My body is a locked display

In a museum no one walks through.

Glass walls, warnings not to touch—

No map, no key, no clue.

My voice is a candle in a wind tunnel,
Flickering, fighting to stay lit.

Even when I bleed in metaphors,

They call it "just teenage ****."

I don’t wear scars like stories,

I hide them like shameful art—

Little tally marks of silence

Etched deep into my skin and heart.

I’m not broken—I’m unfinished.

A sketch left out in the rain.

Dripping lines and missing pieces,

A name forgotten, a frame of pain.

No mother here—just a woman

Who counts my failures with her eyes.
Sharp tongue, cold hands, fake smiles,
Every “what’s wrong with you?” a knife.

My dad?
He's a ghost with a phone.

Scrolls past birthdays like spam.

He only shows up in my nightmares,

And even there, he never gives a ****.

I eat dinner with silence.

Sleep under a roof but not a home.

The walls here echo insults,

And still I face it all alone.

I laugh in the right places,

Say “I’m just tired”like a chant.

But my wrists hum when the house goes quiet,

And I dream of “no more” when I can’t.

No one checks the corners

Where I fold myself at night.

They just praise me for being quiet,

For staying out of sight.

I don’t cry—I leak slowly,

Like a pipe left to rust and split.

This isn’t sadness, it’s erosion.

And I’m disappearing bit by bit.

We don't fight
With fists or guns
But with words;
Ideas, ideals and puns.

I don’t know, maybe it’s the coffee—
Black as the night, strong as a decision
I can’t take back,
But I always add too much sugar,
And it never tastes right.

Or maybe it’s the way the sun hits my face
In the morning,
Like it’s trying to wake me up
When I don’t want to be woken,
Like it’s pushing me toward something
I’m not ready for.
I could stay in bed forever,
Pretend the world’s not spinning,
But the coffee's still too hot to hold.

Have you ever really listened to heavy metal?
Not the fake stuff,
But the kind that rips through your bones,
Makes your veins pulse with something
That feels like rage—
Or is it just the chaos in me,
The beat of a drum
That’s louder than my heart?
I get lost in it,
Like I get lost in my own head
Sometimes,
When I don’t know if I’m screaming
Or just thinking too loud.
Maybe the music’s the only thing
That makes sense anymore.

But then again,
I start thinking about how
All this stuff—coffee, music, sunshine—
It’s all a distraction, right?
Just a way to keep me from looking
At the cracks in my mind,
The ones that seem to grow
When I’m not paying attention.
It’s like I’m trying to outrun myself
With cups of caffeine and guitar riffs
And pretending I’m okay
When I’m anything but.

I keep saying I’ll stop—
Stop the overthinking, the spiraling,
The chaos I can’t shake.
But the truth is,
I don’t know how to stop falling.
Maybe it’s easier to keep crumbling,
To let the pieces scatter like broken glass,
To fall apart slowly enough
That no one notices until it’s too late.

And maybe that's all I’ll ever be—
A string of distractions,
A girl lost in her own mess,
Until the last bit of me
Finally falls away
And no one even knows
I was here at all.

He said,
“One day I just said **** it.”
Like that. Just like that.
Quit his job, sold his stuff, bought a van—
and now it’s him and Wolfie,
his pointy-eared pup,
somewhere between red dirt and blue sky
on a road that doesn’t ask for permission.

I found him on some random forum
— not even supposed to be there —
we talked tonight,
he told me things like I wasn’t just
a name with no face.
He told me about the sunsets he never planned to see,
how they sneak up on him like a song
that makes you stop walking,
how the sky melts into colours
too good for photos.
And Wolfie,
perched besides him, alert and calm,
ears slicing the wind
like she was born for freedom.

He said he did everything he was told to do.
Uni. Job. Money. Success.
People clapped. He felt nothing.
So he left.
No map, just vibes and Spotify.

And here I am.
crammed into a plastic desk,
under buzzing lights
learning about wars
I’ll never fight
in clothes that aren’t me
surrounded by people
who talk but never say anything real.

I told him I’m 15 and tired all the time.
He said,
“That’s heavy for 15.”
I said
“It’s heavier when no one notices.”
He said
“Hold on. You won’t always be stuck.”

And maybe it’s weird,
but I keep thinking about his van
under that endless sky,
Wolfie with ears like tiny sails
chasing ghosts across sunburnt sand,
and him—
choosing beauty on purpose.
And I pretend I’m not
this ghost in a uniform
but her—
the girl who said **** it
and meant it.

Maybe one day,
when the world stops demanding hall passes,
I’ll do it too.
Maybe I’ll find my own road
and a dog like Wolfie
and a van
and a sky that doesn’t judge me
for wanting to disappear
into something more.

he looks through me like smoke or glass,
like i’m the shadow of someone who passed.
his love's a myth i read too young,
now every word burns on my tongue.

she’s not my mom, just plays the part,
smiles too sharp to hide her heart.
they talk like i’m some distant chore,
i leave my pain at my bedroom door—
where i learn what silence is really for.