_Step in—_
my mind is an ocean
__not blue—__but a bleeding __iridescence__
of _molten violets_, rusted golds,
and bruised, unraveling ceruleans—
a palette spilled by a god having a dream.
You’ll see thoughts float here
like __jellyfish lanterns,__
soft, slow—laced in venom or velvet—
depending on how you look.
The sky never ends in here.
It folds like __cracked parchment,__
stretched over the aching arch
of my imagination’s bones.
There are trees made of __bone-white whispers__
and flowers with _petals like flame-licked lace._
They bloom to the rhythm
of my __pulse when I’m panicking,__
and wilt under the weight
_of a silence I can’t swallow._
There’s a path—
etched in the _ink of dreams I didn’t chase—_
it winds through forests of
__regret-shaped branches__
that scratch and __caress all at once.__
If you look to the left—
you’ll see a lake
_made of every word I’ve never said._
It shimmers,
but only under the moon
of someone else’s approval.
Birds here don’t fly,
they unravel.
Each feather a __fractured metaphor,__
each call a __dirge sewn with sunlight.__
I hide in corners lit by memory—
__a field of crooked constellations,__
each one a version of me
you’ll never meet,
but will __almost__ understand.
If you stay too long,
_you’ll forget your name,_
start to speak in echoes,
__and dream in static.__
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe that’s the way
to really see me.
Apr 29, 2025
Apr 29, 2025 at 3:26 AM UTC
_Step in—_
my mind is an ocean
__not blue—__but a bleeding __iridescence__
of _molten violets_, rusted golds,
and bruised, unraveling ceruleans—
a palette spilled by a god having a dream.
You’ll see thoughts float here
like __jellyfish lanterns,__
soft, slow—laced in venom or velvet—
depending on how you look.
The sky never ends in here.
It folds like __cracked parchment,__
stretched over the aching arch
of my imagination’s bones.
There are trees made of __bone-white whispers__
and flowers with _petals like flame-licked lace._
They bloom to the rhythm
of my __pulse when I’m panicking,__
and wilt under the weight
_of a silence I can’t swallow._
There’s a path—
etched in the _ink of dreams I didn’t chase—_
it winds through forests of
__regret-shaped branches__
that scratch and __caress all at once.__
If you look to the left—
you’ll see a lake
_made of every word I’ve never said._
It shimmers,
but only under the moon
of someone else’s approval.
Birds here don’t fly,
they unravel.
Each feather a __fractured metaphor,__
each call a __dirge sewn with sunlight.__
I hide in corners lit by memory—
__a field of crooked constellations,__
each one a version of me
you’ll never meet,
but will __almost__ understand.
If you stay too long,
_you’ll forget your name,_
start to speak in echoes,
__and dream in static.__
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe that’s the way
to really see me.
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