I wonder what it cost you
When you walked away
Did the universe weep like I did
Hoping one day that you’d stay
Did she scoff at your rejection
Did she take it as a grave sin?
Did she wail for me with grief
Knowing what would come again
I was sent with a mission
To mend the pain in you
But all you did was transfer it
To make it my pain too
I stayed as long as I could
I ripped the skin from my bones
Stitched the pieces together
And tried to patch the holes
The universe became angry
Seeing what I’d become
Learning of your betrayal
Witness to the damage that you'd done
Fire engulfed the earth.
Acid rained from the skies
She wanted righteous justice
For every tear she watched me cry.
She took your peace.
She took your health too.
She took all of the things you loved
She took everything of value.
She wanted you to see
The destruction you live to create
To feel the consequences
Of the choice that you make
But again you failed.
You’ve always had a wandering eye
It never mattered what you had
It wouldn’t be enough to satisfy
So instead of finally teaching
you how to actually hold
She carried my remaining shards
And turned me into gold.
She told me it was my turn
to choose who deserves my love
She begged that I choose wisely
Not to repeat what happened above.
She opened up the cage
I stretched my metallic wings
I flew as fast as I could
Into a brand new beginning
Nov 30, 2025
Nov 30, 2025 at 12:22 AM UTC
Life is crazy.
Nothing makes sense anymore
maybe it never was meant to.
They say the stars don’t hold truth,
but my birth chart hums like a mirror.
It knows me better than anyone ever did.
My soul came here to listen,
to stop circling the same wound
and call it destiny.
This time,
this life is mine.
I will choose who stands beside me
someone kind,
someone capable of softness.
But maybe love
isn’t the lesson anymore.
I’ve given enough lifetimes
to the altar of almosts.
I’ve bled through every betrayal
and still called it sacred.
No more.
This life is about autonomy,
about self-love so steady
it can’t be mistaken for selfishness.
I am angry,
and my anger is holy.
It asks me why I ever married
a man so hollow,
a heart so untouched by consequence.
Blue keeps failing his lessons.
He mistakes privilege for purpose.
I will not stand in the way of his karma
that pain is not mine to feel.
I will not carry what he refuses to name.
I am learning to unlearn
the myth of family.
Wholeness doesn’t need witnesses.
I am not there yet,
but I will be.
I will fight.
I will win.
I refuse to fail.
That’s the difference between us:
I’m not afraid to face my own darkness.
He isn’t ready
and he never will be.
He won’t look at the blood on his hands.
He stares at me
as if it’s my fault for bleeding,
then leaves me to mop it up alone.
But I can’t heal
by the hands that hurt me.
So I will rescue myself again,
and this time,
it will be the last.
Mark my words.
Nov 2, 2025
Nov 2, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
My therapist told me
that I have a way with words.
She said that I am able to tell the story
without telling the story.
As if my word wasn’t good enough to be heard
so I made a collage of pictures that were easier to handle. Cut and paste smaller chunks to complete a sentence. As if the sentence was ever really complete. My trauma was too large to swallow. How sad that must be.
Once my therapist told me that if I hadn’t had a life full of trauma I would not have survived my most previous. And maybe she is right.
But today I was informed that my ****** was being released early from prison. His six year sentence was too long for him. Well I will have to fight for my life for the rest of my life. how exhausting that can be.
Work release program. As much as I believe in prison rehabilitation I never thought that it would come to backfire. Never once did I think my core values would become my enemy. Now I’m a slave to my bleeding heart.
find a new place. find a new beginning. find a new life so that he can’t ruin what I have restored. They say I am crazy for being afraid, as if he hasn’t broken me to the pieces that I was. As if he hadn’t shattered what was remaining before.
Today I went to a store I bought every weapon that I could buy without purchasing a gun because my therapist told me she was afraid that I would try to attempt again. She cried. And for the first time in my life I realized that someone does care.
Even with the catastrophic news, I have learned something new. I am resilient. I am so much more than I was before. And if anyone should be afraid, it should be him. I am no longer lost. I am no longer fragile. And I will not run in place any more.
Dec 9, 2021
Dec 9, 2021 at 7:14 PM UTC
Growing up as a foster
I remember one comment the most.
As if everyone spoke from the same brain. Shared the same mind.
“You should be THANKFUL
for your second chance.”
As if sadness was an unhealthy emotion.
Something to be ashamed of.
As if everyone deserves a second chance
but isn’t lucky enough to get it.
As if I was privileged
to receive what they wanted.
I know what you’re thinking.
“How would you know
if they deserved it or not?”
Such a simple answer.
They don’t have battle scars.
They don’t have the cuts and bruises
They are nothing like me.
Family intact.
Everyone says my life is such a gift.
But that means nothing
to someone who has seen a gift thrown
on the ground and called garbage.
I am not allowed to place value on my life.
If I am upset about how I’m treated by my second family I am “ungrateful”.
As if bad is good because I know worse?
Please excuse me while I consult
with my various mental disorders.
They are the only things
that listen to me anyway.
The new did not cut me,
but they squeeze lemon juice on it
and call it cleansing.
HEALING.
My body reacts on its own now.
Please don’t mind my fresh PTSD.
Please ignore my flash backs
and poor memory.
Disregard my need for perfection that I will never be satisfied with due to my BPD.
My low lows because of depression.
And don’t look at my paranoid phases.
I am mentally ill.
And my second chance didn’t fix that.
Much like the opposite
Mimicking a disease, it spread it.
Jan 2, 2021
Jan 2, 2021 at 7:15 PM UTC
I have an insatiable envy for the fortunate.
I blame you for things that you haven’t done.
Welcome to your first lesson in how to be trish.
Ever financial burden was always our fault.
Rent wasn’t paid. Food was scarce. Our clothes were too small. You learn not to talk about such trivial things.
Asking questions about a fight was never appropriate. That’s when you find out that the fight was your fault. Life would be so much easier without you. So would their relationship.
After we were taken by the state, our mother made sure we knew that was our fault. We never did the dishes. We never did our laundry. We were such bad children.
May 2017, I was ***** at a party. He fought hard to remind me that it was my fault for being drunk. For being there. For being a woman. For being alive. For breathing his air.
Now I punish myself in many ways because part of myself believes him. My brain has started to see things again. Though I am vegetarian, I bleed my fingers dry as if that’s not breaking the rules. My teeth hurt from clenching in my sleep because you will not leave me alone.
I walk around dragging my feet, heavy with armor. My calves are always protected. The last time they were exposed, my tendons were severed and I was rendered disabled. My therapist tells me that my armor is a flaw. It is unnecessary to be used all of the time. But don’t the public carry guns just in case? Wear masks just in case? Trust no one. For your own protection.
Growing up I was given this mindset. It was the only mindset I had known. So I kept it and now it is all I have. Such a curse to have bestowed.
So yes, this is your first lesson. Taking blame and bearing their cross.
My therapist said it is a benefit to realize that no one person is all good or all bad. But I cannot see you without seeing all bad. Feeling all bad. Hearing all bad. Seeing, feeling and hearing all bad for days that follow. Shadows and movements that creep, whispering my name, brushing against my body while I lay down at night. You are all bad. And if you are not, it’s only because you stole the good from me and left your bad as a gift.
And for this, I give you a solid **** you, have a **** day.
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 9:47 PM UTC
My dreams are always bright in color.
So real yet so impossible.
Sometimes I forget that waking up screaming isn’t part of everyone’s routine.
There are time that I don’t remember that my story is sacred.
It drags behind me like the bumper of my car.
I am a terrible driver. But how can I get better with so many bugs on my wind shield.
The more I try to wipe it off, the more smudge and confusing it gets. I’ve learned to drive without my eyes.
Without my eyes, I run every red light, crash into every stop sign, I often wonder how I haven’t died yet. Why can’t I be that blessed.
My therapist says to use windex. I try but sometimes the windex stops working. Why isn’t the medicine making me better? I can no longer wake from the nightmares but how does that help me?
Constant running. Constant screaming. Constantly fighting for survival over and over again, sleep is my unwavering enemy.
Prison does not save a victim. When you took part of me, you left a piece of you and I hate myself because I can’t burn it out of my skin. No amount of bleach can cleanse you from my veins.
The water that pours from my blind eyes does not erase you from my soul. oh how sad that is.
Once I was just me.
Now my dreams spell WE.
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 9:52 PM UTC
“Use your story. Save someone like you”
I didn’t realize it was the brokens job to save the other broken people.
I didn’t realize people born with every advantage has no responsibility for those who weren’t.
I didn’t realize that pain and trauma automatically morphed me into a savior for all.
How does a broken heart heal while still in pain?
Doesn’t it occur to you that I might cause trauma of my own?
You cannot mend what’s broken, if you are not intact.
I am a ticking time bomb.
My PTSD left me with anger and rage that I cannot satisfy.
Please don’t spill your cup. Please take off your shoes at the door.
If I have to vacuum one more ******* time.
It’s not about the dirt. It’s not about the stain.
It’s about the chaos I cannot shake.
Constant instability, and disaster.
I am unstable.
So no.
I won’t share my story with someone to save them.
Because I cannot save the broken. I will shatter what is left.
This is my first refusal. My very first no.
And it is the kindest thing I have ever done
Nov 24, 2019
Nov 24, 2019 at 8:56 PM UTC
The Weight of the world rests on the shoulders that are willing to carry it.
It’s crazy that for so long
I carried your boulders on my neck
without any thought of the curvature of my spine.
Persistent years of ache and weary
Yet I still held the stones that would leave damage for a lifetime.
I allowed you to pile on as much as you please
And all I ever said was thank you
For allowing me to be part of what saves you.
Years past, and I did not save you.
Years go by, and suddenly
I am the one that needs saved
I am the one with boulders
I am the one with a broken back and nobody willing to help.
A spine can only handle
so much pressure over so much time.
My spine has had enough.
And finally it caves after years of neglecting myself for everyone else.
You watch through the Platforms
prowling through my history.
Knowing that these boulders are yours.
boulders that you never claimed once you left.
I stopped blaming you
For my inability to let go of the stones that you gave me.
I have learned to take responsibility
For my part in my own destruction.
Now, I have repaired my spine
Tremendous hills climbed in -0 cold.
Heavy Tsunami’s with no boat.
My hands have cuts from the rocks I crawled over to get here.
The only thing that really matters now,
Is that I made it. Spine intact.
With a lesson I will never have to learn again.
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 8:05 PM UTC
It’s always dark when I start to miss your touch.
The 12 o clock crunch of your chips in our bed.
The way you always smelled so strong.
Though, we both knew that being such was not your strong suit.
It’s always that song that makes me miss you.
The one we would blast our souls out to, on winding road.
The melody that melted our minds into one.
As if we weren’t already.
You always called me an 80’s movie.
Never was quite sure
if it was a compliment or not.
But it didn’t matter because You overlapped it with sweet fog.
You liked that I was more broken than you.
And so did I.
You once played a song.
When I didn’t cry you said “you must’ve never been heartbroken before”.
Now I break down any time I hear it.
You showed me all of the fire flies in my grass.
Now I see them and my eyes go blurry.
The blurry streams down my face even more when they are gone.
You must be visiting someone else tonight.
I still text your number.
I know I shouldn’t
but somehow I feel like you get the messages.
I hear your response in my head as I hit send.
I can still feel like pressure of your fingertips against mine, as if they never left.
It makes me wonder how I could fall in love with someone I could never get close to.
But you liked that I was more in love than you.
And so did I.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 9:07 PM UTC
Dear mother.
Though my love for you is unconditional,
As the love of family should be
I have learned to accept that it is not returned.
When I say it should be,
I mean that I hold the same value as the picture frames that linger on your workstation.
When I say it is not returned,
I mean that when I’m finally introduced to new people, they are not shocked that you have another daughter.
Unconditional does not mean I linger in the shadows of your embarrassment, right next to the divorce you almost had.
I have learned to accept the darkness, as your only source of love.
Dear mother, why has it not occurred to you that a heartbreak doesn’t have to be a lover.
Your tongue of blades has cut my soul for the last time.
You are often the topic of my therapy session, always ending in “why do you give her so much control?”.
My only answer is that it must be my unwillingness to accept that maybe God doesn’t think I need a family.
What is a life where not once, but twice you have been cast out of the cult that is supposed to be life long.
Maybe the cult is life long, but your love for me never will be.
Dear mother how can you not see that you are my biggest threat.
My guts spill out of my stomach onto my feet every time you message me.
My chest conclaves into itself for protection.
How does my ability to love the same *** equate the audacity of ******
Since when does love become a bigger threat than the *** trafficking that takes place right on our doorsteps.
Dear mother, how can you not understand that heartbreak doesn’t have to be a lover, but sometimes reveals Itself to be a mother.
Aug 28, 2019
Aug 28, 2019 at 9:02 PM UTC