I think I have loved you for as long as my soul has been alive—it just crept up on me. I realize now that I’ve never been in love before; since the moment I met you, all I have felt is laughter, ease, and a sense of joy. All I wanted was to kiss you and that cute smile.
But now you say you just want to be friends—yet you stare at me with an intensity that everyone else notices, because it shows how much you truly care. I spoke to you from my soul, and you told me, "It's okay, I don't hate you." You held my gaze and you saw me—truly saw my soul. You told me it will be okay, that maybe things will change, that maybe one day I can be in connection with my brothers again.
You have the name of my brother, the one who used to love me back. We talk, we don’t touch; you are so respectful. I never thought a man like you would exist. Yes, you are flawed, and maybe you aren't "enough" to be my boyfriend, but I wonder if love can heal wounds, if it can change me.
Yesterday, you stopped me and asked, "Are you okay?" I said, "No, maybe it's my complex PTSD." I began to stutter and contort my face to hide it, and you said, "You can stutter around me. Take your time. It's okay." I told you I hate it, and you remained silent in your acceptance. In that moment, I felt that maybe I am not such a freak. Maybe I don’t have to hide. Maybe I don’t need to try to erase myself from the earth anymore; maybe I matter.
I realize how desolate my life has been. I stare at the sky, so blue, and I think of your hazel eyes. In two months, you have helped me heal wounds I spent my whole lifetime trying to fix. I understand now: love heals. I just want the best for you, even if it’s not with me, although it pains me. I think I just love you, though I don’t know if I will ever tell you that.
When you hug me—I was with you yesterday—my laugh felt foreign to my own ears. I haven't laughed like that in so long; usually, it’s all a performance. But with you, it is real. You explain scientific theory, and it feels like poetry. I am so into you. I don't know how to tell you—although I already have—that your words hurt me, even though I know you are hurting, too.
You provoke a deep, true longing within me; a knowing that this love is changing me, showing me my mirror. You show me that I don’t need to hate myself anymore, that the lies I was told my whole life were just lies. Maybe good men do exist. I won’t give up on believing that, but it has taken me 29 years of hell and limerence to have someone creep into my life, never leaving my side, no matter how snobby I was.
You laugh with me; you see behind my pained eyes and tell me, "You're not tough at all, you're soft, and I love that about you." And with that, my walls collapsed. I put on a tough show for the world, but I am not tough at all—I am just truly, deeply exhausted.
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 3:28 PM UTC
death feels nice i feel quietness peace no more abuse every day or every week would be nice to just be in peace in the ground with mother earth nature not that i would do it but i think of it often since i was young because life has felt too painful to be enjoyable half of the time the world loves to propose how much they like meaning truth authenticity how much you should be yourself but they dont actually mean that if your a woman who likes softness femininity dresses and yes metal and yes is her own person with her own thoughts who enjoys herself and her own company than well people tend to not like that , i have found the ones who society hates much kinder in general.
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 12:16 PM UTC
Every night I feel the lump in my throat, the heaviness in my chest. I look upon my own eyes in the mirror, for I can’t even face my eyes, face my pain inside. I feel so much anger, so much shattered betrayal. The ones who were meant to help me in my rehab just choose to shatter me for my light, all while complimenting me—playing over the themes from my childhood where people try to break me to watch me shatter into a million pieces. I ask myself in the shower, "Haven't I suffered enough?"
I try to turn trash into joy, into happiness. I live in my own old, moldy, half-broken house with my own free, found items. I find discarded food to eat to make beautiful dishes out of. I run, I scream almost, and I want to beg and say, "Stop being jealous of my wounding." It’s what’s kept me alive since birth. All I knew for most of my entire existence was literal survival—hell on earth all alone, having to raise myself all while being passed around.
Even candy makes me sick; it reminds me of the violations of my childhood. My body gags, it chokes. The lingering nags sneer as they watch me and kick me as I am down. It makes me question kindness, not being able to discern at times. My mind feels crazy because those who smile are actually snakes, and those that others might call weird or off-putting are real and kind for the most part.
Every night the flashbacks come. I wait for them—the ****** abuse to ring in my ears, shouting at me, begging to be seen, for the pain to be cleansed from me. And yes, it does, but in layers so deep it aches me, agonizes me. I wonder when I will know true peace, because although life is indeed more peaceful and I have gained a willpower, a strength, a resilience—despite being in an ill body and mind—I wonder why they act that way. Haven’t I suffered enough? Haven’t I endured storybooks filled with pain, seas and oceans of crying, of wanting to disappear, to not be on earth anymore?
So when I see others joke about not wanting to be here on earth, my heart sighs for them because, yes, I understand. The more I heal, the less I crave the walls of religion. The world feels too big for me most of the time. I feel some peace within my walls, which they choose to laugh at. I guess it’s easy to look down on me; I am poor, disabled, broke I guess, but I guess my strength bothers them—that I can choose to still try to be happier despite my lacking.
What’s your excuse for your ****** life and for being a ****** person? Because they like to claim how bad their life was; I can guarantee my life has been much worse and I am still there standing, trying to be a better human, to work on my mind, body, and soul. Choosing sovereignty, choosing myself, choosing to not be numb, to not stand for death, fascism, or willful ignorance. So maybe they are jealous of what can’t be bought: alchemy. Being able to go to the sea and feel myself carried by the sirens, by my ancestors, by myself—witnessing myself because I am the only one who has survived my whole life, and no one from my past is with me because they are all rotten humans.
I thought those who are in the caring industry would actually care, but many do it to try to abuse people like me. True power corrupts all. So don’t be jealous of me. Do you know what oceans I swam through to even just be alive and semi-sane? The ocean saved me from near-death as a child, so there I am beneath Mother’s ocean in her embrace, rocking my body with her waves, feeling alive, saying, "If it’s meant to be, it will be."
I will watch the sunset, play their game against them. I am not naive. I am strong. I can survive oceans and storms alone, and I will make it all out alive, stronger, alchemized. They will not break me. I will stare upon the pain with a stoic face, showing you can’t break me, you can’t make me like you, and I will choose to be even kinder, more empathetic. Because this is my choice. I will sit among the ocean and stare at the fish and swim along with them in my dreams.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 4:15 PM UTC
All I can do is write, put my pen to paper, tears blotting my pages.
Nothing I do takes the pain away; the pain is the muse of my soul.
Heartbroken, agile, and able, I push on, hoping I can meet up again with my brothers.
Kiss their cheeks and tell them how much I miss them.
Even my father’s torture took away innocent love.
I feel like a monster all of the time.
I see in the glimpses of joy—of true smiles these days—how much my life was torture.
Actual torture in ways that most can’t understand.
How much death chose me—almost chose me so much.
I still feel so behind.
People ask such innocent questions: "Why don’t you talk to your family?"
And I whisper: "It’s not as if I don’t want to; I just can't."
My family isn’t normal. I don’t come from a normal story.
And I laugh because I don’t want them to see, truly see, truly understand.
The pain is too much to bear. My smile is too wide, too uncanny.
If they saw my pain, would they still stay?
I have always felt too much in my soul, in my smartness, in my mysticism.
In my ways, in who I am, in the baring of my soul.
In my unique life path that is a bridge of those that many hate:
The religious, the "evil" settlers of Israel, the Zionists, the Jews.
The fat, chubby girl; the girl who stutters; the girl who is the immigrant.
The ***** one, the pitied one, the one who stuffs her mouth so she ensures she is fed.
So I laugh.
I want love and try to shove it out of my heart,
Because all I have known is love with pain, with coercion, with pain.
Sometimes I think I only know how swords taste with blood.
How my greatest horrors were laughed at by my own flesh and kin.
And I wonder: if my story is famous one day, will they just sit there and laugh?
Or come over to me in the crowd and say one day: "You know you were right, and I am sorry."
That's all I want.
I just wish you were willing and able to come tour the mountains of my city with me.
We could overlook the mountains together, look at the ocean together,
And laugh about our childhood together.
But alas, I am still there—still waiting, trying to not hope anymore.
Because it’s been too long and I am still too broken, too hurting.
I have put thousands of dollars into my health,
and you have only injected wounds into my soul and heart.
Trying to tear me apart with your silences, or your words, or your laughs.
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 7:09 PM UTC
The smell of **** fills my senses.
Going to the market early, before waking hours,
To get the food shamelessly.
I grab it before another hungry hand can.
My stomach twists, and still I push on—
Must push on—for I have dived through garbage
To feed my aching, bleeding, ******* body.
A body that can never be controlled,
No matter how much the beatings hurt me,
Or the assaults tried to break me.
They could never break my soul.
They could never take my laughter away from me.
So now, I try to laugh and eat however much I can.
And if those want to look upon my fat body with disgust, let them.
May they never know what it’s like
To starve for most of your entire life.
They go on their diets, using starvation as a hobby,
When many people don’t have it as a hobby—
They have it as a way to survive, to be alive,
Because they have no choice.
I come home, wash off the **** and the dirt,
And make a dinner of vegetables.
I go to the garden and pick off a fruit—
Those grapefruits as my meals—and I endure it all
In complete silence.
I had no one around me telling me I would be okay.
The silence of being in a richer area, but being poorer,
Haunted and gnawed at my insides.
Every day I would wake up, put on a nice dress, and scrounge.
When I hear them laugh at those "poor people,"
My heart turns. Because you know—
I was one of them, too.
When I hear people say, "Oh, I don’t care to be rich,"
I think: Okay, but make sure to not be poor, then.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 5:34 PM UTC
I guess I always dreamed up a new masculinity,
One that looked like the male sculptures and art—
Soft, regal, strong, but alive.
Creative, like the poet who beams with softness, grace, and strength.
I think that’s how it truly was, for the most part.
After being abused so much by the masculine energies
that exist in our patriarchal world,
I think that men should be taught there is another way to exist without shame.
That they can be alive and beautiful;
That their masculinity can be revered and unshamed in this world.
Just like how I learned to be a healthy woman amidst immense amounts of pain—
How to be a leader, how to be sovereign.
How to be unpulsing, but still allow the softness inside of me when it is safe.
I feel that I can finally tell myself it’s safe to come alive again,
To dance to the heartbeat of my heart,
To the sounds in the air of the dark night with the pounding rain
of love and relaxation.
Of the sorrow of my pain: I refuse to allow it to control me
or my life force anymore.
I fight every day for a space within my own life.
I carry my heart, with its holes, upon my shell,
Wanting someone to peek through and say, "Hey, I see you.
You don’t need to be so strong and tough anymore.
You don’t need your piercings to feel safe;
You don’t need your leather to be your armor anymore.
Come, lay down your armor, lay beside me, and you will be safe together."
I sang. I sang through all of my pain.
I visualized, I played the affirmations
Through the homelessness, through the rapes,
And now, I just want to sit with my bare legs on the sand,
On the shore, and breathe in sunshine and life.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 5:05 PM UTC
I often think about the call of mother earth really often especially living in the land , that I am in,the center of it all and all that was.
When I stare up into the vines in the yard,I hear the call of the mother.
I wonder if we were all more tapped into our life force, our portal of energy of mother,of the mother within all of us and within the world.
How much more healing and aliveness/essence would live within us and the world whereby healing and changing the world.
See it,be it, the world,be the change,you look for it, and suddenly you realize its been around you the whole time.
Mar 30
Mar 30, 2026 at 7:33 PM UTC
I say I would do it all again I say as i look around my house
because its my house !
although its been six years since i escaped my abusive hell of a house
I think I am still truly processing
how much I have saved my own life
Right Down to my Scraped Knees.
After surviving hell hell hell,my entire life and even after i left,
i feel my heart waking up
as i start to remember what i truly endured
In my life.
i sometimes look at my house, my house that i decorated,
painted with decorations and i proclaim i am free
i cant believe it i am free!!
its worth more than any money in the entire world
i am not a victim,
i am my own savior!
i rock myself back and forth, and listen to other survivors stories
of unimagniable horror,
and i see myself within them because I am too
a survivor of unimagianble horror.
most can't see it on my face because I seem so sane and so whole within myself, because i have decided to heal myself to pray
to god my entire life.
i belive that my life is sacred, but i am at peace with death when it comes.
so when rockets fall around me i sit with my hands on my heart and i smile out of calmness.
out of knowing that i can face anything, and come out okay because i have myself my freedom.
And dearest reader know that you can tooo, despite all of the pain
know that life will get better, you will rise out of this too,
just hold on to yourself and dont let others hurt you or take your spark away from you.
I hug myself, my doll, my inner child, making her feel at home and at peace for the first time and i feel more at home within myself.
as i go to the ocean in my mind and in person and i hear the waves rock me,
i know that i will be okay.
i feel more content in my life now, more content just being
without needing to always do something.
As i see my cousin getting married to the perfect rich white blonde woman as if doing so, will erase the stain of his jewishness.
As if that will bring him belonging,
to try to forget the awful sickness of a family
that we belong to,
all i feel is sadness for her and for him.
one can't hide,
and money
cant bury
or burrow
the pain or sickness away.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 2:28 PM UTC
i saved mysefl and my own life
i scraped myself off of the sidewalks off of my own
should be gravesight
i saved mysefl i cry hugging myself
i left the cult i mastered so much of my life
i am free I can engage my own free will now,
i am blessed
i look at the skies, god you saved me i cry
but actually i also just saved myself.
sending blessings to those in similar situations to me
but yes i saved myself ,i am free
and freer as time goes on ...
Mar 16
Mar 16, 2026 at 1:15 PM UTC
I see you in the crevices on the sidewalk. I see you when I talk to my friend. Oh, my brother, how I miss you. Oh, my brothers, how you have broken my heart seven times over. I always cry; my tears are my companions as I heal myself.
I hang out with my gay friend who, for some reason, reminds me of you, Zac—or maybe who you could be in a different lifetime. If you would have loved yourself and chosen healing? Because it’s possible for us. I meet myself in the mirror each time, as I see the men who love Star Wars, the way that we used to. I carry a piece of you in my heart always and forever; your sister, unsure if I will ever get to hug you again.
Why does no one talk about the greatest heartbreak of all: grieving the people who are still living, who have treated you like worse than the **** of the earth? Who don’t care if you live or die. I guess I always think about it every time there is a war here—how it wouldn't matter if I would fade away, and how they wouldn’t even know if my body decayed or died in my apartment. There wouldn't be anyone from that old life of mine ,to check up on me.
And yet, some of the greatest people that my heart has ever known have been bullied and come from families that have abused them like mine. So in my friend, I see you, my dear brother. I don't know why; maybe I see the sweetness that was in you before the evil took over. And maybe before the other brother took his eyes away from me, turned his heart cold, and told himself that he doesn't care, rather than greet me and treat me like a human being. Now he grows out his beard to try to escape the pain of his sins, of his parents, and of his own, maybe.
Of course, I will always love them, my dear brothers. I have no family in the world and I don't know how to explain my deep, everlasting pain to someone who doesn't get it. I will never have a family and they will never walk me down the aisle one day. No one from my current life ever knew me for most of my life; it’s so jarring.
Having another heartbroken moment, just had to write about it. Need to stop finding solace in others' brokenness. No one will save me but myself. I put a hand on my heart, take a deep breath, and I move on. I cast my cries into the ocean and walk away. So goodbye, farewell.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 2:50 PM UTC