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I laid down my rifle
a long time ago.
No more shouting from trenches,
no more pride in the mud.

I surrendered.

But she didn’t.

She’s still bunkered up,
hiding behind sarcasm and silence,
armed with old pain
and the ghosts of nights I didn’t cause.

So I get hit.
Over and over.
Sharp words. Cold stares.
Misfired memories that land on my chest
like shrapnel.

But I’m not backing off.

I’m crawling through barbed wire made of what-ifs
and landmines labeled “don’t go there.”

And I’m close now.
Close enough to smell the old perfume
beneath the wine and wilted willpower.

Close enough
to throw in a grenade —
not of anger,
but of love.

Pull the pin.
Say the words.
Let it explode in light
instead of fire.

Let it end this war
with something softer
than surrender.
Sometimes surrender isn’t weakness — it’s the only way to love without armor.
This poem came from a place of tired hope, trench warfare tenderness, and the kind of truth that changes you while you’re still holding it.
Written during the quiet moment before I threw in one last grenade — not to destroy, but to remind her what we once built together.
"Every first issue
of the womb is Mine,
from all your livestock
that drop a male as firstling,
whether cattle or sheep.
But the firstling
of an *** you shall redeem
with a sheep;
if you do not redeem it,
you must break its neck."

Adored words, taken holy
out of any context, save time.

Today, we have wars, where once,
certain ones of us were told peace
is impossible, madness lies below,

all we were required to know,

numbers in sequence,
letters on blocks, stiches on
***** that roll, flatten
into wheels,
squared away, to
cubes that don't, but
do crystalize polygenic
univalent angulate orthogonic
planes, tied at the edges framing empty
solids, using science used
for stomachs,
and gourds,
hollowed solidities
growling distracting rattlings
Hunger apathy perhaps, I grieve in Gaza, from a distance, meandering and making peace with sowing seed of my own kind of same ol' same' ol' another day in paradice.
I have not changed
The same memories haunt me
I have not escaped
The same monsters chase me

The words still play in my mind
The boat is sinking
They have never been kind
I am overthinking

I am not the captain of this boat
I cannot outrun these nightmares
The cries stuck in my throat
My eyes dry of tears

Recovery is brutal
Is trying futile?
Time’s illusions, guiding humans
Right into our disillusion.
I'm subdued by lies disguised in truth.
It's hard to find solutions.

Mind's declining. Bodys movin'.
Don't know how or why I do it.
Why's the mind a bad influence?
I just might be High and clueless.

Fight to tighten all my loose ends,
Lest the darkness tries to move in.
Just to find, my skin is too thin.
Poisoned lungs might get me through it.

I'll hide like elusive mutants.
With a new sense, be a nuisance.
If I don't die by seclusion,
I will die by institution.

A product of my bright excuses,
Mass produced and distributed.
For myself, I've become too dense.
I cannot see through my new lens.

Highly likely high and too bent.
Likely slightly quite diluted.
Feed me bombs or shiny bullets.
Strike me down with lightning toothpicks.

Lie me right beneath the tulips.
Diving through the tides of prudence.
I find humankind is useless.
But I'll bite my tongue until the—

Malocclusions make me toothless.
Daylight dies as night seduces.
Tell myself that I can do this,
Yet, I've tied a thousand nooses.

Poisoned lungs. I'm high and too bent.
Poisoned lungs. I'm high and clueless.
Poisoned lungs. I'm so diluted.
Poisoned lungs. I'm such a nuisance.

Poisoned lungs through tides of prudence.
Poisoned lungs. There's no excuses.
Poisoned lungs. Thought I could do this.
Poisoned lungs and tying nooses.

Poisoned lungs. Tighten my loose ends.
Poisoned lungs won't bring me new sense.
Poisoned lungs as night seduces.
Poisoned lungs beneath the tulips.

Poisoned lungs won't get me through this.
Poisoned lungs won't get me through this.
Poisoned lungs won't get me through this.
Poisoned lungs won't get me through this.
Mariah 4d
Everyone deserves to say
I should not have been treated that way
And feel free to refill that space
To be soft to what remains
Until they know they're safe
Or else nothing can change
We need to listen if we want to be heard.
Limes Carma Jul 10
I woke up wired, heart beat fast,
told myself this time’s the last.
Lines on the sink, shame in my head,
texted some lies, stayed in bed.

The crash is gone but not the mess,
some days I still can’t catch my breath.
I stay away from what the old me craves,
and that part is still digging its own grave.

There were nights I almost called it quits —
and if the ceiling of my old apartment was strong enough,
I wouldn’t be writing this.
White lines on the desk
Black lines on my neck
If the ceiling didn’t let
I’d probably be dead


© Copyright 2025 - Limes Carma
the space in my mind
is occupied by your entity,
merging with mine.
you pose as a false god,
painting me the enemy –
demanding a sacrifice
each time I resist
your quiet reign.

I enabled it.
let you have your fun.
called it inspiration,
called it love.
called it anything
but what it was.
of all my failures,
you were the most toxic one.

I gave you everything –
piece by piece.
you’d cover my mouth
to silence the plea
whenever I sought shelter,
with hands, trembling,
still tied to a bottle
you call the cure.

you smother what’s left of me –
dressed in ebriety,
hiding the abuse.

and I need to say goodbye.
not because I want to.
but because I’ve had enough.
of you hurting me,
of you driving me
to hurt myself.
you’re costing me everything,
and the loss is exorbitant.

I’m not just saying goodbye to you.
you’re exiled.
your velvet threats,
your sugar-coated grip –
banished.
it hurts me more
than you think.
but this time, it’s final.
because I’m not ready
to see the aftermath
if it isn’t.
this one is about the last fight.
july 7, 2025
i say my name
out loud
to an unfamiliar room.

i can’t contain
my worn-out lies
burning through the truth.

they don’t flinch,
they’ve heard
this script before.

“the lower i sink,
the further i stray,
the harder i hit the floor.”

but they’re all ears,
offering silent company,
unravelling their past.

survivors of guilt,
hurt and poetry,
society’s outcasts.

our stories stay,
still shining bright
in sheltered wounds,

as i say my name
out loud
to a familiar room.
this one is about lying out loud — and realising they’d all done it too.
July 3, 2025
Mariah Jul 3
Hope, hope, hope
Is just like jumping rope
High highs and inevitable lows
And
If you really love me
Do so,
No matter how it goes
I have a good feeling about the rest of the year.
my wounds
are ocean-deep.
caution advised.
even seasoned souls,
spotless and sure,
could easily drown.
July 2, 2025.
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