I wake up already tired
like I lost a fight I don’t remember starting
my bones feel heavier than they should
like failure found a way to live inside them
some days
I don’t move
not because I don’t want to
but because the weight of existing
presses me into the bed like gravity got personal
I replay everything
every wrong turn, every word
every moment from 13 years ago
that still claws at me like it just happened yesterday
like somehow
I'm still standing there
choosing it
over and over again
and I wonder
if I had just done one thing different
would I be someone else now?
would my life feel lighter
or is this just who I was always meant to be?
I see them
people laughing like breathing comes easy
like happiness isn’t something you have to earn
they move forward
they build lives
while I'm stuck
re-reading chapters I wish I could burn
old friends become strangers
family becomes “used to be”
and I stand still long enough
to watch everyone leave
like I'm rooted in a place
no one else stayed in
but still
I smile
I sit at the table
look my family in the eyes
and laugh at the right moments
because what else do you do
when there’s a quiet voice in your head whispering
this could be the last time
the last dinner
the last hug
the last “I love you”
and they don’t even know it
I wear normal like a costume
so well that even I almost believe it
but inside
it’s all cracks and echoes
and a silence so loud
it drowns everything else out
I used to wish to grow up
like life was something waiting for me
on the other side of time
now I look back
and want to grab that younger version of me
shake them
tell them
stay
don’t rush this
you have no idea how fast it disappears
because it does
it all changes
in a blink
one second you’re dreaming
next you’re surviving
and somewhere in between
you forget how to feel like a person
but the worst part isn’t the sadness
it’s the knowing
knowing things could’ve been different
knowing you had a moment
a choice
a path
and it slipped
and now it lives in you
quiet
constant
unforgiving
like a question
that never gets an answer
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 8:32 PM UTC
You say you don’t want to be there,
don’t want to play, don’t care to stay
but the second I find somewhere else to laugh,
you’re suddenly on your way.
You call it coincidence.
It never is.
You need a break, you say
but somehow I’m the villain in every room you enter.
My name travels faster than the truth ever could,
dressed up in your version of “hurt.”
You cry like it costs you something,
like it proves you’re the one who bleeds
but I’ve started noticing
how quickly it stops once you get what you need.
And if I stand up just once, just enough
suddenly I’ve shattered you.
Funny how fragile you become
only when I stop bending for you.
It’s not confusion.
It’s not miscommunication.
It’s a pattern
and you play it well.
But not well enough
to pretend I don’t see it anymore.
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 12:24 AM UTC
You cry like a storm when there’s eyes in the room,
flood every ear with your practiced gloom.
But the second you get what you came here for,
the tears dry up nothing hurts anymore.
You wear heartbreak like it’s part of your skin,
a costume you slip in and out of on cue.
Call it pain, call it damage, call it whatever
but it looks a lot more like control when it’s you.
You break people down just to feel them stay,
then act like the victim when they walk away.
Twist every word till you’re clean in the end,
but everyone sees it you don’t just “bend.”
You don’t want truth, you don’t want repair,
you want the spotlight, the pity, the care.
And the moment someone decides to stand tall,
suddenly they’re the one hurting you after all.
It’s getting old this act, this disguise.
At some point, you’ve got to face your own lies.
Because tears don’t make you honest or real
they just prove how little you actually feel.
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 12:22 AM UTC
I woke up the next morning
to my body fighting me
hands shaking,
ribs aching with every breath
like even air hurt to hold.
Voices cut through the haze,
urgent, breaking,
calling my name
like I was already slipping.
“Stay with us.”
“Open your eyes.”
The room felt too bright,
too loud,
too real.
One hand held mine tight,
like letting go wasn’t an option.
Another voice in the distance,
counting something
I couldn’t bring myself to hear.
Questions filled the air,
fear hidden in every word
they didn’t want to say.
And I just laid there
silent,
heavy,
somewhere between here and gone.
Because deep down…
I already knew.
It didn’t work.
And now I was left
with everything I tried to escape
still breathing,
still breaking,
still alive
Mar 18
Mar 18, 2026 at 12:50 AM UTC
I didn’t know
my heart still had electricity in it.
I thought the rooms were closed,
the windows dusted over,
the lights switched off for good.
Then you smiled.
And something
soft and sudden
flickered.
Not loud.
Not fireworks.
Just a small, steady glow
like a porch light left on
for someone finally coming home.
Now we talk until the moon
gets tired of listening.
3 a.m. feels like minutes.
Your laugh spills through my phone speaker
and somehow fills my whole room.
We text about nothing
about everything
about the way coffee tastes better
when you know someone’s thinking of you.
You call during small moments.
“Just because.”
And somehow those are the biggest ones.
It feels like standing in sunlight
after convincing yourself
you deserved the rain.
I catch myself smiling at my screen.
Re-reading your words.
Imagining future memories
that haven’t happened yet
but feel certain.
Like this is the start of something
gentle and real.
Like you were the missing piece
I didn’t know how to name.
And now here you are
not fixing me,
not saving me
just choosing me.
And in that choice
my heart remembers
how to turn the lights back on.
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 1:09 AM UTC
The house gets smaller
in the rearview mirror
but it doesn’t feel smaller.
It feels heavier.
The porch still knows my name.
The screen door still sighs the way it used to
when I ran through it barefoot,
all scraped knees and loud laughter.
In the mirror
I see birthday candles flicker in windows,
see Christmas lights tangled in gutters,
see a little girl spinning in the living room
like the world would never change.
She didn’t know about boxes.
About “for sale” signs.
About how walls can hold your height in pencil marks
and still let you go.
The driveway stretches behind me
like it’s trying to pull me back.
Every crack in the pavement
feels like it’s memorizing my tires one last time.
I blink
and the house blurs
not because it’s far,
but because I am.
There’s a future ahead of me,
wide and unfamiliar,
waiting with open hands.
New rooms.
New windows.
New laughter that hasn’t happened yet.
But in the rearview mirror
a little girl presses her palm to the glass
of a bedroom window
painted soft pink,
whispering goodbye
to the only world she ever knew.
I keep driving.
Because growing up
is learning how to carry a house
inside your chest
even after you’ve left it behind.
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 1:04 AM UTC
His fists were not fists
but heated iron
burning rods pressed into skin,
a language written in bruises
I never agreed to learn.
Each strike bloomed slow and ugly,
purple galaxies under my ribs,
stars bursting behind my eyes
while the room stayed silent
and watched.
I remember the floor most
how it rushed up to meet me
like an old friend.
How breathing turned to shards,
how my lungs folded in on themselves
like paper ashamed of its own trembling.
Then morning
Wires clinging to my chest,
cords draped over me
like vines claiming a fallen house.
The world humming in monitors,
steady beeps where my heartbeat
was supposed to feel like mine.
I tried to lift my hands
and found mountains at my wrists.
Tried to swallow air
and found it thick as wet cement.
The world sat heavy at my feet,
an anchor tied to bones
that no longer felt like home.
Outside the window
cars kept moving,
people kept laughing,
the sky refused to dim for me.
It is a strange thing
to be alive
and feel left behind
to watch the world
step over your body
like you are only a shadow
cooling on the pavement.
And still
Somewhere beneath the wires,
beneath the ache,
beneath the memory of iron
a pulse.
Small.
Stubborn.
Refusing to be quiet.
Feb 12
Feb 12, 2026 at 10:23 PM UTC
The road keeps whispering my name,
stretching out like it knows my weight,
like if I let go for one second
it would gladly take everything from me.
It begs me to stop breathing,
to loosen my grip,
to just leave
like leaving wouldn’t echo forever.
I walk anyway.
Head up, spine shaking,
every step earned the hard way.
I try every **** day
to stand tall in a world
that seems to aim low at my knees.
People push.
Words shove harder than hands ever could.
They knock me down
and call it gravity,
call it “life,”
call it my fault.
But I get back up
not because I’m strong,
but because I’m still here.
Because breathing is an act of defiance now.
Because staying hurts,
and leaving would hurt everyone else.
The road can beg.
It can scream.
It can promise quiet.
But tonight,
I keep walking past it
bruised, exhausted,
still breathing.
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 2:14 AM UTC
I learned silence like a second language,
bit my tongue until it memorized blood.
Held everything in so long
it started knocking from the inside
not politely.
My chest is loud,
my ears are pounding like alarms,
my thoughts are screaming say it, say it,
but my mouth stays loyal to the quiet.
Words line up at the back of my throat,
crowded, desperate, shaking
and still nothing comes out.
Just heat.
Just pressure.
Just that awful hum
of everything I never said
trying to claw its way free.
I’m calm on the outside,
but inside I’m boiling
and I don’t know
how much longer silence
can pretend it’s not drowning me.
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 2:10 AM UTC
It all comes out at night.
When I stop pretending I’m fine,
when the room is too quiet
and I can hear every time
I wasn’t chosen.
I replay everything.
The laughs that faded.
The plans made without me.
How easy it was
to replace my spot.
I keep it together all day
jokes, smiles, “it’s okay, really”
but at 2am my chest cracks open
and everything I swallowed
comes spilling out.
I wonder what I did wrong.
What they had that I didn’t.
Why I’m always close,
but never kept.
I loved too quietly.
Waited too patiently.
Made myself small enough
to be ignored.
And the worst part?
I’d still answer if you called.
Still show up.
Still choose you
even while everything I buried
slips out of me in the dark,
alone,
counting the hours
until I have to pretend again.
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 3:54 AM UTC