I became a shell of myself
and spent the rest of my life
finding makeshift homes
in everyone else.
Life as I knew it ended
When I turned 10
When the kids at school decided
I was too much for them
Always excluded, never invited
Always made to feel like the problem
But instead of waiting for them
To welcome me and open the door
I'd bust it down, stage a break-in
Because all I wanted was to feel cared for
But I'd get backed into corners
Shrinking myself for them to fit
I looked in a mirror and asked myself
Would I rather be unwanted
Or suffocated
Then I was 18 and in love
Rather, fighting to be loved
I remember all the hoops I'd jump
Days without his replies
Loud love for his friends
Near-silence about me online
It all piled up like attic boxes
Gathering dust, never to be pulled out
It's never fun being the afterthought
All the things we'd sweep
Under the rug
But fighting for his attention
Became my favorite drug
I'd watch him with his loved ones
How he'd make time for and dine with them
I'd lay the table, cook his favorite
He'd show up, but it was never consistent
I observed his close girl friends
I'd look in the mirror, furnish myself, redecorate
Thinking I'd lose him
To something they had, that I didn't
I overstayed my welcome before I knew it
I packed my things, gathered my courage
We called it quits, I found the keys and bolted
Then I turned 23
Lost someone I thought
would be a forever friend
But then I'd remember
The days I'd spend
walking on eggshells
whenever we disagreed
I'd polish plates and clean corners
To keep them appeased
That whenever tensions eased
And shouting hushed to silence
I'd pray that it'd last for more than a week
But all resentment did was breed distance
I was obsessed with winning their favor
Time spent dusting surfaces, fixing chairs
I'd look in the mirror
It wasn't my face staring back, but theirs
Coming out of it I realized
How much life have I spent
Shrinking myself
To fit someone's mold
Making space for them
Without holding my own?
I'm 26 now
I've spent my whole life
making homes out of everyone else
Today, I chose to come home to myself
Am I crawling into my own shell
Or finally coming out of it?
I unlock the door
I dust off the mirror
There's a girl staring back
But I don't recognize her
Not anymore
Welcome home
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 11:51 AM UTC
i became a shell of my former self
and spent the rest of my life
finding makeshift homes
in everything else.
Dec 14, 2023
Dec 14, 2023 at 2:13 PM UTC
Mia and Sebastian used to think the stars that danced with them formed an alignment.
But they didn’t.
Maybe they were too lost in each other’s eyes to consider their love was a lost cause.
Maybe they mistook the lights in each other’s eyes for stars that aligned.
Maybe their lights were too blinding for the two to see how scattered they truly were.
I thought you were a moon in my orbit.
But you weren't.
You were more of a satellite;
Hovering around me, only to pass another one by
Sometimes paying me a visit every once in a while
But more often than "hello", you'd say "goodbye"
So to the stars in my night sky that looked closer than they were to my naked eyes:
Before our lines diverge from their intersecting points;
Before strings of emojis and late-night text frenzies turn into “Hey” and “K”;
Before greetings of lit-up eyes and airport hugs in the mall shy into shrinking back and awkward waves;
Before our knots unravel and our threads fray;
I loved you, and I always will, even if you couldn’t stay.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:01 PM UTC
Hey, Siri. Take a note.
Take a note for every time I make a new document to write a paper for class, only for you to power down in 2 paragraphs, because I've observed your patterns and my studies show that I can't depend on you. You crest and trough in intervals so irregular that if someone were to trace your path, from 79 percent, to 58, to 31 and 79 all over again, they'd be able to outline the Sierra Madre.
Take a note for every time you black out like the lights in a house of a horror movie, as dread like waiting for a spirit beyond the door overcomes me, because you know what -- forget the jumpscare, your sudden death already caught me unawares.
Take a note for every time my heart stops over a powerbank left at home, because not even halfway through my Grab trip, you're full, half full, all gone.
Take a note for every time you register a full green bar one minute, only to drop to 15% in two, because I'll have you know, I'm through.
Take note - I'm disappointed in you.
You make my face light up one second, only to dim into a faint red glow the next.
You've proven yourself unreliable; how can I call you my friend?
You're my heart's ultimate puppeteer, second to none,
You get me charged up only to drain me of the color in my face like the green in the corner, full, half empty, all gone.
**** I could toss you aside, falling to my knees,
Watch your screen crack, shatter, cave in
As its glass shards fly and pierce my skin
Ripping my chest to shreds as my heart takes a piece, but that can't be,
because you tore it apart when you powered down on me!
You're the reason I think the glass is half empty, and I… am empty.
I stare into the void of my dead phone screen -- black. Low battery.
I see wrinkles creasing through my forehead, the bags beneath my eyes,
I see dilated orbs drained of any vigor, any life.
I see my reflection on this black mirror, devoid of any expression whatsoever.
No curves lifting the sides of my lips, no pink flushing both my cheeks, just me, soulless.
I'm empty. It's funny. Through you, I see a girl
who crests and troughs at intervals so irregular,
Who's traced the outline of the Sierra Madre on herself,
Who cracks quicker than glass once she's fallen to her lowest
Who realizes that maybe she's been too hard on you, that maybe she should take a look at herself before she opens her mouth,
before she cracks, shatters, caves in,
glass shards flying, spreading thin.
I stare down at your screen's shards across the floor,
I realize how I can't put you back together, not anymore.
I'm very sorry. I have no words.
I guess you can say… I'm full, half empty, all gone.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 7:56 PM UTC
and how
can you stay
in your own lane
when you
know they too
vie for first place?
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 1:52 AM UTC
She’s beauty, she’s grace.
With blood in her veins and heat circulating through her frame,
You could compare her to a furnace.
Carrying energy throughout her body and distributing it evenly where it’s needed.
It’s the pressure, the turbulence, the years of experience that molds and forges her heart into the form it takes.
Her heart is made of ceramic, shaped into a wide-mouthed or funnel-enclosed hollow and glazed with painted flowers, or abstract patterns, or tales of wars and legends featuring holy beings and storybook beasts.
Her heart is the fortune of archaeologists and antiquarians alike, the field of study of historians, the apple of poets’ eyes. They seek to wipe every speck of dust that obscures every stroke, every detail, every scar and fracture they seek to decode.
Because as beautiful as ceramic can be, it is brittle and delicate and easily fractures as hearts do. Because if there’s one thing ceramic and hearts have in common, they can only withstand a certain amount of stress for so long.
Because every scar tells a story. No visible fracture can be just a fantasy.
A scratch from heartbreak, a mark from rejection, a line from quarrel. A scar from unrequited love, a scar from a failed test mark, a scar from falling over while biking. A breakage from inner demons.
We are the same. We suffer the same.
Yet the painted flowers, the abstract patterns, the murals telling tales of wars and legends featuring holy beings and storybook beasts, they all elude us, because we’re inclined to focus on the debris before us.
We’d rather walk around the debris, walk over the debris, avoid touching the debris when we’re well within our ability to repair and mend the debris.
Gold for recovery, silver for hope, platinum to mend her broken pieces.
Gold to crown her a winner, to declare her triumph.
Silver to ease her troubled mind, to give her hope anew.
Platinum to strengthen her, to enlighten her, to remind her that she can rise up again.
Golden joinery, or kintsugi, as the Japanese call it — it’s the art of repairing broken pottery with gold, or silver, or platinum, holding its fragments together by a tight bond. It’s meant to treat breakage and repair as part of the history of the object, rather than something to disguise.
She’s beauty, she’s grace.
Her heart is made of ceramic — and gold and silver and platinum intertwined, a story of heartbreak, rejection, and quarrel conquered by recovery, hope, and strength, and proof that she is more than her heartbreak, her rejection, her storms and trials and tribulations.
She is, quite literally, the cloud with a silver lining.
Her heart is art.
But it need not be displayed in a museum case, or in an antique shop window, or a gallery chamber.
Because she, in all of her beauty and grace, she is the museum case, the antique shop window, the gallery chamber.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
they say
to love
would be
an illogical
pursuit,
but loving
you, my dear,
is the most
logical thing
i'd ever do.
-e.a.
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 7:34 AM UTC
You.
You were my shelter in the middle of my storm,
my shoulder to cry on when all felt forlorn.
I drew my strength from your love's warmth
But all that's past and alive no more.
You.
You’re a math expression with no solution,
an ingredient in the recipe of my confusion.
To my desperate pleas, you answered vaguely;
I just wanted to know how you’ve been doing lately,
after our love, after our loss.
after experiences we never thought would become fleeting memories
of a bond we hoped would last for centuries,
after long, late nights up spent envisioning a future with you and me,
of writing a book's last chapter that would end happily.
after broken promises that broke both our hearts.
Although words may break my heart
and sticks and stones may break my bones,
betrayal by someone who felt like home
makes me question myself and crushes my soul.
I thought I was your best friend, your dream girl, your ride-or-die,
but after you met her, that no longer mattered and you bade me goodbye,
while gravity gained on the tears that began to stream from my eyes,
nearly a year and a half of love cut short by the devil in disguise.
They say grief is a linear five-stage process,
which involves denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance,
but grief over him for me was a convoluted, confusing hodgepodge that muddled up all those feelings together.
Grief was denial over him loving me and leaving me all at once.
Grief was rage triggered by this sudden betrayal and loss of trust, by making out his love to be a lie,
by all my effort put into loving him unconditionally going down the drain in the blink of an eye.
Grief was wrestling between giving him liberty to fool around
and bargaining to salvage and kindle the embers of the fire
that once burned between us that could be redeemed.
Grief was depression over being taking for granted, depression over promises never kept,
depression over words that I fell for that broke my heart in the end.
Grief was struggling to accept the aftermath of it all, no matter how huge a hole it left in my heart.
Grief was accepting his departure one second, then reminiscing about the love we used to share and bargaining for it back.
Grief was struggling to be happy again, then remembering how he broke my heart and feeling either vexed or sad or both emotions at once.
Grief was loving him in the wake of my loss.
But grief wasn’t going to sting as much as it would if I had attached my self-worth onto the relationship. I already knew what love was before I met him.
I've found love in being saved by the blood of my Savior,
I've found love in friends and family who’ve seen me at my worst and chose to stay,
I've found love in education and learning more about the world around me outside of the classroom,
I've found love in my craft,
I've found love in other people's craft,
I've found love in many places where he isn't.
I will be fine.
I’ve found that love is not selfish; love is giving.
Love meant putting the needs of others before its own.
If one can’t understand that,
then they weren’t ready to commit themselves to a serious relationship with anyone,
nor can they maintain healthy, cordial relationships with other people in their life.
I already knew what love was before I met him; I just don’t
understand why people have such a hard time reciprocating it.
I thought he was my red string of fate.
I guess my eyes simply weren’t adjusted correctly to the light.
-a.l.
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 7:20 AM UTC