Tre - Hello Poetry

You pick at your skin, like it's something that can be undone. Like my hands were only dust that settled too long in one place. Fingertips searching for erasure, for a clean version of yourself that never knew me- never leaned into the warmth, never stayed. But memory isn't so shallow. It doesn't live only on the surface, doesn't flake away with every restless motion. It lingers- in the quiet spaces between breaths, in the way you hesitate before touching your own reflection. You can try to peel me away, layer by careful layer, but i was never just your skin.

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May 26

May 26, 2026 at 5:32 AM UTC

Tre

Surface Tension

You pick at your skin, like it's something that can be undone. Like my hands were only dust that settled too long in one place. Fingertips searching for erasure, for a clean version of yourself that never knew me- never leaned into the warmth, never stayed. But memory isn't so shallow. It doesn't live only on the surface, doesn't flake away with every restless motion. It lingers- in the quiet spaces between breaths, in the way you hesitate before touching your own reflection. You can try to peel me away, layer by careful layer, but i was never just your skin.

20

They trained my hands to hold a sword with certainty, but never taught me what to do when they long for yours.

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May 26

May 26, 2026 at 5:24 AM UTC

Tre

The Unlearned Art

They trained my hands to hold a sword with certainty, but never taught me what to do when they long for yours.

3

So how can you call me a good man, When I hate myself enough To take my life, to dismantle the architecture of my days just to see if the noise finally stops. You look at me and see something solid. You hand me grace like it’s my birthright, speaking of my kindness, my steady hands. But you don't hear the static in the quiet hours. You don't feel the sheer exhaustion of dragging this heavy shadow through the daylight, pretending it belongs to someone else. You call me good, and I am left choking on the distance between the hopeful reflection in your eyes and the ruin in my own.

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Mar 30

Mar 30, 2026 at 11:29 PM UTC

Tre

Perspective

So how can you call me a good man, When I hate myself enough To take my life, to dismantle the architecture of my days just to see if the noise finally stops. You look at me and see something solid. You hand me grace like it’s my birthright, speaking of my kindness, my steady hands. But you don't hear the static in the quiet hours. You don't feel the sheer exhaustion of dragging this heavy shadow through the daylight, pretending it belongs to someone else. You call me good, and I am left choking on the distance between the hopeful reflection in your eyes and the ruin in my own.

17

The throat tightens. Thumbs strike glass, spilling the ugly, bleeding mess I’ve been choking on for weeks. I stare at the block of letters— the anger, the begging, the open nerve. My finger hovers. My chest caves. Whatever feelings rush through me, the fear of the after is always louder. I hold the backspace key, watching it eat the honesty, letter by letter. The screen goes dark. The room goes quiet. I am left sitting here, heavy with everything I couldn't say.

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Mar 30

Mar 30, 2026 at 11:28 PM UTC

Tre

Said Within The Unsent

The throat tightens. Thumbs strike glass, spilling the ugly, bleeding mess I’ve been choking on for weeks. I stare at the block of letters— the anger, the begging, the open nerve. My finger hovers. My chest caves. Whatever feelings rush through me, the fear of the after is always louder. I hold the backspace key, watching it eat the honesty, letter by letter. The screen goes dark. The room goes quiet. I am left sitting here, heavy with everything I couldn't say.

15

Swing the hammer with intention; let the impact be a clean, sudden shock. I am tired of the hairline fractures, the spiderwebbing doubts that hold but do not heal. Do not leave the edges jagged. Do not leave a single shard large enough to catch the light or draw blood from a wandering hand. Apply the weight of your heels. Press until the geometry of "us" is lost, until the sharp architecture of grief is milled into something soft— something that can be scattered, carried by the wind, or buried in an hourglass where time doesn't hurt quite so much. Keep going until the glint is gone, and I am finally fine enough to slip through your fingers without leaving a mark.

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Mar 30

Mar 30, 2026 at 11:27 PM UTC

Tre

Granular

Swing the hammer with intention; let the impact be a clean, sudden shock. I am tired of the hairline fractures, the spiderwebbing doubts that hold but do not heal. Do not leave the edges jagged. Do not leave a single shard large enough to catch the light or draw blood from a wandering hand. Apply the weight of your heels. Press until the geometry of "us" is lost, until the sharp architecture of grief is milled into something soft— something that can be scattered, carried by the wind, or buried in an hourglass where time doesn't hurt quite so much. Keep going until the glint is gone, and I am finally fine enough to slip through your fingers without leaving a mark.

22

Even as the rain traces cold paths down your face, the truth of you holds fast. Your beauty, stubborn and clear, remains. It asks for no fortress. It refuses to cower behind a painted wall of foundation. Just you, breathing in the downpour, undisguised and undiminished.

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Mar 30

Mar 30, 2026 at 11:27 PM UTC

Tre

Bare In The Downpour

Even as the rain traces cold paths down your face, the truth of you holds fast. Your beauty, stubborn and clear, remains. It asks for no fortress. It refuses to cower behind a painted wall of foundation. Just you, breathing in the downpour, undisguised and undiminished.

12

Nocturnal, I’ve always lived in the dark— not because I chose it, but because the light never chose me back. I learned early how to make a home out of quiet, how to fold myself into corners no one else could see. The night understands things people don’t— how a chest can ache without breaking, how silence can scream louder than any voice. In the dark, I don’t have to pretend I’m whole. I can unravel thread by thread, and no one asks me to stitch it back together. There’s a kind of honesty here— sharp, unforgiving, but real. Because in the light I was always too much, or never enough— but in the dark I just am. Nocturnal, with tired eyes and a heart that learned to beat softly so it wouldn’t be heard when it broke. And maybe that’s the truth of it— I didn’t find the dark. It found me when nothing else did, and stayed when nothing else would.

0

Mar 30

Mar 30, 2026 at 11:26 PM UTC

Tre

The Dark That Kept Me

Nocturnal, I’ve always lived in the dark— not because I chose it, but because the light never chose me back. I learned early how to make a home out of quiet, how to fold myself into corners no one else could see. The night understands things people don’t— how a chest can ache without breaking, how silence can scream louder than any voice. In the dark, I don’t have to pretend I’m whole. I can unravel thread by thread, and no one asks me to stitch it back together. There’s a kind of honesty here— sharp, unforgiving, but real. Because in the light I was always too much, or never enough— but in the dark I just am. Nocturnal, with tired eyes and a heart that learned to beat softly so it wouldn’t be heard when it broke. And maybe that’s the truth of it— I didn’t find the dark. It found me when nothing else did, and stayed when nothing else would.

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