Every night I feel the lump in my throat, the heaviness in my chest. I look upon my own eyes in the mirror, for I can’t even face my eyes, face my pain inside. I feel so much anger, so much shattered betrayal. The ones who were meant to help me in my rehab just choose to shatter me for my light, all while complimenting me—playing over the themes from my childhood where people try to break me to watch me shatter into a million pieces. I ask myself in the shower, "Haven't I suffered enough?"
I try to turn trash into joy, into happiness. I live in my own old, moldy, half-broken house with my own free, found items. I find discarded food to eat to make beautiful dishes out of. I run, I scream almost, and I want to beg and say, "Stop being jealous of my wounding." It’s what’s kept me alive since birth. All I knew for most of my entire existence was literal survival—hell on earth all alone, having to raise myself all while being passed around.
Even candy makes me sick; it reminds me of the violations of my childhood. My body gags, it chokes. The lingering nags sneer as they watch me and kick me as I am down. It makes me question kindness, not being able to discern at times. My mind feels crazy because those who smile are actually snakes, and those that others might call weird or off-putting are real and kind for the most part.
Every night the flashbacks come. I wait for them—the ****** abuse to ring in my ears, shouting at me, begging to be seen, for the pain to be cleansed from me. And yes, it does, but in layers so deep it aches me, agonizes me. I wonder when I will know true peace, because although life is indeed more peaceful and I have gained a willpower, a strength, a resilience—despite being in an ill body and mind—I wonder why they act that way. Haven’t I suffered enough? Haven’t I endured storybooks filled with pain, seas and oceans of crying, of wanting to disappear, to not be on earth anymore?
So when I see others joke about not wanting to be here on earth, my heart sighs for them because, yes, I understand. The more I heal, the less I crave the walls of religion. The world feels too big for me most of the time. I feel some peace within my walls, which they choose to laugh at. I guess it’s easy to look down on me; I am poor, disabled, broke I guess, but I guess my strength bothers them—that I can choose to still try to be happier despite my lacking.
What’s your excuse for your ****** life and for being a ****** person? Because they like to claim how bad their life was; I can guarantee my life has been much worse and I am still there standing, trying to be a better human, to work on my mind, body, and soul. Choosing sovereignty, choosing myself, choosing to not be numb, to not stand for death, fascism, or willful ignorance. So maybe they are jealous of what can’t be bought: alchemy. Being able to go to the sea and feel myself carried by the sirens, by my ancestors, by myself—witnessing myself because I am the only one who has survived my whole life, and no one from my past is with me because they are all rotten humans.
I thought those who are in the caring industry would actually care, but many do it to try to abuse people like me. True power corrupts all. So don’t be jealous of me. Do you know what oceans I swam through to even just be alive and semi-sane? The ocean saved me from near-death as a child, so there I am beneath Mother’s ocean in her embrace, rocking my body with her waves, feeling alive, saying, "If it’s meant to be, it will be."
I will watch the sunset, play their game against them. I am not naive. I am strong. I can survive oceans and storms alone, and I will make it all out alive, stronger, alchemized. They will not break me. I will stare upon the pain with a stoic face, showing you can’t break me, you can’t make me like you, and I will choose to be even kinder, more empathetic. Because this is my choice. I will sit among the ocean and stare at the fish and swim along with them in my dreams.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 4:15 PM UTC
Every night I feel the lump in my throat, the heaviness in my chest. I look upon my own eyes in the mirror, for I can’t even face my eyes, face my pain inside. I feel so much anger, so much shattered betrayal. The ones who were meant to help me in my rehab just choose to shatter me for my light, all while complimenting me—playing over the themes from my childhood where people try to break me to watch me shatter into a million pieces. I ask myself in the shower, "Haven't I suffered enough?"
I try to turn trash into joy, into happiness. I live in my own old, moldy, half-broken house with my own free, found items. I find discarded food to eat to make beautiful dishes out of. I run, I scream almost, and I want to beg and say, "Stop being jealous of my wounding." It’s what’s kept me alive since birth. All I knew for most of my entire existence was literal survival—hell on earth all alone, having to raise myself all while being passed around.
Even candy makes me sick; it reminds me of the violations of my childhood. My body gags, it chokes. The lingering nags sneer as they watch me and kick me as I am down. It makes me question kindness, not being able to discern at times. My mind feels crazy because those who smile are actually snakes, and those that others might call weird or off-putting are real and kind for the most part.
Every night the flashbacks come. I wait for them—the ****** abuse to ring in my ears, shouting at me, begging to be seen, for the pain to be cleansed from me. And yes, it does, but in layers so deep it aches me, agonizes me. I wonder when I will know true peace, because although life is indeed more peaceful and I have gained a willpower, a strength, a resilience—despite being in an ill body and mind—I wonder why they act that way. Haven’t I suffered enough? Haven’t I endured storybooks filled with pain, seas and oceans of crying, of wanting to disappear, to not be on earth anymore?
So when I see others joke about not wanting to be here on earth, my heart sighs for them because, yes, I understand. The more I heal, the less I crave the walls of religion. The world feels too big for me most of the time. I feel some peace within my walls, which they choose to laugh at. I guess it’s easy to look down on me; I am poor, disabled, broke I guess, but I guess my strength bothers them—that I can choose to still try to be happier despite my lacking.
What’s your excuse for your ****** life and for being a ****** person? Because they like to claim how bad their life was; I can guarantee my life has been much worse and I am still there standing, trying to be a better human, to work on my mind, body, and soul. Choosing sovereignty, choosing myself, choosing to not be numb, to not stand for death, fascism, or willful ignorance. So maybe they are jealous of what can’t be bought: alchemy. Being able to go to the sea and feel myself carried by the sirens, by my ancestors, by myself—witnessing myself because I am the only one who has survived my whole life, and no one from my past is with me because they are all rotten humans.
I thought those who are in the caring industry would actually care, but many do it to try to abuse people like me. True power corrupts all. So don’t be jealous of me. Do you know what oceans I swam through to even just be alive and semi-sane? The ocean saved me from near-death as a child, so there I am beneath Mother’s ocean in her embrace, rocking my body with her waves, feeling alive, saying, "If it’s meant to be, it will be."
I will watch the sunset, play their game against them. I am not naive. I am strong. I can survive oceans and storms alone, and I will make it all out alive, stronger, alchemized. They will not break me. I will stare upon the pain with a stoic face, showing you can’t break me, you can’t make me like you, and I will choose to be even kinder, more empathetic. Because this is my choice. I will sit among the ocean and stare at the fish and swim along with them in my dreams.