I didn’t let go of the past because it released me I let go because it had its hands wrapped around my throat, and I was tired of surviving on borrowed air. The scars it left are not metaphors; they live in my body, in the way I flinch at tenderness, in the way my heart learned to brace instead of open. I carry entire nights inside me that never ended, memories that still wake up before I do.
I loved before I knew how to be safe, and I learned pain before I learned softness. The past made a home out of me, hollowed me out and called it strength. It taught me how to stay quiet, how to bleed without making a sound, how to accept absence as if it were love. And sometimes I still ache for the version of myself that didn’t know any better the one who thought being chosen meant being saved.
Then my lover found me not healed, not whole, not brave. They found me shaking, clinging to old wounds like they were proof I existed. And still, they stayed. They touch me in places the past tried to erase, and every time they do, it hurts not because it’s wrong, but because it reminds me how much I was deprived of. Love feels terrifying when you’ve only ever known endurance.
When my lover is near, the future stops looking like another sentence I have to serve. It looks like a risk I’m finally willing to take. I don’t believe in happy endings I believe in trembling beginnings, in choosing to live even while my hands are shaking. I believe in loving someone enough to step forward despite the blood still on my memories.
I am not free of my past. I am simply choosing my lover over it even if it hurts, even if it costs me everything, even if healing feels like the most painful thing I’ve ever done.
Dec 26, 2025
Dec 26, 2025 at 2:18 PM UTC
I didn’t mean to fall asleep at Grandma’s house, but I did. When I woke, it was to the sound of birds singing, their voices carrying through the open window like they were announcing the morning just for me. The air smelled different; sharp, cool, the kind of air that whispers autumn is on its way. It was the kind of morning that feels alive with memory, where every detail carries a weight of something already lived.
I stayed still for a while, just letting it all wash over me. The creak of the old floorboards, the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the light slanting across the curtains, all of it made me feel like a child again. It reminded me of the times when love was simple and always near, when the world felt safe just because family was close.
Nostalgia hit me quietly but powerfully. I thought about the people I’ve shared my life with, the ones who are here, the ones far away, the ones I can only meet again in memory. It’s strange how the past never fully leaves..it waits in the air, in the smell of the seasons changing, in the corners of a house that has held us for generations.
This morning reminded me that memory is not just looking back, it’s carrying forward. Every laugh, every shared meal, every small moment of love becomes part of me, even when I don’t notice. And in the stillness of this morning, I noticed.
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 12:12 PM UTC
Every day the voice grows louder, a low tide moving over the edges of my life until there is almost nothing left but the hush it leaves behind. It does not shout; it never needs to. It leans close in the quiet hours — when the city exhales, when the kettle has gone cold on the stove — and speaks with the steady softness of someone who knows every fracture inside me. Its words are not cruel. They are velvet-soft invitations, the kind that makes you forget the jaggedness, of the world for a moment and imagine only the ease of surrender.
There is a warmth to it, and that is the strangest part. I find myself startled by how gentle it feels, like a hand at the small of my back guiding me towards something that will end the ache without explanation. Around other people I have known harshness that didn’t pretend it was anything else. With them there were arguments and doors slammed and the brittle noise of disappointment. This is different; this is a quiet that hums a lullaby and calls me by a name I used to like. In another life — or in another dream — it is not Death at all but a lover waiting in a doorway with a coat in their hand, patient, familiar, and impossibly kind.
I want to lean into it as you would into a familiar shoulder. I imagine running my palms along its calmness and finding there the kind of rest I have tried to find in strangers’ eyes. There’s a softness in the idea of being held so completely that the need to fight for air fades, and when the thought comes it does not arrive with accusations but with an understanding so thorough it almost feels like mercy. In my mind it becomes a room with low light and no questions; it becomes the end of the long, useless performance of holding myself together for people who never learned how to hold me back.
And still, even as the comfort seeps into my bones, there is a tremor, a recognition of the impossibility of it all. To let myself lean fully is to cross a line I have been warned about, to step into a hush that is both a promise and a disappearance. Yet I imagine the embrace anyway: the quiet ripple of its presence threading through my chest, a tide that lifts me free from all the jagged edges I carry and all the expectations I have stitched onto my skin. It is not violent, not demanding, not impatient — it is a patience that knows I will come, eventually, in my own time.
I think of all the nights I have spent alone, staring at walls that could not listen, and I understand that this is the voice that has been waiting. Its gentleness is a kind of violence against my loneliness, dismantling it piece by piece until the walls fall away, and I am left with nothing but the hush — nothing but the undeniable clarity that somewhere, in the softest corner of the world, I am seen, I am known, I am held. And for a moment, that is enough.
The more I listen, the more I remember — not faces or names, not places exactly, but sensations, brief moments I thought I had forgotten. The smell of rain on asphalt, the warmth of a stranger’s hand in a city that never stops moving, the echo of music I can no longer place. Each memory trembles when Death speaks, and in its voice I feel the fragile thread that connects them all: the ache of being alive, the wonder of having survived it. It is both cruel and merciful, the way it uncovers the tenderest parts of me and holds them without comment.
Sometimes I imagine speaking back. I imagine asking Death if it has known what it is like to carry a body through years that never learned gentleness, to hold a heart so bruised it forgets it can beat at all. I imagine its reply, soft and knowing: that it has known, that it has always known, and that it is here now, waiting, patient, unwavering. I picture the quiet room stretching around us like a cathedral of a hush, each breath a candle flame, each heartbeat a soft echo of something I almost dared to hope for.
There is a strange courage in this imagining, a boldness in feeling the pull without needing to act. I do not have to move; I do not have to surrender. I only have to let the voice settle around me like smoke, let it fill the corners of my mind that have been empty for too long, and notice what happens when the world finally stops insisting that I am not enough. And in noticing, I feel something like grace: the sharp edges of existence dull, the questions fall silent, and the ache softens into a kind of recognition. I exist. I am here. I am known.
And sometimes, just sometimes, I reach toward it — not fully, not yet — and the hush leans closer, and I am home.
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 11:30 AM UTC
I was never chosen for belonging.
Not by the world, not by blood, not by any hand that ever touched me.
I walk among the living as an exile,
a phantom dressed in flesh,
a vessel meant only to pour itself empty
so others may drink and leave.
I am the altar and the offering.
I tear my own spine into kindling,
set myself ablaze just to keep their shadows warm.
I hand over my ruin as though it were holy bread,
because if love will not have me,
perhaps sacrifice will.
And pain;
pain has been my only covenant.
It baptized me.
It married me.
It crowns me each morning with thorns
and cradles me each night in its iron womb.
It is not a wound; it is my inheritance.
It is not a visitor; it is my god.
Yet still;
there is a howl in me.
A storm that wants to rip heaven in half.
I want to pound my fists against the firmament
until the stars rain down like glass.
I want the earth to feel the shudder of my grief,
to know that I am here,
bleeding, burning, begging..
and no one sees me.
But I know the sentence.
They will spit their verdicts like venom.
“Attention seeker.”
“Coward.”
“Spectacle.”
They will say despair is a theater,
agony a mask,
death a performance.
So I swallow the scream.
I choke on silence until it poisons me.
And I rot.
I rot in daylight,
smiling with dead teeth,
while my insides collapse like a set on fire.
Tell me—
when does it end?
When does this body, this prison,
finally crack open?
When will my lungs sigh their last,
my skull quiet itself,
my eyes close not in weariness
but in deliverance?
I curse the sleepers in their graves.
I envy their soil, their silence, their eternal stillness.
I despise their peace even as I crave it.
Why should they rest while I remain chained,
dragging myself through the days like carrion?
I am tired.
Tired of this cursed breath,
this endless theater of pain.
I have known nothing but wounds,
and I desire nothing but the abyss.
If there is a god,
let him hear me.
If there is a hell,
let it open now.
If there is mercy in this universe,
let it be the mercy of oblivion.
Because I am finished.
And all I have ever loved,
all I have ever trusted,
all I have ever worshiped—
is pain.
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 6:59 AM UTC
Lilies mean I dare you to love me,
Yet no one ever dared before.
She wore unworthiness like armour,
Too afraid to ask for more.
But then their souls collided softly,
A feeling whispered, old yet new.
As if their atoms once had danced,
As if her heart already knew.
Stargazers were her favourite flowers,
Pink petals stretching toward the sky.
She never thought she’d be deserving,
Yet he brought them—without a why.
He told her love was hard to give,
That words don’t spill from heart to tongue.
But every act, each quiet moment,
Spoke of love he left unsung.
The day he gave her stargazers,
She learned that she could bloom as well.
That love was not a war to fight,
But something safe where she could dwell.
Still, they have never said the words,
Three small ones locked behind their lips.
But love is felt in all the ways
That words may falter, break, or slip.
And if they never pass through her,
Then may they come from him instead.
For she could never bear to hear
“I love you” from another’s breath.
Mar 15, 2025
Mar 15, 2025 at 12:47 PM UTC
The air hums with unseen eyes,
pressing against my skin like ghosts of unspoken words.
I do not know if they are real,
or if it is only my own mind feeding me these lies,
splitting at the seams,
a quiet unraveling.
I try to name this feeling,
but it slips through my fingers,
a silver thread lost in the dark.
It swells inside me,
a tide with no shore,
a song with no voice,
an echo that answers to nothing.
I fear the hollow behind my ribs,
the stranger who lingers in my reflection,
watching, waiting,
as if they know something I do not.
I fear the quiet hands of time,
folding me into something I cannot bear to be,
softly, gently, as if I won’t notice.
I dream of dissolving,
of fading like breath on a mirror,
becoming dust,
becoming light,
scattering into the arms of the cosmos,
where even sorrow turns celestial.
Perhaps there, I would not ache.
Perhaps there, I would not be.
I am tired—
of the weight in my bones,
of the ache stitched into my name,
of carrying this endless dusk
where no dawn ever follows.
Even sleep offers no escape,
only the same restless descent,
only the same hushed grief.
Mar 15, 2025
Mar 15, 2025 at 12:43 PM UTC
Warmth, joy, a love so true,
Emotions I never knew—
Not until my soul met yours,
Not until you opened doors.
I once believed in fairy tales,
Foolish dreams that always failed,
But then I saw the way you stare,
And found my home within your care.
You say the words don’t come with ease,
But love speaks soft in moments seized.
Your smallest acts, the way you see
The parts of me I thought unseen.
Your laughter lifts, your smile shines,
A light that feels forever mine.
I’d fight the world, I’d stand so tall,
Just to see you through it all.
I know that nothing gold can stay,
That time may steal this love away,
Yet still, I beg the stars above—
Make you my endless, only love.
For though your lips stay quiet still,
Your heart speaks louder than your will.
And though these words I dare not say,
I’ll love you more with each new day.
Mar 5, 2025
Mar 5, 2025 at 3:24 AM UTC
overflowing, my heart, a torrential tide,
Words falter, emotions I cannot confide.
To love so fiercely, yet know it will not stay,
A cruel, aching truth that will not go away.
my heart, unbridled, runs wild toward you,
defying my reason, defying what is true.
each offering of love met with barren air,
An endless void, a silence unfair.
I cry out, scream, a battle in vain,
fighting shadows absorbing the pain.
the emptiness grows, a consuming abyss,
feeding on love, on moments I miss.
oh, how I long for your warmth, your care,
but the universe answers with desolate stares.
this love is a tether, a soul bound chain,
a curse unbroken, a beautiful pain.
to love this deeply is to burn and bleed,
to nurture a flower that turns to a ****
yet still, I cling to the ghost of your name,
bound by the fire, consumed by the flame.
a love so eternal , a wound so profound,
a curse the echoes, no solace found.
but in this despair, a paradox lies,
for even in ruin, my heart cannot disguise.
So I bear this torment, this ache, this fight,
A beacon of love in an endless night.
For though it destroys, it is a truth I can not flee:
Loving you deeply is the curse that is me.
Feb 19, 2025
Feb 19, 2025 at 6:02 AM UTC
She always knew who she was. A shadow at the edge of the room, a whisper drowned beneath the weight of voices louder, brighter, bolder. The outcast. The forgotten. The girl who learned too young that love came with conditions, that affection had to be earned, that visibility was a privilege reserved for those who fit neatly into the expectations of others. She was not neat. She was not easy. And so, she learned to carve away the pieces of herself that did not belong.
She became a sculptor of her own existence, chiseling away at her identity until what remained was something palatable, something acceptable. She sanded down her rough edges, trimmed away the inconvenient parts, folded herself into the empty spaces left between others’ desires. She learned to be silent when silence was preferred, to nod when agreement was expected, to smile when smiling felt like a betrayal of everything she was. It was easier that way. Safer.
But safety came at a price.
She lost herself in the echoes of others’ expectations, in the constant moulding and remoulding of her identity. She became a collection of performances, a collage of borrowed smiles and rehearsed laughter. And with each role she played, with each mask she wore, the girl she had once been faded further into the background. Forgotten, abandoned, suffocated beneath the weight of trying to be enough.
She thought belonging would fill the hollowness inside her chest. That if she just played the part well enough, if she became the version of herself that others wanted, she would finally be chosen. Finally be kept. Finally be loved.
But the belonging she found was an illusion, a fragile thing that shattered the moment she faltered, the moment she failed to be exactly what they needed. And so she was left again, standing amidst the wreckage of all the people she had tried to be, realising that in chasing love, she had abandoned the only person who had ever truly been hers—herself.
And now, she wonders if it is too late. If the girl she left behind is still waiting for her somewhere, or if she has been lost to the years, dissolved into the nothingness of trying too hard, too long, to be someone else. She stands at the edge of a life that is not her own, staring into the abyss of all she has lost, feeling the sharp edges of regret pressing against her ribs.
But in the stillness, in the emptiness, something remains. A whisper, faint but insistent. A flicker of something long buried but not yet extinguished. Not the desperate, grasping hope that once begged for others to see her, to choose her. No, this is something different.
This is the hope that maybe, just maybe, she can choose herself.
That she can reach into the wreckage, sift through the shattered fragments of who she used to be, and begin again. That she can remember the sound of her own laughter when no one else is listening, the way her soul feels when it exists untouched by expectation.
That she is not beyond saving.
That she is still here, beneath the layers of pretence, waiting to be found.
She is me. And in the depths of me, I am she.
And maybe—just maybe—that is enough.
Feb 12, 2025
Feb 12, 2025 at 2:49 AM UTC
When I was younger, I dreamed of being a star.
Not the kind that fades quietly in the night, but one that burned under a spotlight—
brilliant, untouchable, where my name carried weight and was whispered with awe.
I was five, eyes wide with wonder, heart light as air.
Back then, I believed that being seen was the same as being loved,
that the world would hold me gently if I shone brightly enough.
But now? Now I crave the shadows.
Not the soft shadows cast by light, but the deep ones,
the kind that swallow you whole and ask no questions.
I want to disappear into the quiet corners of the world,
where faces fade into obscurity, and names dissolve into nothing.
I long for silence,
to be far from consequence, from expectation,
and furthest of all—from myself.
My name feels foreign now,
a hollow syllable with no meaning,
a sound that drifts on the air but never lands.
It once carried dreams, hopes, promises,
but now it is weightless,
an echo I no longer recognise.
When I was younger, I wanted to shine.
I thought light would fill the cracks inside me,
that the applause would quiet the loneliness.
But now, I wish to fade—to slip beyond the edges of the frame,
to blur into the background where no one looks too closely.
Sometimes, I wonder if I missed my moment to vanish.
I think of the sea, vast and endless,
and of the moments when I stood at its edge,
the waves whispering an invitation to let go,
to drift beyond reach, where the world could no longer find me.
I should have jumped.
I should have surrendered to the tide and let it erase me,
soft and silent.
Yet, here I stand, caught in the in-between.
A shadow dreaming of being unseen,
a ghost clinging to the fragments of a name.
I do not know what keeps me tethered,
what keeps me here, on the cusp of fading.
Maybe it is the faintest flicker of hope,
or maybe it is just fear disguised as longing.
When I was younger, I thought I was destined to be a star.
Now, I just want to disappear.
Jan 31, 2025
Jan 31, 2025 at 1:40 PM UTC