#emotionalarchitecture
_Wet ceilings_, eyes like drywall —
quietly hiding all the water behind it.
Just to squint through scratched lenses,
blinking more than I’m allowed to cry.
Growing up feels just like deep waters.
__Adult swim:__ all the kids clear out;
the only ones left, are the ones we'll make.
The lives we build on purpose, to follow
all of the rules of the house, growing up
beneath ceilings all painted like clouds.
But build it differently— _leave a crack_
for the rain, so the growing storm can pass
through, instead of it rotting in the wall.
Dec 17, 2025
Dec 17, 2025 at 4:31 PM UTC
This is the prelude to a corny poem — not by genre, but by gesture.
The kind of moment you text someone who can never quite let go.
A character who, the more you explain yourself, builds up their
anger, like Lego — stacked tight, no gaps. _Great, now you're blocked!_
It’s the same game; they say they’re breaking down like Tetris,
but you’re the last crooked piece, a corner away from clarity, from
giving out a proper response, but you're stuck at a stop sign called
Writer’s Block.
(Not to say I grew up on the streets —but a soft smile is what I
use to pave the way of finding peace.) And whether this turns into
a path toward a kiss all depends how well you’ve cemented your
foundations, for your intentions to come out firm and concrete.
Not to sink into gossip, like spilled tea on the front steps of the
neighbour down the street. Because not every door you knock on
is one built for your peace. Not every neighbour you greet is a
neighbourhood of people open to giving you some peace.
Community grief isn’t all of our concerns to give… so call me rude,
but I don’t like to deal with everyone’s grief. So when I see you
approaching, I might walk in the other direction of this street.
Especially if I’ve already read all the signs but you chose to walk
into that direction. Now you stand in your wreckage, asking me
for directions, as if I’m still your GPS for healing.
Making me appear lost for words, stuck again at Writer’s Block —
where metaphors turn to mortar, and the silence right between us
starts stacking brick by brick. A friendship we were supposed to
build up as something worthwhile. But the foundation we built
it all on was something we never hoped for.
Aug 4, 2025
Aug 4, 2025 at 3:48 AM UTC
I knew a girl —weathered by the kind of life that
doesn’t warn you before the storm. Still, she tried
to keep a _spring in her step_ — but smiled like cheap
paint on a fading wall, _peeling off, little by little,
every **** day_.
She told me: "_We don’t own enough to be claiming it all_."
She’d hold onto the hands of time like it owed her
something, clocking in for the kind of love that clocks
out as soon as it settles in your mind.
And I swear — _it was always the careless water she
feared the most_... the kind you drown in without
noticing —a pretty smile, a warm voice, the open
door that leads you straight to your own unraveling.
I watched her from that doorway — wondered which
room of herself she let people sit in.
Was it the __heart__ —that wicked room where love
rushes in faster than you can catch your breath?
Or the __soul__ — too expensive for lips that try
to bargain it down with sweet nothings?
Maybe it was the __skin__ —that kept aching for touch,
even when desire left bruises where tenderness
should have lived.
Or the __mind__ — God, the most attractive part of her,
modelling strength on a runway of thoughts that walked
out daily for the world to judge. And maybe the reason
her story broke me was because I saw myself in every
cracked wall she tried to paint over, and over again.
We are all just houses hoping someone might stay
long enough to know the rooms we rarely let them in.
Jul 7, 2025
Jul 7, 2025 at 2:05 PM UTC
(a poem in six stained glass windows)
I. BECOMING
I used to flinch when someone said
“You’re gonna be big someday,”
like—how big?
How loud?
How lonely?
How much of me
do I have to lose
to be loved that widely?
I kissed a boy once
just to see if I could still feel small.
I could.
then I wrote about it,
rhymed tongue with undone,
called it healing.
Some nights I Google myself
with the same hunger
you search a symptom.
Just hoping it’s not fatal.
Just hoping it is.
Just hoping there’s finally
a name for it.
My digital footprint is a shrine
to girls I outgrew but never buried,
their teenage poems
still written in Sharpie
on the back of my ribs.
My first book will ship with
a hand strung bracelet that says
“I survived myself.”
II. PERFORMING
Every time I tell the story
I’m a little more clever,
a little less heartbroken,
a little more
dangerous,
a little more wrong.
I have a bad habit
of leaving confessions in comment sections—
breadcrumbs on the internet floor,
for anyone sad enough
to mistake me
for a map.
I used to rehearse goodbyes in mirrors,
just to see if my eyes could lie
as well as my mouth did.
They could.
They still can.
They called me brave
for saying it out loud.
But I only said it
because the silence was louder.
The secret to staying soft
is deleting the parts
where I’m anything else.
I write best in hotel rooms
because they feel borrowed, too—
because no one expects
the towels to stay white
or the girl to stay quiet.
III. DISGUISING
“SENSITIVE” was printed on my sweatshirt
the night he told me
I hurt myself through him—
at least now he can’t say
I never gave a trigger warning.
Half of my closet is clearance rack chaos,
the other half is second-hand salvation—
each hanger a theory
of who I’ll be next.
Sometimes I dress like the version of me
I think he could’ve stayed for.
Every good body day feels like a plot twist,
like God gave me
a guest pass
to precious.
He said I was too much,
but whispered it like praise.
Now I underline his fears
in neon.
Some nights I still wake at 3:14
to texts I dreamt he sent—
all apologies
and no punctuation.
I screenshot compliments
like they’re prescriptions,
take two every six hours,
pray my body doesn’t reject them.
One day, I’ll ask the pharmacy
if they carry praise
in extended-release.
Every dress in my closet whispers
“wear me to his funeral,”
but he keeps refusing to die,
so I just overdress for brunch—
and sit facing the door
just in case.
IV. SEARCHING
I footnoted the grief.
Added asterisks to all my ‘I’m fine’s.'
Even my browser history
reads like a girl on fire.
My greatest fear isn’t that I’ll fail—
it’s that someday I’ll win
and realize the trophy feels
exactly like loneliness,
but heavier.
I read horoscopes for signs of relapse,
Googling “Do Libras experience nostalgia?”
at 5:15 a.m. like a drunk astrologer
pleading with the stars
to cut me off.
I used to edit Wikipedia pages
for characters who reminded me of myself,
changing their endings to
“she survives,”
“she gets out,”
“she burns the diary.”
They banned my IP
for excessive optimism.
I took it as a compliment.
V. RECKONING
The girls who follow me online
all think I have answers.
I don’t.
I have questions in fancy fonts
and delusions of grandeur
dressed as advice.
My therapist asks me to describe “progress,”
and I show her unsent messages,
leftover pills,
and a notebook filled with
poems written in my sleep—
and one that woke me up
Screaming.
Some of you highlight my breakdowns
like they’re quotes.
I get it.
I do it too.
VI. ALONE
My brain is a group chat
of all the selves I've ghosted,
texting in all caps
and sending GIFs that scream,
"Remember when you thought you'd be happy by now?"
If this poem goes viral,
tell them I made it big.
Tell them I got loud.
Tell them I wasn’t lonely.
Just alone
by design.
Like all cathedrals are.
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 5:00 AM UTC