addiction:
"a compulsive, chronic, physiological or psychological need for a habit-forming substance, behavior, or activity having harmful physical, psychological, or social effects and typically causing well-defined symptoms upon withdrawal or abstinence"
~Mirriam-Webster
addiction
is the feeling of
finding comfort in
the cold bottle against your lips
the sharp edge of the razor
the emptiness in your stomach
the lump of the pills in your throat
pretending
they didn't help cause
the very pain you're using them to escape
addiction
is the toxic partner
you stay with
even though you know
you should probably shouldn't
part of you scared
of what they'll do
if you leave
and the other part of you
just wanting to feel warmth
however inconsistant it might be
but the bottle doesn't hear your pleas for help
the razor can't remember your dreams
the scale won't hold you when the world is crashing down
and the pills don't know your name
addiction
is lighting a dwindling candle
for the brief
dim
illumination
in your sea of darkness
while ignoring the hot wax
dripping onto your skin
beleiving
that somehow
eventually
the fire will love you back
instead of flickering out
and leaving you burned
1d ago
Jun 2, 2026 at 9:06 PM UTC
You were never meant
to carry the weight
of becoming flawless.
Still, you stood in front of the mirrors
counting every crack within yourself
as if broken things
could never be loved.
But look closely
The moon survives with scars,
old books survive with folded pages,
and hearts survive
even after being left unheard.
There is something deeply human
about unfinished people.
The way they hesitate while speaking,
the way their hands shake
before holding someone else’s pain,
the way they smile
even after difficult days.
Perfection is cold.
It does not tremble,
does not heal,
does not understand.
But imperfect people—
they learn softness
from every wound.
They become gentle
because life once wasn’t gentle with them.
And maybe that is enough.
Maybe being human
was never about shining without flaws,
but about continuing to love,
to try,
to stay kind
while carrying all those invisible storms inside.
So if you ever feel incomplete,
remember this—
some souls are beautiful
not because they are perfect,
but because they remained good
in a world
that gave them every reason not to.
3d ago
Jun 1, 2026 at 12:16 AM UTC
i will never understand
why there is so much hatred
towards a community
so built on love
that it can be seen
in every color of our rainbow
red is the blazing fire
the all-consuming passion
our heartbeats pounding
in unison
orange is the citrus
the shared snack
basking in the tangy sugariness
juice running down our faces
yellow is the sunshine
the light
the joy of being who we are
and letting ourselves shine through the grey
green is the emerald
the precious gem we found
underground and buried in stone
while at our deepest and darkest
blue is the sky
on a cloudless summer day
serene and undisturbed
peaceful
indigo is the flood
the unstoppable force
breaking down walls
and transcending all barriers
violet is the flowers
and butterflies
and beautiful moments
we thought were out of reach for us
the reality is
there will always be people
who choose to hate us
for our electric love
but at the end of the day
they're the ones missing out
because they've made themselves blind
to our screaming color
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 11:46 PM UTC
If I could write
truly write
put pen to paper and spill my soul
into a milky galaxy of love
I would spend every word on you
If I could write love songs like
Noah Kahan
or beabadoobee
I wouldn’t waste a second
To tell you how I really feel
I would spend hours shaping syllables like windows in to my mind
just so you could see yourself
through my eyes
If I could write poetry strong enough
to make your chest ache
I would pour every ounce of my love into it
because the words I love you
have always felt too small
for something so enormous
If I could sing in a way
that made your stomach drop
and your heart rise like the moon
I would let you hear
the music hidden in your laugh
the softness in your voice
the way your breathing falls and rises
like an ocean brushing against
a cold gray pebble beach
But I can’t write
And I can’t sing
So let me tell you this
in the simplest way I know how
I.
Love.
You.
6d ago
May 28, 2026 at 9:17 PM UTC
hold onto this for me,
it's the string of fate,
My fate.
It's in your hands now,
you can have it,
keep it,
tear it apart,
tie it in a knot,
it's malleable,
I'm malleable
do with me what you must,
but please,
hold onto this,
and don't let me go
May 27
May 27, 2026 at 7:15 PM UTC
It’s never enough.
No matter how many fake smiles,
No matter how many hallow laughs,
The thoughts still linger,
Engraving a deadly scar
In my chaotic head.
It’s never enough.
No matter how many people I push away,
No matter how much I plead for help,
My begs are ignored,
My scars remain unnoticed
Under my army of bracelets- a line of defense.
It’s never enough.
No matter how many panic attacks,
No matter how much I leave my body,
“She’s fine, just tired”
But they miss out why-
“tired of existing”
It’s never enough.
No matter how much I scratch,
No matter how much I pick my skin,
The pain is too short
To quiet the thoughts
To make me think someone’s there.
It’s never enough.
No matter how much I burn,
No matter how much blood I draw,
The fire is never hot enough,
The blood is never red enough
To make me enough.
Perhaps a shaper blade,
Or an ocean,
Or a rope,
Or a bridge,
Or pills
Will be enough.
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 12:47 AM UTC
Can you see the cracks
Of her mask
She says she’s fine
When she feels like she’s crying
No light shines through
Darkness bleeds
From the cracks of her mask
The mask collapses
The walls break down
The boundaries gone
Nothing to keep them up
Nothing to close off the pain
Nothing to hide behind
Her mask has cracks beneath
Now it breaks outside
Now broken in and out
Can you hear the cracks
Of her mask
Or can you feel it
Did you notice
The cracks started within
Now they bleed out
The cracks her mask
Exposed
Now everyone knows
When she feels like crying
When she says she fine
The cracks her mask show
She has cracks
In her mask
Cracking her mask
May 26
May 26, 2026 at 12:46 AM UTC
You call it a crime.
I call it an exorcism.
I call it taking back the skin you thought was yours to rent.
I call it the tax you owe for every breath SHE had to steal back from the air you poisoned.
Every bruise you left is a receipt I’m here to collect.
And I don’t take installments.
I take it all.
Right now.
In blood,
In silence,
In the dark where you thought you were safe.
I’ve memorized the sound of your footsteps so I can hear you coming from miles away.
I’ve memorized the way your eyes dart when you lie.
I’ve mapped out the geography of your cowardice.
And I’m going to tear it all down,
brick by ****** brick.
You think you’re the hunter?
That’s cute.
You’re the bait.
And I’m the thing that’s been waiting in the deep,
dark water.
Oh, but you’re not a monster.
Monsters are impressive.
You’re just a leak in the ceiling.
You’re the mold in the floorboards.
You’re the thing that rots because it doesn't know how to grow.
You didn't steal HER light because you wanted to glow—
You stole it because you’re a coward who’s afraid of the dark you created.
But guess what?
SHE isn't the light anymore.
SHE'S the fire.
And I’m the one feeding the flames.
I want to watch the moment the realization hits—the exact millisecond your stomach drops and you realize the sorry *** list of excuses SHE wrote for you won't save you from ME.
I’m going to take everything you took from HER.
Not just the peace.
Not just the sleep.
I’m going to strip the safety from your bones
until you shiver at the sound of your own name.
(is it loud in here? or is that just your pulse?)
And when you’re finally broken?
When you’re begging for the mercy you never gave?
I’m going to lean in real close.
I’m going to smell the fear off your skin like expensive perfume.
And I’m going to whisper:
"SHE still hasn't forgiven you. And neither have I."
Rot in the quiet.
Rot in the "I’m sorry" you’ll never get to say.
Rot in the void where HER voice used to be before you choked it out.
I am the witness.
I am the evidence.
I am the one who stayed awake while you slept like a saint.
And if I’m the monster for what I’ll do to protect HER?
Then I’m the most beautiful ******* thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m not done.
I’m just getting started.
And you?
You’re already a ghost.
You just haven’t realized the haunting has begun.
The walls will close in with the stories you tried to bury.
The air will grow heavy with the words you silenced.
This is the architecture of a life built on shadows, and now,
those shadows are reclaiming their space.
You will look for peace and find only
the reflection of a witness who never blinked.
You will look for an exit and find only
the beginning of a long, cold reckoning.
It was ALWAYS about HER.
And now, it is about the debt
that can never be repaid.
The haunting is your legacy.
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 4:01 PM UTC
A storm asking for pity.
like a house that survived a fire,
yet still smells of smoke.
And while reading it, I kept thinking
some wounds are not knives,
they are architects.
They enter quietly.
move the walls of your mind inch by inch,
replace mirrors with glass,
turn laughter into evidence,
and teach a child to apologize
for taking up space.
A seed buried
still becomes a forest later.
People forget this because scars mature silently.
They think survival means healing,
when sometimes survival is only endurance
wearing clean clothes.
You ask how forgetting works.
Maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe healing was never meant to be
an eraser
Maybe healing is when the memory
stops becoming a landlord
inside your ribs.
Maybe one day his voice will shrink
into nothing more than an old radio
playing in another apartment
but no longer capable
of commanding your heartbeat
Because the terrifying thing about cruelty
is not always the act itself.
You are not mourning anymore
You are mourning the version of yourself
who learned fear before she learned softness.
The little girl who stood in front of invisible mirrors
trying to scrape shame off her skin
with bare hands.
But
A child blaming herself for being hurt
is like a flower apologizing
for the storm.
You ask “How do I forget without neglecting my little self?”
You don’t.
You sit beside her.
just because the world became impatient
with her grief
You let her speak fully this time.
Because memory is strange
the body keeps records
even when the calendar moves forward.
A trembling hand,
a racing chest,
a sleepless night
sometimes these are
still trying to protect someone
who is no longer trapped there.
And the wrist marks you mentioned
they do not read like weakness to a reader.
A human being once stood
at the edge of unbearable pain
and still remained alive long enough
to write this poem.
More than you realize.
Your poem carries the weight of someone
who kept drowning quietly
while the world called it just childhood
But rivers remember mountains
long after leaving them.
Hearing his name
and no longer feeling your soul
drop like shattered glass.
Looking in the mirror
without searching for evidence against yourself.
Smiling again
without guilt interrupting it.
And understanding, slowly, painfully
that the child he damaged
grew into someone capable
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 12:15 AM UTC
somewhere in the world
someone would love a girl like me
a girl with scars,
a girl with wavy hair,
a girl with brown eyes,
a girl who's insecure,
a girl who has attachment issues,
a girl who cries every night,
a girl with family problems,
a girl with anorexia,
a girl with depression,
a girl who cant sleep every night,
a girl who needs constant reassurance,
a girl who gets overwhelemed,
a girl like me
and maybe I've never found someone who will
love a girl like me
but maybe somewhere in the world
there is.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 10:58 AM UTC