My sisters don’t answer their phones
if their boyfriends are asleep-
hardworking men with shifts in the morning
and reputations to keep.
Lunches to pack, clothes laid out neat,
and they do it all willingly,
from a place of love, how sweet.

I did these things too,
once, long ago.
I gave up my needs
for the good wife show.
But if it’s midnight and I want to speak-
I don’t give a **** if that man is asleep.

When’s he been gentle?
When’s he cared back?
I go to work too-
Where the hell is my slack?
A woman stays quiet to keep a man’s peace,
but is that really worth it
when a part of you dies piece by piece?

I treat myself with a little more respect each day.

A pistol tucked inside my heart—
memories of old dreams echo like bullet
wounds. Freedom comes, quietly, when
I finally let myself be known to myself.

Lips are like public transport;
they carry heavy loads:
sometimes love, sometimes doubt.

But the private lifts? Those are the words
we whisper to ourselves when we’re trying
to lift ourselves up, above our own doubts.

What loads are you carrying? Will your
transport make...or break someone?

Because belief in your own worth is such
a heavy load. And no— it’s not something
you should carry alone.

The weight of any load feels lighter when
the ones you love—and who love you back—
don’t just stand beside you; they help you
carry what you were never meant to bear alone.

There’s an outfit for each kind of day,
one for work, and one to play.
One for silence, one for charm —
I dress to keep their peace from harm.

I match their tone, their pace, their cue,
become the me they’re walking through.
A shifting shape, a face that fits —
but never quite the one that sits.

I dress in layers not for style,
but just to wear a safer smile.
A thousand looks, a thousand designs —
but none align with what’s in mine.

And every mirror looked back at me
But none of them knew who to be
I learned to read the room so well,
I lost the voice I used to tell.

But fabric wears, and so did I,
the cost of always living shy.
I’ve worn their sizes, played their part —
let fashion hide a restless heart.
But now I pull the stitching tight —
and walk in clothes that finally fit right.

© Copyright 2025 - Limes Carma

What’s the worst that I could lose?
Just myself, and that I choose,
Again, again, I set the stage,
Then hand the script to someone’s rage

They smiled, I bent, I let them take,
Till I was hollow for their sake
I stitched my wounds with quiet grace,
And wore the pain like silk and lace

What harm could saying “yes” have done?
Just one more time, then I’ll be gone
But patterns loop like haunted tracks,
And every step just pulls me back

A softer voice, a trembling hand,
I thought that they would understand
But wolves, they come in human clothes,
And kindness is the path they chose

I saw the signs, I knew the script,
Yet still I let my edges slip
And in the name of “keeping peace,”
I fed the beast and called it “lease”

My heart was built to house a storm,
To twist itself in every form
And though I tried to say goodbye,
I let them in, I don’t know why

The bruises weren’t the kind you see,
They grew like roots inside of me
But I have learned: I am the gate,
Not every guest deserves my fate

So if you knock with hungry hands,
Expect to meet someone who stands
No more of me will be poured out to fill
The hollow space of someone’s will

I see the narcissist in you                                                              ­                       so strategic in your moves                                                            ­     manipulated I Love You's                                                            ­                 used to pull me closer to you                                                                             So many secrets you couldn't tell                                                             ­      kept them hidden very well                                                             ­          While I was busy weathering the tide                                                                 it had kept the enemy by my side                                                             ­         You loved me from your ego and pride                                                 knowing I was your ride or die                                                                             I had to pull back on my emotions                                                         ­          step out of that turbulent ocean                                                            ­        God had blessed me discernment                                                      ­     pulled me from the riptide current                                                          ­   Regaining control of the true me                                                             opening up an ocean of possibilities

It’s often said that men must stay strong through even their darkest battles. But what’s forgotten is that strength still lives in hands that tremble when reaching out for help. Women are told to remain soft, as if softness alone could prevent pain. Yet, when forced to pretend they aren’t breaking, time and time again, they begin to fracture, leaving behind sharp edges. Everyone hurts, even in languages they haven’t learned to speak. I’ve been offered love before, never whole, but in pieces people were willing to share. They loved the version of me that smiled easily, the one who folded herself small to fit neatly into their comfort zone. But I don’t fit. I never have. I test people, pull them from the safety of what they know into the wild of what they don’t. I don’t want love that arrives with a rule book. I can’t follow a checklist forged as care. I want to be truly seen. I want my scars to be tended to, without needing to be justified. I want to speak when I’m ready, and still be chosen in the silence. I want someone who stays when the hope is gone, when the quiet stretches too long, when I’m more tangled than anyone should ever be, when the walls I built to survive start to collapse. What even are humans without love? Just husks, souls trapped in bodies carrying stories no one will ever read. Screaming into a silence we’ve mistaken for normal. I don’t want a love that turns my bleeding into some symmetrical artwork to be analyzed. I want someone who sees the mess of my mind and doesn’t flinch. Someone who hears the tremble in my voice and leans in closer. I want a love that fits mine, not perfect or polished, just real. Just present. One that calms the noise I carry. I don’t want to earn love through performance. I want it returned, not earned, not bargained for, just given. Freely. Fully. Unconditionally. I need someone to hold me like I’m everything, especially in the moments I feel like nothing. That’s all I’ve ever searched for.

I'm not better
Than you
Than her
Than him
Than them
I'm not better than anyone else

I'm not better
A fact
I don't want
To accept

Imperfect
Jealous
Angry
Sad
Numb
All these emotions
They're mine
But who doesn't feel them?
Are my feelings
Anyone's feelings
Not allowed
Not valid
Anymore?

I act like I'm better
Than you
Than her
Than him
Than them
Better than anyone else
To distract me
From feeling
Like I'm worse
Worse than anyone
Because deep down
I know
That's the truth

I'm the worst

I got a good day today—
a jab, they’d say, wrapped in silk and shade.
Too unique, too bold,
both fashionably and workwise—they said.

I simply rolled my eyes,
chin lifted to the sky,
and answered, cool and flat:
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Which really meant,
I don’t give a crap—
not now, not ever,
no space in my mental map.

Still, it might echo an hour later,
not from pain,
but as a compliment wearing satire.
Ask me at dusk if I remember—

Maybe I will,
maybe I won’t.
My subconscious filters waste,
like silk through a comb.

It’s how I am,
how I stay sane,
a mind that lets go,
without needing to explain.

I open my ribs.  
peeling back the sinews and  
capillaries with precision.  
The crack of spreading bones,  
my chambered apparatus laid  
delicately on the table.  
  
My implement extracts its pound
onto the slab with intention,  
pulled and pressed till it's paper  
thin and bled out. Soulspeak scrawled  
in the crackling veins of my parchment.  
  
I put my machinations on display  
for onlookers, merchants  
and collectors  
but none seem to gather any interest.  
Skinpull another page  
but nothing sells  
or charms or foments.  

I pack my wares and  
toss them onto the pile of  
my dried out corpse scattered  
on the floor.  
Failure.  
Another procedure.  
Relent, repeat, cut deeper.  
And hope to find a reader.