I don’t care anymore.
I say it
like a mantra
under my breath
while I brush my teeth,
while I drive,
while I pretend
your name
doesn’t still echo
in quiet places.
I don’t care anymore.
You’re just another person
in a world
full of people.
Just another voice
I used to know,
another face
my memory will eventually
file away
with everything else
that once mattered.
At least
that’s what I tell myself.
I tell myself
I don’t notice
when a song reminds me of you.
I tell myself
I don’t wonder
if you’re thinking about me
at the exact moment
I’m trying not to think about you.
I tell myself
that the space you left behind
isn’t something I still reach for
in quiet moments
when the world slows down.
I tell myself
I’ve moved on.
That my heart
has learned
how to close that door.
That you’re no longer
a thought
I carry around
like something unfinished.
I say it again
firmly this time.
I don’t care anymore.
I don’t care anymore.
I don’t-
And then the room goes quiet.
And in the silence
between the words
I realize something
my voice was trying
very hard
to outrun.
If I truly didn’t care,
I wouldn’t have to keep
convincing myself.
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 6:18 PM UTC
People think anger
is loud.
Shouting.
Slamming doors.
Fire spilling out
of a mouth
that can’t hold it anymore.
But my anger
is quieter than that.
It sits in my chest
like a locked furnace,
glowing hot enough
to keep anyone
from getting close.
Because anger
is easier to show
than the truth.
The truth trembles.
The truth has tears in it.
The truth says
you hurt me
instead of
I hate you.
So I sharpen my voice
until it cuts.
I wrap my sadness
in flames
so no one sees
how fragile
the center really is.
If I am furious,
people step back.
If I am heartbroken,
they might look closer.
And I can’t bear
for anyone
to see the part of me
that still wanted you
to care.
So I burn instead.
I let the rage rise
like smoke
through every thought,
every word,
every memory of you.
But beneath it all
under the heat,
under the fury,
under the wreckage
of everything I say
when I’m angry
there is something softer.
Something shaking.
A sadness so deep
it learned
how to wear armor.
Because anger
may look like destruction.
But most of the time
it’s just grief
trying to survive
without collapsing.
Apr 8
Apr 8, 2026 at 12:07 PM UTC
Healing
doesn’t move in straight lines.
It moves like tides
forward,
backward,
forward again
before you even realize
the shoreline has changed.
One morning
I wake up breathing easier.
Your name feels distant,
like a song I used to know
but can’t quite remember anymore.
I think,
Maybe I’m finally over this.
But the next day
something small happens
a familiar laugh,
a familiar scent,
a memory slipping through the quiet
and suddenly the ache
is brand new again.
Sharp.
Immediate.
Like the wound
never closed at all.
And for a moment
I wonder
if healing is a lie people tell
to make heartbreak sound temporary.
But time
has a strange patience.
Because slowly
something begins to change.
The waves still come,
but they don’t stay as long.
The bad days still happen,
but they lose their grip
a little faster.
What once swallowed
entire weeks
now fades
by the end of a day.
And one day
I notice something quiet
the spaces between the pain
are growing.
Longer breaths.
Lighter steps.
Moments where my chest
feels almost peaceful
without me trying.
Healing
is not a straight road.
It is circles
that grow wider
and softer
each time they return.
Until eventually
the place that once broke you
becomes something
you can walk past
not untouched,
not unchanged,
but no longer bleeding.
Apr 4
Apr 4, 2026 at 11:59 AM UTC
I miss the girl
I was
before I started giving pieces
of myself away.
Before I learned
how easy it was
for people to take.
She was lighter then.
She laughed without hesitation,
spoke without second-guessing,
walked through the world
without constantly checking
if she was too much
or not enough.
Her heart was full
not crowded.
She believed love
was something shared,
not something poured out
until the cup was empty.
But somewhere along the way
I started handing pieces out
like they were harmless things.
A little patience here.
A little understanding there.
A little more forgiveness
than anyone asked for.
And each time
I told myself
it was just a small part.
Just a fragment.
Just something I could live without.
But pieces add up.
And now when I look inside myself
there are quiet spaces
where things used to live.
Confidence.
Ease.
The simple joy
of belonging to myself.
I wonder where she went
the girl who didn’t bend
her shape
To fit into someone else’s hands.
The girl who knew
that love
was never meant
to cost you
your entire self.
Sometimes
I swear I can still feel her
somewhere inside me
like an echo
waiting patiently
for the day
I remember
how to come back.
Apr 4
Apr 4, 2026 at 11:58 AM UTC
I have always felt things
like a storm feels the ocean
all at once,
all the way through.
Not gently.
Not halfway.
When sadness comes
it doesn’t knock politely.
It crashes through my ribs
like a wave against rock,
leaving my chest tight
and my breath shallow
as if the air itself
has grown heavier.
People say feelings
live in the mind.
But mine live in the body.
In the ache behind my sternum.
In the pressure beneath my throat.
In the way my shoulders tense
like I’m bracing for impact
even when the room is quiet.
Loving someone
isn’t just a thought for me.
It is a weight.
A gravity that pulls
on every nerve
until my bones feel
like they’re carrying something
far larger than a heart.
And when it breaks
it doesn’t shatter silently.
It splinters through muscle
and memory
until every breath
feels like it has to push
past the wreckage.
Sometimes I wish
I could feel things
the way others seem to
carefully,
measured,
at a safe distance.
But my heart
has never understood moderation.
It beats too hard.
Loves too deeply.
Hurts too completely.
As if it believes
every emotion
is something
worth bleeding for.
Apr 4
Apr 4, 2026 at 11:57 AM UTC
The night refuses
to let me sleep.
The clock grows quietly
in the dark
3:17 a.m.,
a time that feels less like a moment
and more like a place
I keep getting trapped in.
My body won’t rest.
The blankets are warm
but my hands are cold,
shivering in small tremors
that start somewhere deep
in my chest.
Heartbreak does strange things
to a body.
It turns silence
into an echo chamber.
Every memory
comes back louder
the way you laughed,
the way your voice softened
when you said my name,
the way I believed
that meant something permanent.
Now the bed feels too big.
Too empty.
My muscles twitch
with the restless energy
of someone whose heart
is still trying to run
toward a person
who has already walked away.
And the worst part
is the shaking.
Not dramatic
just small, quiet tremors
like my body
is trying to survive
something my mind
can’t stop replaying.
I curl deeper into the blankets
like I can hide
from the ache.
But heartbreak doesn’t sleep.
It lingers in the ribs,
in the throat,
in the hollow space
between one breath
and the next.
And somewhere between
3:17
and morning,
I realize
the night isn’t cold.
It’s just the absence
of the warmth
I used to fall asleep beside.
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 5:25 PM UTC
You pull me close
like you’re afraid
I might disappear.
Your voice soft,
your hands warm,
your words full of promises
that make my chest feel
like something hopeful
might finally live there.
And just when I begin
to believe you
you let go.
Not loudly.
Not cruelly.
Just enough
to remind me
that closeness with you
is always temporary.
So I stumble backward
into distance
I never asked for,
wondering which version of you
is the real one
the one who reaches
or the one who retreats.
And then the cycle begins again.
You return
with familiar gravity.
Suddenly you miss me.
Suddenly you need me.
Suddenly I’m important again
in the quiet spaces
between your doubts.
And every time
I let myself step closer
like maybe this time
the ground beneath us
won’t shift.
But it always does.
Love with you
is not a steady thing.
It is a rope
constantly yanked
between two hands
that can’t decide
whether they want to hold it
or drop it entirely.
And the cruelest part
is not the distance.
It’s the hope
you keep giving me
right before you take it back.
Because I am not just
standing here anymore.
I am bracing.
Leaning.
Straining against a tension
that never relaxes.
My arms ache
from holding onto someone
who keeps stepping away.
And you call this
confusion.
But from where I’m standing
it feels a lot like
exhaustion.
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 9:15 AM UTC
I learned how to love
like a candle.
Quietly.
Completely.
Until there was nothing left
but smoke.
Every room I entered
I tried to light.
Your sadness?
I warmed it.
Your anger?
I softened it.
Your loneliness?
I stood beside it
like a lantern in the dark
hoping my glow
would be enough
to guide you home.
And for a while
it was.
People gathered around me
with cold hands
and tired hearts,
holding them out
like I was meant
to keep them warm.
So I did.
I burned brighter.
Longer.
Harder.
I told myself
this is what love looks like
sacrifice that no one asks for,
devotion that no one notices,
a slow quiet disappearing
in the name of someone else’s happiness.
And every time
someone finally smiled again,
finally felt okay again,
I told myself
it was worth it.
Even as the flame
kept shrinking.
Even as the wax
dripped away
in small silent losses
no one ever saw.
Because the cruel thing
about people who give like this
is that they rarely stop
to ask
who is keeping them warm.
I poured love into everyone
like it was water
and I was an endless well.
But wells run dry.
And one day
I looked down
into the space
where my happiness
used to echo
and heard nothing.
The room was still full of light.
Everyone else
was glowing.
And there I was
in the center of it all,
a candle
that had spent its entire life
burning for others
realizing too late
that no one
ever thought
to save the last flame
for me.
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 9:15 AM UTC
I am always the one
reaching first.
The one who sends the message.
The one who asks how you are
and waits
sometimes hours,
sometimes days,
for a reply that feels
like an afterthought.
I remember the little things.
Your favorite songs.
The way your voice changes
when something is wrong.
The stories you told once
in passing
that I tucked carefully away
like they mattered.
Because you mattered.
But somewhere along the line
I realized something
quiet and uncomfortable
My hands
were always the only ones
extended.
I carried conversations
like fragile glass.
I held friendships together
with effort so constant
it started to feel like gravity.
And you…
you simply existed beside me.
Not cruel.
Not malicious.
Just comfortable
with the fact
that I would always try harder.
I showed up.
Every time.
For birthdays,
for bad days,
for the moments
when your world felt like
it was collapsing.
But when the silence
came for me
when I was the one
standing in the wreckage
of my own thoughts
the room felt strangely empty.
That’s the thing about effort.
When it only moves
in one direction,
it stops being love
or friendship.
It becomes maintenance.
And I have spent
far too long
being the only one
holding the ladder
while everyone else
climbed.
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 9:14 AM UTC
Some days
it feels like I’m drowning
in slow motion.
Not the dramatic kind
with crashing waves
and screaming for help
the quiet kind.
The kind where the water
keeps rising
one inch at a time
until suddenly
your feet don’t touch the ground anymore.
And no one notices.
So I tread water.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Arms burning
from holding myself up
in a place
that was never meant
for breathing.
The strange thing about drowning
is how silent it can be.
People imagine thrashing,
desperation,
someone shouting for rescue
but sometimes
It’s just a person
floating in the middle
of a vast, dark ocean
learning how to suffer quietly.
Learning how to smile
while the water reaches their chin.
I keep telling myself
If I just stay afloat
a little longer
someone might notice.
Someone might throw a rope.
A hand.
A reason to stop fighting the current.
But the horizon stays empty.
And the waves
keep coming back.
Because the worst part
isn’t the drowning.
It’s realizing
that every time
I manage to catch my breath
and pull myself
barely above the surface
I’m still alone
in the water.
Mar 20
Mar 20, 2026 at 6:58 AM UTC