I’ve been thinking about Love.
Not the kind etched into marble
or pressed between the pages
of something classical and preserved—
but the kind that breathes—
wet, feral, unfinished.
The kind that has always existed
long before language tried to cage it
in sonnets and scripture,
in myths where gods split themselves open
just to feel less alone.
(It never worked.)
Because love was never meant to be contained—
only felt
in the fragile, fleeting moments
where something inside the body
dares to soften
despite knowing better.
And maybe
that is where it begins…
—
They say love is soft.
And it is—
the slow drag of fingertips
across the back of a hand
that forgot it deserves gentleness,
the hush between heartbeats
when something inside you decides,
against all prior evidence,
to stay.
It is breath shared in quiet rooms,
warmth pooling in the hollows of collarbones,
a body learning—hesitantly—
that not every touch
is a precursor to ruin.
—
But love is also teeth.
Not metaphorical,
not poetic exaggeration,
but something that bites down
on the most tender parts of you
and calls it devotion.
It is the splitting of skin
under the pressure of wanting too much,
the ache of being seen
past the point of comfort
into the marrow
you tried to keep hidden.
Love does not knock.
It seeps,
it floods,
it drags its soaked hem
through the corridors of your mind
and leaves mildew
and flowers alike
in places you swore were airtight.
—
History worships it.
Builds monuments out of it.
Writes epics where it conquers death,
where it turns men into legends
and women into cautionary tales.
We carve it into stone
like permanence will make it safer.
(It doesn’t.)
Because love has always been
as much a weapon
as it is a sanctuary.
—
There are those who cradle it—
hold it like a fragile animal,
feed it tenderness,
teach it to trust.
And there are those
who learn it as survival…
who call the sharpness familiar,
who mistake the bleeding
for proof of depth.
I have known both.
I have been both.
—
There is something wrong
with the way love lives in me.
It does not bloom—
it fractures.
It grows in the spaces
where damage has already made room,
threads itself through old wounds,
and calls that home.
I have reached for it
with hands that only know
how to brace for impact,
and wondered why
it recoils.
—
Self-love, they say…
as if the body does not remember
every time it was turned against itself.
As if the mirror is not a battlefield.
As if I have not stood there
trying to reconcile
the person who wants to be held
with the one
who cannot loosen her own grip
from her throat.
And there is that quiet, persistent fitching—
threaded somewhere behind the sternum,
a low, restless hum
insisting there is more of me
I have not yet survived into.
How do you soften
toward something
you were taught to survive?
How do you pour tenderness inward
when the vessel leaks
through every crack
someone else carved?
—
And still, love persists.
In the smallest, most defiant ways—
in the decision to stay one more night.
In the quiet forgiveness
that slips in unnoticed,
like fog through an open window.
In the body, despite everything,
continuing to reach
for warmth,
for connection,
for something
that does not immediately undo it.
—
Love is a contradiction
that refuses resolution,
a force that builds and destroys
with the same careful hands.
It will cradle your face
and split you open
in the same motion.
It will teach you
how to be held,
and then ask
if you can survive
being seen.
—
And I stand at the edge of it—
again and again,
hands trembling,
mouth full of all the reasons
to turn away,
and still…
still,
I ache to step inside.
I push in
like shadows unfurling in the moonlight.
I want the warmth—
the kind passed from mother to child,
lover to beloved.
I want the golden light of it
to pierce through my internal wreckage
and fall—
like sun on a lone flower
tearing through concrete,
petals trembling,
yet defiant.
Mar 25
Mar 25, 2026 at 5:59 PM UTC
Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.
She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.
Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.
A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.
Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.
Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That **** mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”
The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
*So it finally happened
I saw it coming long ago,
So I utterly snapped
And the fall came to a stop.
My glass heart broke
Into a thousand shards and pieces,
Not to be put together again
Not while its spark of light it misses.
And so I felt it:
The apprehension of my chest, the silent horror screams,
Everything going dark, and my transparent despair tears.
Nothing novel here of course
The common fate of things delicate,
Left unguarded and exposed
In this night so desolate.
And there is nothing left to burn
Nothing now inside remains,
Only ashes black and white
That for a while will not ignite,
And the void inside my chest
That ***** life and light and flesh.
None of this her fault is
All the blame is on me,
I plunged into love's abyss
Enchanted by its melody.
Perhaps that's what hurts the most
Having no one else to blame,
I can't escape my dreamy coast
And must endure alone the shame.
So my heart broke today
And I had no one there to hold,
So shall I wander astray
And for a while be alone.*
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 11:47 PM UTC
She looks at him with loving eyes he seems to never see,
He looks at someone else with the utmost passion, but she can never let him be.
Behind her is someone that can show her truth, can make her happy, make sure her smile shines,
But she never seems to notice him, she can never read between the lines.
It's sad how even he doesn't notice the girl waiting for him in the back,
It breaks my heart knowing they only see the world in white and black.
Open your eyes to all the possibilities,
Ignorance is never bliss.
Fight for what you want, or come here, listen to this:
Turn around and look at them.
This is someone you don't want to dismiss.
If you're too afraid of going after what you want, you don't deserve it.
Get up and try, or else you will never receive, if that person is so special stop obsessing and believe.
This endless cycle must come to an end,
This endless cycle, so crazy I can't comprehend
This endless cycle, something that pains me to have to write of,
This endless cycle, widely known as the case of wasted love.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 11:44 PM UTC
Darling stay out of my war.
Continue believing I have a heart of ice.
Do not turn at the glimpses of warmth and wholeness you may stumble upon.
Darling stay out of my war.
Do not question what is behind the walls.
Stay satisfied with the flowering fields I have created for you.
Darling stay out of my war.
For as strong and fierce as my love is–
it is only aiding to make the darkness hurt more.
Darling stay out of my war.
I have lost myself to it far too long ago.
To become a ghost was the only way
to stop the whirling blades from taking my life.
Darling stay out of my war.
Stay on the outside.
Do not let me break you; in your desire to love me.
Darling,
Stay thinking I am helpless and cold.
Stay on the outside.
Darling please,
I beg you–
Stay out of my war...
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
There are two types of the word "crush-able". The first is the type that people would easily have a crush on. They got it all: the looks, intelligence, talent, humor, everything. It's hard to not fall for them the minute you lay eyes on them. You're attracted to them like a magnet. The second is the type that's easily crushed. Constantly getting hurt by the people around them, especially the ones they like or admire. They've gone through it all: getting rejected, ignored, pushed aside, not even second best, just..not a choice. Again and again and again. No surprise, I'm the latter.
I'm not the type of girl that people would crush on. I'm always the good friend. That's okay. I'll accept that. But it's always until there. That's the farthest I'll ever go with anyone. No matter how close we are, no matter how much we click; I've never been the special kind of person that they want to take to the next level. Maybe just foolishly flirting here and there, but they never take me seriously. No, I'm just their best friend.
The one who picks up the pieces when no one does, the one who sits quietly by your side when you're crying, the one who listens when you go on and on about this fantastic person you're drooling over, the one who eats with you when you don't feel like being in a large crowd cause you don't think you look your best but being with me is okay cause "Hey, you're my buddy. It's alright." Yeah I'm that girl. Always there for you, covering up your lies, tell you what's the homework you missed when you skipped class, getting text after text of "Can you do me a favor?.. Great, I owe you one. You're the best!"
It seems like I'm cursed to be everyone's friend. Again, it's not a bad thing. I just wish, for once, I'm the first type of crush-able. I wish someone would look at me like I put the stars in the sky and I make the waves crash on the sand. That I invented beauty with brains. I just wish someone would think highly of me the way I keep thinking of the people in my life. Of loving me the way I've loved my crushes before. And doing so sincerely. Not because I keep complaining, but because they genuinely love me for me.
-m.b
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 8:46 AM UTC
01:52 am
have you ever asked yourself like why you so lonely?
01:53 am
or empty?
that maybe you give too much of your essence to people and never leave any of you for yourself
01:55 am
i know i do
02:05 am
and like that's maybe why i get so attached to humans
*because in them,
i find myself*
02:07 am
i need to change, because things shouldn't be this way
02:10 am
but it's hard sometimes you know, when most days you don't leave the house because you feel unworthy of the space you take up
02:16 am
so you'd much rather disintegrate into soil because you've become all too familiar with people stepping over you and admiring the outcome of your beauty but never the roots of your pain
02:19 am
i spend so much effort watering people in order for them to grow and hardly get enough sun shine to feed my own soul
02:25 am
because i don't know how to do anything else but care for everyone but myself
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 1:50 AM UTC
i sometimes wonder why you still visit my mood swings,
left in abandoned playgrounds between my chest.
why you still visit even though the slides may only carry you down to somebody like me.
somebody difficult to love,
somebody who cannot tell the difference between crying and laughing anymore.
why you haven't left this soul,
who's bones can't seem to find enough strength to push my side of the sea saw,
who can't seem to move past three poles on the monkey bar,
simply because of the weight on top of my shoulders.
this flesh of complete brokeness that couldn't bare ringa ring rosie,
because at some point one gets tired of always falling.
i often wonder, why me.
why me, with all my chipped paint and countless dents.
why you still visit,
when this isn't the grass on other side that's greener.
because God knows,
i'd understand if you look for a park elsewhere.
a park worthy of you.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC
**SHE HAD HEARD TOO MANY TIMES
OF HOW SHE SHOULD LIVE IN THE
MOMENT.
WHEN IN FACT,
NOBODY COULD TAKE ENOUGH STEPS
BACK TO SEE THAT SHE WAS DEAD
INSIDE.**
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 1:46 AM UTC