Sometimes I feel like a koala with a heartbeat too loud for its small body—
clinging not because I’m weak,
but because the world trembles beneath me
in ways I never learned to stand against alone.
I hold on the way koalas do,
with quiet desperation
wrapped in something gentle,
something that looks like tenderness
but is really the fear of losing
the one branch that feels like safety.
There’s a softness in me that aches—
a longing to anchor my storms
against someone steady.
And when I cling, it’s because
you feel like warmth in a cold forest,
like the one place I don’t have to pretend
I’m not terrified of falling.
So yes, I’m clingy—
but only the way a koala is:
arms around what matters,
eyes closed,
trusting that I won’t be shaken loose.
It’s not neediness.
It’s hope—
raw and trembling,
holding on.
Nov 16, 2025
Nov 16, 2025 at 9:12 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel like a koala with a heartbeat too loud for its small body—
clinging not because I’m weak,
but because the world trembles beneath me
in ways I never learned to stand against alone.
I hold on the way koalas do,
with quiet desperation
wrapped in something gentle,
something that looks like tenderness
but is really the fear of losing
the one branch that feels like safety.
There’s a softness in me that aches—
a longing to anchor my storms
against someone steady.
And when I cling, it’s because
you feel like warmth in a cold forest,
like the one place I don’t have to pretend
I’m not terrified of falling.
So yes, I’m clingy—
but only the way a koala is:
arms around what matters,
eyes closed,
trusting that I won’t be shaken loose.
It’s not neediness.
It’s hope—
raw and trembling,
holding on.
Imma koala guys trust
Request permission to use this poem