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Tamryn
34 I am a mother of 4 a wife and I want to be published for my poetry hopefully help someone in need
when it’s quiet my mind turns the lights off in ever room i tried to lock it points to all the dust i haven’t touched, all the pieces of me i swore i’d fix someday i don’t want peace if it comes dressed as silence i want the kind that feels like laughter bleeding through my brains thin walls like being held by a room that isn’t even looking at me.
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Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 1:17 AM UTC
extrovert
Once Full …. Now Empty …..
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Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 1:09 AM UTC
Heart
I’m learning to rise… a new me each day. The shadows of my past… —they don’t let go. They haunt my mind, they whisper, they weigh. I’ve stumbled, I’ve faltered, I’ve lost my way… Moments I don’t remember, but still—I pay. I have BPD. I dissociate, I fracture, I sometimes vanish from myself… And the ones I love feel the cracks in my heart. I know I’ve hurt you. I know I’ve caused pain. I’m sorry—so deeply, so fully… For every word, every moment, every scar I left. I know it cost us something precious… And my chest aches for the time, the trust, the love we lost. I wish I could get it back. I wish I could rewind. But I cannot. All I can do… is try. --- I take accountability for what I do remember… And even for what I cannot recall, I carry the weight. I own my mistakes. I own my past. But my past is not all of me. It doesn’t define who I am now. --- I am trying… To be brighter, kinder, more present. To love with intention, to speak with honesty. To be the version of me that you deserve… The version of me that our family deserves. --- I am imperfect. I will falter. I will have hard days. But I am here. I am trying. I am rising. --- And with every breath, every heartbeat, every trembling step… I promise— I am building a better me. For you. For us. For the love that still remains. --- With all my heart, tamaron
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Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 12:58 AM UTC
Me and my bpd
They said waste of space like space isn’t where stars survive. Like air doesn’t fight every second to stay air. A grandmother pointed downward, called truth a sin, called silence love, called me ****** for refusing to swallow what broke me. The house was a war drum. I was small. I stood anyway. I learned how to be a bodyguard before I learned how to be a child. I learned how to cook calm, how to tuck fear in, how to hold my brother steady when the floor kept giving way. They called that weak. They always do. Because strength that doesn’t look like cruelty confuses people raised on feae. I am not a victim— say it again, say it louder— I am what lived when living wasn’t promised. I wake up. I show up. No disguises. No hiding. Every breath says still here. Every step says wrong. I am not fragile— I am practiced.
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Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 12:57 AM UTC
The truth be told
You think if you vanished the air wouldn’t flinch, that the room would keep breathing like you were never oxygen. But you’re wrong in the quiet ways. You matter in the fingerprints you don’t notice— the way your absence would bruise routines, the pause someone would feel and not know why their chest tightened. You matter in the ripple, not the headline. In the empty chair that keeps being glanced at. In the silence that answers when your name is almost said. You matter even when your brain lies with confidence. Even when the mirror votes against you. Even when survival feels like a job you never applied for. You are not loud importance. You are structural. The kind that holds weight quietly until it’s gone and everything bends. If you disappeared, something would fracture without a sound— someone would feel wrong all day, someone would reread old messages, someone would wish they’d said more when you were still here to hear it. You don’t need witnesses to be real. You don’t need permission to exist. You don’t need to earn the right to stay breathing. You are not disposable just because you feel tired of being here. You are not invisible just because pain learned your name. You matter in ways that don’t announce themselves, in ways that would ache if erased, in ways that survive even when you don’t believe it. Stay. Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s hopeful. But because your presence is heavier than your doubt and the world would notice the moment you were gone. You matter. Even now. Especially now
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Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 12:55 AM UTC
You are enough
You think if you vanished the air wouldn’t flinch, that the room would keep breathing like you were never oxygen. But you’re wrong in the quiet ways. You matter in the fingerprints you don’t notice— the way your absence would bruise routines, the pause someone would feel and not know why their chest tightened. You matter in the ripple, not the headline. In the empty chair that keeps being glanced at. In the silence that answers when your name is almost said. You matter even when your brain lies with confidence. Even when the mirror votes against you. Even when survival feels like a job you never applied for. You are not loud importance. You are structural. The kind that holds weight quietly until it’s gone and everything bends. If you disappeared, something would fracture without a sound— someone would feel wrong all day, someone would reread old messages, someone would wish they’d said more when you were still here to hear it. You don’t need witnesses to be real. You don’t need permission to exist. You don’t need to earn the right to stay breathing. You are not disposable just because you feel tired of being here. You are not invisible just because pain learned your name. You matter in ways that don’t announce themselves, in ways that would ache if erased, in ways that survive even when you don’t believe it. Stay. Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s hopeful. But because your presence is heavier than your doubt and the world would notice the moment you were gone. You matter. Even now. Especially now
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