I walk into rooms with a shadow behind. Not cast by the light, but born in my mind.
A smile on my face, rehearsed, and precise.. yet, somehow, I fractured the warmth into ice.
They laughed, then it slows, then silence descends like I’ve bent the air out of shape once again. It’s not what I say or maybe it is – just something about me that sinks all the bliss. The joy was so loud before I appeared.now the moment is quieter, haunted, and weird.
They shift in their seats. They look to the door. I wonder what damage I’ve done this time more. Why do I do this? God, I don’t know. I reach out for closeness, then watch it let go.
It’s a pattern, a rhythm, a cruel little loop. I bring in my storm, then retreat from the group.
I loathe this part of me, bitter and tight… The way I extinguish the candles of night. I don’t want to be this; this echo, this end. but shame is a hunter that wears my own skin. And the more that I fight it, the louder it gets in.
And I note the growth of self-loathing for the hurt I impose. But maybe, I hope, there’s more to this pain… than being just the cloud, the darkness, the rain.
Maybe the party was never quite whole, and I’m just a mirror too cracked to console. Still I stay, I wait, try not to fall. Though some days, I vanished inside it all. And even if healing is slow and unsure, I’ll keep showing up… Just a little bit more mature.
Mar 27
Mar 27, 2026 at 3:10 PM UTC
I walk into rooms with a shadow behind. Not cast by the light, but born in my mind.
A smile on my face, rehearsed, and precise.. yet, somehow, I fractured the warmth into ice.
They laughed, then it slows, then silence descends like I’ve bent the air out of shape once again. It’s not what I say or maybe it is – just something about me that sinks all the bliss. The joy was so loud before I appeared.now the moment is quieter, haunted, and weird.
They shift in their seats. They look to the door. I wonder what damage I’ve done this time more. Why do I do this? God, I don’t know. I reach out for closeness, then watch it let go.
It’s a pattern, a rhythm, a cruel little loop. I bring in my storm, then retreat from the group.
I loathe this part of me, bitter and tight… The way I extinguish the candles of night. I don’t want to be this; this echo, this end. but shame is a hunter that wears my own skin. And the more that I fight it, the louder it gets in.
And I note the growth of self-loathing for the hurt I impose. But maybe, I hope, there’s more to this pain… than being just the cloud, the darkness, the rain.
Maybe the party was never quite whole, and I’m just a mirror too cracked to console. Still I stay, I wait, try not to fall. Though some days, I vanished inside it all. And even if healing is slow and unsure, I’ll keep showing up… Just a little bit more mature.
