a soft thing
tightened too far
until breath becomes ceremony
the room prefers symmetry
so it sands down weather
calls it calm
I arrive as spill
as echo
as something that won’t hold its shape
long enough to be forgiven
there are corridors
that hum even when empty
I leave pieces of heat there
and keep walking
something inside me learned
how to become useful
before it learned how to exist
this is how you become architecture
instead of a body
time keeps asking for payment
in small cuts
in repetition
in standing upright while the ground moves
I am praised for remaining intact
despite the fractures doing all the work
silence pools
not like water
like gravity
order mistakes stillness
for consent
mistakes quiet
for agreement
my empathy keeps reaching
past the point of return
touching everything
except relief
so I stop
mid-gesture
let the structure crack
let the neatness fail
I will not be the joint
that absorbs the strain
what survives me
is not softness
but edge
not forgiveness
but orientation
I turn
not away
but out
and the pressure releases
not into peace
but into space
Jan 17
Jan 17, 2026 at 7:07 PM UTC
let’s throw in the towel
but you go first
I genuinely want to hear your
rendition
nobody talks about the rendition anymore
do we know the definition?
I love a ***** towel
throw it in
give me some inspiration
**** I love a ***** towel
Jan 13
Jan 13, 2026 at 6:37 PM UTC
i ebb and flow as do the waves upon the ocean
they so solemnly and somberly dance miles away from my feeble body
i envy their choreography
they bow and they rise
in an impressive rehearsal of becoming
each movement is a whisper to humanity
we fall, we rise, we fall again
and we do not stop
i ebb and flow
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 6:48 PM UTC
i take my time
and i sip my wine like it’s water
to stay “introspective” as i call it
but in reality each feeble sip feels
a little more like teenage angst rather than
finding myself or one day at a time
after all im not a teenager anymore
i like to think that i am grown
but one day at a time moves too fast
and too slow at the same time
no matter what i do ill always feel a little like
im behind everyone else
but ill chew up and swallow the feeling
ill wash it down with poison
and pray three words will make it all better
as if it it some pursuit of happiness
beyond bittersweet nostalgia
ironically
three words make me lose my faith
because
one day at a time
is torture and five words - so
ill take my time and sip my wine
and I’ll try again tomorrow
and the next day, and the next day
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 6:42 PM UTC
hidden words and doubt
treasure an equal ----
an unspoken language
it is known to all
and recognized by few
that there is a fork in the road
and one in the mind
one may be rich with law
& one formed by mindful pessimism
in between we find solace
there is peace in the solace
languages are spoken by the fluent
learned by the voyager
caressed by the curious
but some languages will never
be spoken
may they always be stitched with
hidden words &
treasured by an equal
may the fluent learn
and learn well
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 7:25 PM UTC
there is a scar on my forearm
where pain once opened a door I never meant to walk through.
and just above it—
there is ink.
not to cover,
but to honor.
not to erase,
but to rewrite.
a brain and a heart,
entangled.
not in opposition—
but in conversation.
connected by wires,
or maybe veins,
or maybe something holier than either.
I used to think I had to choose—
logic or love
rationality or feeling
selflessness or survival.
but I was trained in the gospel of self-erasure.
taught to anticipate everyone else’s needs
before I ever learned to ask myself:
“what the hell do you need?”
and even if I had asked,
the answer would have caught in my throat,
choked out by guilt
and the ghost of obligation.
because I was supposed to be
the good daughter,
the emotional translator,
the fixer of moods,
the feeler of everyone else’s feelings.
they called it kindness.
“you’re too nice”.
I called it exhaustion.
because how do you think for yourself
when you’ve only ever been rewarded for disappearing?
and every time I tried to speak,
to set a line in the sand,
they said I was dramatic,
ungrateful,
too much.
I am not too much.
they just asked me to live in too little.
it isn’t just ink.
it’s a reclamation.
it says:
“I won’t keep bleeding quietly
just so you don’t have to see your reflection in the mess.”
it says:
“I have boundaries now.
not because I hate you.
but because I finally want to love me.”
I have spent years
reading rooms like scripture,
absorbing tension like oxygen,
offering versions of myself
tailored to everyones comfort
and calling it connection.
but I’ve learned—
connection without truth
is just performance.
and I’m done auditioning
for love that demands I amputate parts of who I am.
they said balance was something you find.
but I bled for mine.
I built it
nerve by nerve.
word by word.
now I wear ink on my skin
not for show,
but for remembrance.
it is my altar.
my vow.
my refusal to be edited
just to keep someone else’s peace.
because I am not the wound.
I am what grew beside it.
a wire runs
from synapse to sigh,
from heartbeat to hypothesis—
and I am the bridge,
living in the middle.
but remember - lauren -
tattoos disgust me.
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 1:17 PM UTC
I’ve seen things I can’t unsee.
I’ve held lives together
with shaking hands and quiet hope.
And I’ve walked away wondering
if I was ever really seen at all.
But here’s the logic they forget to teach:
Feeling deeply
isn’t weakness.
It’s data.
It’s memory.
It’s proof
that the world still touches you
when it tries to make you numb.
And maybe I’ll never solve the full equation.
Maybe the variables keep shifting.
But here’s what I know:
I would rather stay soft
and confused,
and tired,
and real—
than become sharp and certain
and alone.
May 31, 2025
May 31, 2025 at 3:19 PM UTC
It starts with a word I can barely pronounce.
Primary. Biliary. Cholangitis.
It sounds clinical.
Clean.
But the truth of it is messy.
It’s in the yellow tint of her eyes,
the persistent itch that breaks her sleep,
the tired that drapes over her like a second skin.
It’s a slow erosion.
Not a storm, not a flood—
but a river that carves away at her liver,
cell by cell,
quiet and cruel.
I was just a daughter.
But illness turns you into more.
A researcher.
A translator of test results.
A calm voice in the chaos of hospital rooms.
A silent witness when she cries in the dark,
thinking I’m asleep.
I learned to watch her hands—
how they shook after bloodwork,
how they steadied when she braided my hair anyway.
I learned to memorize the rhythm of her breath,
so I could sense the shifts,
the nights her body betrayed her more than usual.
I hated the word “chronic.”
It means forever.
But not in the romantic way.
Not like a love story.
Like a sentence.
Like something you survive instead of live.
She tried to protect me from it.
But I saw.
I saw how she rearranged her pain behind a smile.
How she rationed her energy to make dinner,
even if it meant lying down halfway through.
I saw how strong she was.
Not the kind they write about in books,
but the kind that gets up
after falling apart
in a a hospital bed
quiet but intense on
her own.
Being her daughter means walking beside her,
but never fully understanding what her body feels like
from the inside.
It means Googling treatments at 2am and
Asking doctors the questions she was too tired to form.
It means feeling rage at a disease
you can’t punch,
can’t bargain with,
can’t scream at until it backs down.
But it also means knowing love differently.
Not the easy kind.
Not just the birthday cake kind.
But the holding her hand in waiting rooms kind.
The learning to administer meds kind.
The reading her silence kind.
The sitting with fear kind.
She is still my mother.
And I, still her daughter.
But illness taught us a new language.
One made of glances,
and touch,
and an ache I carry in my own body
even when I feel fine.
She was fighting something I cannot see.
But I see her.
And I will not look away.
May 13, 2025
May 13, 2025 at 9:04 PM UTC
my house is not my home
until those who I adore
fill the space I so genuinely
despise when it is
empty
just as a body may exist
to be a home for paradoxical
heartbeats - human and souls perhaps -
as they coexist to mold experience
all locked up in memories
a time capsule of individuality
a genuine tribute to wisdom as we grow
all unique and beautiful
but most importantly a memoir of the most subtle happenstances
the perfect collage
my body exists in my house
but it does not live until human experiences
all locked up collide together
they make it home
we say “its the little things”
dents in hardwood, a broken door hinge
(youll fix it one day)
they make the space less expensive
the collage more understandable
less extravagant, more extraordinary
I hope and I pray that when my eyes wearily
open on a Tuesday morning
and I pull at my hair while looking in the
mirror
that I can recreate the feeling of wholeness
one day of a true home for myself
that is not simply physical
I will forever laugh at the mess
I will be honored to clean it up
how lucky am I to have something so
beautiful because
at the end of the day
we are all just
walking
each
other
home
Oct 13, 2024
Oct 13, 2024 at 9:24 PM UTC
I don’t think I stayed so long
because I was afraid of hurt
I think I stayed so long
because deep down I know
that I had lost myself
to him
and facing the truth
about leaving
with a shell of my soul
that I had to repair myself
was harder than
saying goodbye
Jun 14, 2024
Jun 14, 2024 at 5:46 PM UTC