like soldiers in a war we never voted for. They say they’re hunting “threats,” But I just see my bus driver. I just see the guy who sells the good elote. I see a city being peeled like an orange, One neighbor at a time. My parents, they say "if you follow the rules..." But Renee followed the rules of the road And now she’s a ghost in the headlines. Today, the walkout wasn't just a protest, It was a heartbeat. Thump-thump. We’re still here. Thump-thump. You can’t deport the soul of a city. The snow in Minnesota is supposed to be white, Pure, quiet, untouched. But tonight? The snow is glowing red. And it ain’t from the sunset. It’s the lights. It’s the blood. It’s the fire we’re holding in our lungs Until we can finally Breathe.

0

Jan 12

Jan 12, 2026 at 8:40 PM UTC

The Red in the Snow

Yo... Check the feed. It’s 2026 and the skyline looks like a fever dream, Blue lights bouncing off the ice, Slicing through the Minneapolis gray. They call it a “surge,” Like it’s just the tide coming in, But tides don’t carry zip-ties and glocks. Tides don’t leave a mother named Renee Bleeding out in the slush of a Tuesday afternoon. My family? They’re at the table. They’re talking about "law and order" over *** roast, While I’m watching the Roosevelt kids Spill out of the doors like a broken dam. The news says “officer-involved,” But the streets say “execution.” The Mayor is filing lawsuits, The Governor is calling for peace, But how do you find peace in a city Where the air tastes like pepper spray and fear? They’re putting up fences at the Whipple Building. Concrete blocks to hold back a storm of grief. The agents are masked up, Looking like soldiers in a war we never voted for. They say they’re hunting “threats,” But I just see my bus driver. I just see the guy who sells the good elote. I see a city being peeled like an orange, One neighbor at a time. My parents, they say "if you follow the rules..." But Renee followed the rules of the road And now she’s a ghost in the headlines. Today, the walkout wasn't just a protest, It was a heartbeat. Thump-thump. We’re still here. Thump-thump. You can’t deport the soul of a city. The snow in Minnesota is supposed to be white, Pure, quiet, untouched. But tonight? The snow is glowing red. And it ain’t from the sunset. It’s the lights. It’s the blood. It’s the fire we’re holding in our lungs Until we can finally Breathe.

48

Anyone actually know how the new site works lol? I can't figure it out :<

0

Jan 8

Jan 8, 2026 at 8:30 PM UTC

Anyone?

Anyone actually know how the new site works lol? I can't figure it out :<

1

I knew a little girl The bravest soul And kindest heart she disappeared when I turned 12 Not gone, you see She grew up She was me

0

Jan 6

Jan 6, 2026 at 6:07 PM UTC

I knew a Little girl

I knew a little girl The bravest soul And kindest heart she disappeared when I turned 12 Not gone, you see She grew up She was me

7

Should have been a child Instead learned how to fight Should have learned to dream instead learned to analyze should have been happy instead was guarded I was a soldier Long before I knew I would join The navy

0

Jan 5

Jan 5, 2026 at 6:48 PM UTC

Soilder

Should have been a child Instead learned how to fight Should have learned to dream instead learned to analyze should have been happy instead was guarded I was a soldier Long before I knew I would join The navy

9