There’s a storm
in the shape of you—
it never passes.
Just circles,
soft thunder
aching behind my ribs.

Your name
is a splinter
caught between
midnight and memory,
where I still wait
for a version of you
that didn’t leave.

I was a kaleidoscope—
full of color,
shifting, honest.
But you wanted a mirror
that only showed
what you already knew.

So you left.
And you took the light with you.
Like love was something
you could unsee
once it stopped fitting
your reflection.

Now I spill
into hollow spaces
where even my own voice
doesn’t come back.

I miss you
in the worst way—
like a song
you made me ashamed to sing,
but I still hum it
in the dark,
soft and broken,
like I’m apologizing
for existing.

You called me disgusting for being myself.
I didn’t argue — just swallowed the hurt.
Now I lie awake missing the way
you used to hold me like I was whole.

Kniven blänker i nattens sken,
en lockande klar, ett dolt problem.
Handen darrar, hjärtat slår,
jag vill, jag vågar, men tvekan slår.

Bladet nuddar, en iskall kyss,
ett andetag djupt, en känsla som brists.
Jag släpper taget, låter det gå,
nära, så nära, men ändå stå.

English
The knife gleams in the night light,
an alluring clear, a hidden problem.
The hand trembles, the heart beats,
I want, I dare, but hesitation strikes.

The blade touches, an icy kiss,
a deep breath, a feeling that bursts.
I let go, let it go,
close, so close, but still standing.

The truth is,
there´s no one like you.

You´re the one who gets me --
really gets me.
You´re funny as hell,
and somehow always know how to make me laugh
when I didn´t even want to.

You teach me things about life
without making it a big deal.
You help beacuse you want to.
Beacuse that´s who you are.

You´ve always been there.
Always trying.
Always showing up.
And you still call me your little girl
like that part of me never changed.

I´ve loved a lot of people in different ways.
But no one comes close to the way I love you.

You´re not just my dad --
you´re my favorite person.

*****
I am a *****
Now I know
Finally I know
A *****
I am a *****

Is this real?
Or am I just a puppet,
strings pulled tight by hands I can’t see,
dancing in a play I didn’t write,
where the applause is silence,
and the curtain never falls.

I feel my skin—raw and soft—
but it might as well be paper.
Thin. Fragile.
I could tear myself open
and still not find what’s real inside.

The world moves in slow motion,
a ghost-town carnival spinning
rusted rides and faded lights.
I see faces, but they blur,
like smudged charcoal,
like something smeared
before the artist gave up.

I hear laughter.
It cuts, jagged and wrong,
like knives scraping bone,
like a sound that forgot
what it was supposed to mean.

This can’t be real.
How could it be,
when my feet feel heavy,
like I’m sinking through the ground?
When my breath turns to smoke,
when my shadow whispers secrets
I’m too afraid to hear?

Sometimes, I swear the walls are watching.
Sometimes, I think they’re laughing.
Sometimes, I hope they’ll swallow me whole,
because at least then,
I wouldn’t have to ask—
what’s real?

Tell me,
if I rip this world apart,
will it bleed?
If I claw at the seams,
will I find the truth,
or just another lie sewn tight?

I’m tired.
So tired of this half-life,
of waking up in a dream
that feels more like a nightmare.
If this is reality,
it’s a cruel one.
If it’s not—
don’t wake me.

Let me drift into the dark,
because maybe the nothing
is more honest
than this.
s.t.