Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
poetriesgravePoems
I am a house that keeps its lights on for strangers who arrive with empty hands and leave with my silverware rattling in their pockets. They say I am warm. They say I am easy. They say thank you with mouths still full. There is a feral torque in my chest, a splintered heat, a howling corrosion that never cools— only learns new shapes. I have been a bridge with ribs showing. A gas station at midnight. A wallet mistaken for a heart. A body translated into currency. They borrow me. They spend me. They discard the receipt. I try kindness like a spell, try softness like a shield, try love like a language everyone pretends not to understand. Still— I am passed hand to hand like loose change. There is rage in me now, not loud— dense. Molten. Salt-thick. It sits behind my eyes like a storm rehearsing its own name. I am overstimulated— the world scraping its teeth against my nerves, every sound too sharp, every touch a demand, every silence a verdict. I tell myself you’re fine the way you tell a bleeding thing to stay still. I am not pushing anyone away. The ground is moving. The doors are narrowing. The air is rationed. I keep escaping fires only to fall into furnaces. Over and over and over— my hurt multiplying like mirrors. I am disappointed in fate. I am dissatisfied with mercy. I am angry in a way that feels earned. Still— I do not want to be alone. I want someone who does not mistake my gentleness for permission. I am scared. Yes. But my fear has teeth now, and it is learning how to bite back.
0
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 2:53 AM UTC
A Mouthful of Matchsticks
I am a house that keeps its lights on for strangers who arrive with empty hands and leave with my silverware rattling in their pockets. They say I am warm. They say I am easy. They say thank you with mouths still full. There is a feral torque in my chest, a splintered heat, a howling corrosion that never cools— only learns new shapes. I have been a bridge with ribs showing. A gas station at midnight. A wallet mistaken for a heart. A body translated into currency. They borrow me. They spend me. They discard the receipt. I try kindness like a spell, try softness like a shield, try love like a language everyone pretends not to understand. Still— I am passed hand to hand like loose change. There is rage in me now, not loud— dense. Molten. Salt-thick. It sits behind my eyes like a storm rehearsing its own name. I am overstimulated— the world scraping its teeth against my nerves, every sound too sharp, every touch a demand, every silence a verdict. I tell myself you’re fine the way you tell a bleeding thing to stay still. I am not pushing anyone away. The ground is moving. The doors are narrowing. The air is rationed. I keep escaping fires only to fall into furnaces. Over and over and over— my hurt multiplying like mirrors. I am disappointed in fate. I am dissatisfied with mercy. I am angry in a way that feels earned. Still— I do not want to be alone. I want someone who does not mistake my gentleness for permission. I am scared. Yes. But my fear has teeth now, and it is learning how to bite back.
#rage#hurt#used#fracture#burn
poetriesgrave
Written by
poetriesgrave
19/F
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 2:53 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem