Dear me,
I know you are tired.
Not the kind of tired that disappears after sleeping for eight hours but the kind that settles quietly inside your bones after carrying too much for too long.
The kind where you keep showing up anyway, while a part of you keeps wondering if any of it really matters.
You think you are behind sometimes.
You look around and everyone else seems more certain, more talented, more stable, more prepared for life than you are.
Your mind convinces you that you are too difficult to love, too emotional, too sensitive, too much and yet never enough at the same time.
That you need to earn the right to exist in other people's lives.
You measure your worth only through grades, productivity, achievements, or how useful you are to others as you forget that you are a person before you are a performance.
Dear me,
You matter.
You are not failing in life.
People who truly love you will never make you earn the right to exist in their life.
Take your time.
Learn to let go.
Love yourself.
You are allowed to grow slowly.
With love,
You
7d ago
May 27, 2026 at 12:12 PM UTC
Depression is not crying under the covers at 3 am
or looking at the blank white wall hours after hours.
Depression is getting up early and
doing the morning chores even when your body protests.
Depression is not cutting off friends
and disappearing from everyone’s life.
Depression is texting your friends
with a smile on your face and a bleeding heart.
Depression is sitting in front of your computer writing the due assignment
and thinking at the same time that it doesn’t really matter.
Depression is suppressing the desire
of having one more bite of that favorite strawberry cake
because there is no point.
Depression is sleeping 12 hours a day
to avoid thinking at all.
Depression is watching the reels showing flower valleys
with downpour rain and thinking
life can be so much better but not for me.
Depression is burying your dreams with your own hands
and crying over the grave for the wasted potential.
Depression is thinking about the future and
realizing your worth is in the negatives.
Depression is killing your inner child
so the adult you can merge with the rest of the world.
Depression is stop living the life and only surviving
because death doesn’t want you.
Depression is when your body is alive,
but your soul died.
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 7:59 AM UTC
I dated a boy
or so I was told,
turns out the role
was already… co-owned.
He said, “she’s just a friend,”
a classic old line,
meanwhile daily updates
like a newsletter subscription of mine.
“Good morning, ex,
here’s what we did today,”
sir, is this a relationship
or a live commentary play?
Plot twist: she’s married,
with a kid, a whole life
but still somehow reviewing
my role as “the wife.”
And her mom in the background
oh, she had a say too,
predicting our ending
like she already knew.
I said, “be real,
or this won’t last,”
he paused for a moment…
then ran straight back to the past.
So I left
gracefully,
no scene,
just exited a triangle
I never agreed to be in.
Now here’s the lesson,
since we’re serving tea hot:
if it feels like a group chat
baby, it’s not your spot.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 11:38 AM UTC
all i ever wanted
was for someone to see my rotten parts
and cemetery of a brain
and broken bones with my
fragile heart
and say that
'oh,
she was a human too.'
when i am gone
all i ever want
is for somewhere someone
to pick my soul up
from these words and
thinking
'ah
i would have loved her.'
Apr 23
Apr 23, 2026 at 10:36 PM UTC
I have to clean my room first, before I **** myself,
not just the desk
but the notebooks with halfwritten thoughts
and code that almost worked at 2 am.
Cut my hair, learn to drive.
Find socks that are honeybee yellow with small paw prints.
I have to kiss a stranger
I have to hug someone under a lamp
or in the middle of crowd, love,
dance in the middle of the road in heavy rainfall or snowstrom
with a person who will put his hand on me
reverently,
take a photo of a building with different lights in each window, and marvel agian in our individual yet inalienable lives.
I have to add to my rock collection
pick up pieces of sea glass
talk to someone old about their lives,
I have to finish those half painted paintings
the unread books collecting dust on my selves.
I have to learn the language of flowers,
have to buy innumerable houseplants
and a cactus,
I have to try every flavour of kitkat out there,
and own a cow in new zealand.
I have so much to do before I **** myself.
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 11:58 PM UTC
the silence in my room was suffocating,
it smelled like mold and dust
as i took the blade out again.
it looked better than other days,
looking kinder than most things do
a happy promise,
wearing a halo of relief.
it felt comforting, knowing
all it takes is letting it meet my skin.
i got tired of saying this, but
just because my grief isn’t loud
doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
it sits quietly,
heavy on my chest,
the gut-wrenching pain,
the guilt of not crying out loud,
the guilt of not screaming.
so i held my breath
as i forgot,
i suppose, sometimes
i even fail to remember
what purpose oxygen serves in the human body.
my body was never a devoted follower
of the One above,
but my mind was.
was… but now…
it makes me a bit sad.
but isn’t history always a bit sad?
flaws are, after all,
virtues turned upside down.
i read once we tend to become
what we are called.
i am afraid
i could become nothing more
than a haunted memory.
funny, how i was never called
memorable or haunting.
keeping the blade aside, i walked out.
the world was too loud today.
i stood over the footbridge,
watching cars blur into nothing.
the wind carried a taste of fresh rain,
and for a moment,
it made me think
how the concrete never looked so soft before
soft enough
to rest.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 11:41 AM UTC
when i am six feet under
and bugs are eating my heart,
all they are gonna taste is you
you made flowers grow in my lungs
and they are beautiful
but i can't ******* breathe...
i will dance with strangers
in the middle of the night,
kiss a few more
just to find a similar taste.
i will drink into oblivion
only to realize
you are all i can remember
my friends will get tired of hearing about you
and i will get tired of answering their questions,
so i will turn to drugs
because drugs don’t ask questions
i will cry on the kitchen floor
walk the same road that we used to take
just to feel
what you once felt like
i won't ask you to come back,
if i ever, ever see you again.
i will hold your gaze
like a barely acquainted stranger
i will get curious to know
what i have done so wrong
that you would endanger your very existence
to rid yourself of me?
but i will never call you out.
i will never say your name
nor will i let myself wonder
what we could have been.
i am afraid,
i could become nothing more
than a haunted memory for you
i refuse to regret you.
i will hope the stars will glow brighter
wherever you are
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 2:03 AM UTC
My body craves sleep like an addict on multiple substances.
Depressed people and addicts are not expected to grieve,
even when they experience the urge to die
or to shove poison into their systems,
but we grieve the dead,
and that's funny.
Addicts are bred, I think,
from serial instances of loss.
Addiction becomes you
when you find several ways to self-sabotage the only good part you have.
I think, my addiction would be books.
I am addicted to sleep, just like
I am addicted to certain characters in books
who are addicted to success.
I might be addicted to death,
but death doesn’t want me,
so I obsess over it in the hope that
death might get addicted to me.
And maybe that’s why life got so angry with me
and is now throwing a temper tantrum,
as it taught my body to recognize my blood as a foreign object,
so, instead of protecting me,
my body is now destroying itself,
and that’s okay.
Oh, and strawberries, I am addicted to strawberries, and hope.
I am addicted to hope
the same way I am addicted to pain,
and it doesn’t make sense,
but that’s okay too.
Grief is an amputation, but hope is incurable hemophilia.
You bleed
and bleed
and bleed
until there’s nothing left,
one by one.
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 2:21 AM UTC
I was walking along the road,
the morning unraveling slowly,
while I saw a group of boys in crumpled messy uniforms
laughing loudly at something ordinary,
as they chewed over where life would take them,
their voices bright,
like coins scattered on concrete.
I saw a little boy standing at a flower stall,
choosing carefully
a red and yellow gerbera,
sunlight cupped in petals,
and handed it to his mother
who had already paid
but smiled and received it like a gift.
On the bus,
I took the window seat,
a front-row view of the world continuing.
I saw a man steadying a woman
as she climbed the steps,
one hand on the rail,
the other holding a prescription file,
from a gynecologist.
Perhaps welcoming a new life.
I saw a child
sitting on my left
carrying two baby chickens
pressed gently to his lap,
fragile heartbeats
he hoped to keep alive.
At a crossing,
I saw two friends
threading their fingers together
before stepping into traffic,
as if courage
were something shared.
In less than an hour
between my home and university
I saw life,
small, stubborn, ordinary life,
repeating itself
without permission.
And I was grateful
for not surrendering
to the quiet pull
of ending it all,
on October 4th, 2020.
Or in the middle of March 2022.
Or February 8th, 2023.
Or any of the unnamed days
that tried to convince me
there was nothing left for me to see.
Because there was this,
laughter in wrinkled uniforms,
flowers paid for twice,
prescriptions folded with hope,
two lives in careful hands,
shared warmth before crossing.
There was this and
I was glad
I was still here,
breathing, living, witnessing it all.
Mar 2
Mar 2, 2026 at 9:54 AM UTC
I was merely a wanderer, wandering aimlessly.
How would I have known
that my destiny was written somewhere else?
How would I have known
I was never meant to be yours?
You had a single line for me,
where I kept half of the pages of my life
empty for you,
to write the verses of your poem.
I knew you wanted the sky,
I feared I was only gravity.
But I also knew I could have learned
to fly beside you
if only you had looked back once.
After you, I realized,
perhaps someone else is dedicating half of their book to me
when I only spared them a single verse in mine.
Feb 21
Feb 21, 2026 at 10:14 AM UTC