#emotionalarmor - Hello Poetry

Just when everything was pieced back together, it explodes. Gears and pulleys no longer function as they should. No respect, or decency for an abused harborer of blood. Each time stripped and pulled apart. Restructured with stitches of lies and broken promises. Cracked open by the unworthy. Tainted by ***** hands, and chipped blackened finger nails. Cut and infected, poisoned and bruised. Stupid thing. Crying "love me, love me!" over again. **** it learn! No longer make yourself out of soft, breakable, easily torn. Instead surround with metal and iron. Impenetrable. Make it so. I blame you. I will stitch your mouth shut with iron thread. I will make it so that you beat only to live a little longer. I will stop listening, I will no longer allow you to have a say. You will become nothing to me. I am sending you to the basement, I am taking all feelings away. You will no longer roam free. You will become my unspoken shame. You will be the secret that I keep. No one will come to know you. No one will ever see you again. You cease to exist this very day. I will not feed you, I will allow you to die. I will chain you up and watch you wither away. You don't deserve to live for what you have done to me. I trusted you to many times and now you must pay. I lock you up. I bury you deep. The only link you have to me is the blood you pump through my veins. I owe you nothing. From this day forward you are dead to me.

0

Jul 15, 2014

Jul 15, 2014 at 5:48 AM UTC

Vanzy

Betrayed

Just when everything was pieced back together, it explodes. Gears and pulleys no longer function as they should. No respect, or decency for an abused harborer of blood. Each time stripped and pulled apart. Restructured with stitches of lies and broken promises. Cracked open by the unworthy. Tainted by ***** hands, and chipped blackened finger nails. Cut and infected, poisoned and bruised. Stupid thing. Crying "love me, love me!" over again. **** it learn! No longer make yourself out of soft, breakable, easily torn. Instead surround with metal and iron. Impenetrable. Make it so. I blame you. I will stitch your mouth shut with iron thread. I will make it so that you beat only to live a little longer. I will stop listening, I will no longer allow you to have a say. You will become nothing to me. I am sending you to the basement, I am taking all feelings away. You will no longer roam free. You will become my unspoken shame. You will be the secret that I keep. No one will come to know you. No one will ever see you again. You cease to exist this very day. I will not feed you, I will allow you to die. I will chain you up and watch you wither away. You don't deserve to live for what you have done to me. I trusted you to many times and now you must pay. I lock you up. I bury you deep. The only link you have to me is the blood you pump through my veins. I owe you nothing. From this day forward you are dead to me.

36

I move through midnight, steel in my spine, instinct awake before any sign. Whispers shift and I already know — I feel the danger before it can show. Fear was my teacher, steady and cold, teaching me truths that survival told — how to read fractures behind a smile, how to sense what lingers hostile. Nothing slips through my watchful air, not the silence that isn’t fair, not the glance that lingers wrong, not the pause that lasts too long. My bones remember. My blood recalls. Every bruise built iron walls. Every lesson, sharply drawn, forged the strength I’m standing on. Hands reach out — I cut the thread. Lies unravel where I tread. Shadows falter, plans fall thin when they find the ground I’m in. I have known the dark too well, felt its weight, its private hell. That is why I do not bend — cycles break where I defend. Through chaos, through fire, through tightening air, I do not falter, I do not scare. No harm crosses the line I draw, no shadow slips beneath my law. I rise — not fragile, not blind, but sharpened, certain, defined. An iron shadow, fierce and still, between the dark and my own will.

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Feb 20

Feb 20, 2026 at 3:59 AM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

Iron Shadow

I move through midnight, steel in my spine, instinct awake before any sign. Whispers shift and I already know — I feel the danger before it can show. Fear was my teacher, steady and cold, teaching me truths that survival told — how to read fractures behind a smile, how to sense what lingers hostile. Nothing slips through my watchful air, not the silence that isn’t fair, not the glance that lingers wrong, not the pause that lasts too long. My bones remember. My blood recalls. Every bruise built iron walls. Every lesson, sharply drawn, forged the strength I’m standing on. Hands reach out — I cut the thread. Lies unravel where I tread. Shadows falter, plans fall thin when they find the ground I’m in. I have known the dark too well, felt its weight, its private hell. That is why I do not bend — cycles break where I defend. Through chaos, through fire, through tightening air, I do not falter, I do not scare. No harm crosses the line I draw, no shadow slips beneath my law. I rise — not fragile, not blind, but sharpened, certain, defined. An iron shadow, fierce and still, between the dark and my own will.

33

Tamed reflections, distant shadows; I stand on guard in this armour forged from old battle scars. Each lesson learned in silence teaches you how to move forward; how many tears can an eye hold, before only the night can hear them? A blade rests gently on my shoulders, I am knighted by survival, honoured to be myself, and sworn to the love I once withheld. In the dark, we weep as _nights;_ by morning, we rise as _knights._ Nights sharpen sorrow into steel, missteps become a measure, every hesitation, a shield. What once cut down now protects; for wisdom is a weapon only a night can forge, a Knight holds.

0

Jan 1

Jan 1, 2026 at 4:36 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Nights vs Knights

Tamed reflections, distant shadows; I stand on guard in this armour forged from old battle scars. Each lesson learned in silence teaches you how to move forward; how many tears can an eye hold, before only the night can hear them? A blade rests gently on my shoulders, I am knighted by survival, honoured to be myself, and sworn to the love I once withheld. In the dark, we weep as _nights;_ by morning, we rise as _knights._ Nights sharpen sorrow into steel, missteps become a measure, every hesitation, a shield. What once cut down now protects; for wisdom is a weapon only a night can forge, a Knight holds.

10

You said, “You’re better now,” and I said, “Not quite.” I’m just quieter when I lose the fight. I’ve learned how to spiral without making a mess— I flinch like a debutante in danger— I cry in the dress I bought for my funeral. Healing looks holy if you’re far enough back; from across the room, I look redeemed. Up close, it’s mascara and panic attacks. I am so well-behaved now— I answer in lowercase, I apologize in advance. You’d never guess I once threw a chair so hard it split the act in half. If I miss you, I don’t text. I answer fake calls from you-shaped phantoms. We fight. I win. I stand in the doorway for dramatic effect. I practice my exits more than my lines. I stage a comeback with no audience. I watch the part of the movie where it all goes wrong, then rewind it. Then rewind it again. I am healing like a fraud. Like a martyr with stage fright. Like a saint who missed her cue. Like someone who knows I’m still your favorite bedtime story— but only when I end. I turn my breakdowns into brunch plans, my grief into good posture. I answer questions with questions. I wear rings so I have something to twist. I smile like it’s stage direction. I rehearse sanity like some girls practice wedding vows. I light candles for each version of myself you forgot. I document. I archive the damage— like it might get reviewed later by God. Or worse, by you. If you’re reading this: I didn’t mean it. (I meant every word.) If you’re avoiding this: good. I wanted you to squint at the poem’s edges and wonder if the blood was real. (You always liked your violence subtle.) (You always liked your girls learning your language— just to beg in it.) I pray more now. Not to be saved. Just to stay interesting. Do you know how hard it is to look healed when your rage is wearing a rosary and smiling in group photos? Every time I wanted to scream, I posted nothing instead. Silence is the loudest performance I’ve ever given. I don’t raise my voice. I sharpen it. I sweeten it. I lace it with facts you’ll misinterpret on purpose. My therapist says I intellectualize emotion. I say, “Thank you.” My boss says, “You need to sleep and eat like you’re real.” but she loves the **** I write. I tell them both I’m fine. I look fantastic when I’m about to snap. I know what I sound like. I know how this poem reads. That’s the worst part— it’s always intentional. That’s the best part— I’ll pretend I didn’t mean it, and I planned that too.

0

Apr 8, 2025

Apr 8, 2025 at 2:44 PM UTC

Kiernan515

I Cry in Dresses I’d Die In

You said, “You’re better now,” and I said, “Not quite.” I’m just quieter when I lose the fight. I’ve learned how to spiral without making a mess— I flinch like a debutante in danger— I cry in the dress I bought for my funeral. Healing looks holy if you’re far enough back; from across the room, I look redeemed. Up close, it’s mascara and panic attacks. I am so well-behaved now— I answer in lowercase, I apologize in advance. You’d never guess I once threw a chair so hard it split the act in half. If I miss you, I don’t text. I answer fake calls from you-shaped phantoms. We fight. I win. I stand in the doorway for dramatic effect. I practice my exits more than my lines. I stage a comeback with no audience. I watch the part of the movie where it all goes wrong, then rewind it. Then rewind it again. I am healing like a fraud. Like a martyr with stage fright. Like a saint who missed her cue. Like someone who knows I’m still your favorite bedtime story— but only when I end. I turn my breakdowns into brunch plans, my grief into good posture. I answer questions with questions. I wear rings so I have something to twist. I smile like it’s stage direction. I rehearse sanity like some girls practice wedding vows. I light candles for each version of myself you forgot. I document. I archive the damage— like it might get reviewed later by God. Or worse, by you. If you’re reading this: I didn’t mean it. (I meant every word.) If you’re avoiding this: good. I wanted you to squint at the poem’s edges and wonder if the blood was real. (You always liked your violence subtle.) (You always liked your girls learning your language— just to beg in it.) I pray more now. Not to be saved. Just to stay interesting. Do you know how hard it is to look healed when your rage is wearing a rosary and smiling in group photos? Every time I wanted to scream, I posted nothing instead. Silence is the loudest performance I’ve ever given. I don’t raise my voice. I sharpen it. I sweeten it. I lace it with facts you’ll misinterpret on purpose. My therapist says I intellectualize emotion. I say, “Thank you.” My boss says, “You need to sleep and eat like you’re real.” but she loves the **** I write. I tell them both I’m fine. I look fantastic when I’m about to snap. I know what I sound like. I know how this poem reads. That’s the worst part— it’s always intentional. That’s the best part— I’ll pretend I didn’t mean it, and I planned that too.

103

I was born mid-eye-roll, c-sectioned from a punchline. First words were don’t start with me, second were fine, stay. My spine’s in italics. I bend for no one but poetry and panic. I talk in skip-steps. I cry in parentheses. I kiss like a loophole. He said you’re hard to read, so I wrote myself louder. Time doesn’t pass here, it tantrums. I clock in and out of myself hourly. My skin’s on backward. My hunger has subtitles. My ghost writes sonnets in the steam on the mirror and signs them: Almost. I invented a verb that means to leave someone before they prove they would’ve. I use it daily. It conjugates into silence. It rhymes with obviously. The doctors say it’s chronic. Pre-traumatic glow disorder. I blush before the pain hits. I glitter out of spite. Don’t ask if I’m okay. Ask which version of me is answering. Ask if I remembered to name my wounds before dressing them up like confetti.

0

Apr 6, 2025

Apr 6, 2025 at 9:56 AM UTC

Kiernan515

Pre-Traumatic Glow Disorder

I was born mid-eye-roll, c-sectioned from a punchline. First words were don’t start with me, second were fine, stay. My spine’s in italics. I bend for no one but poetry and panic. I talk in skip-steps. I cry in parentheses. I kiss like a loophole. He said you’re hard to read, so I wrote myself louder. Time doesn’t pass here, it tantrums. I clock in and out of myself hourly. My skin’s on backward. My hunger has subtitles. My ghost writes sonnets in the steam on the mirror and signs them: Almost. I invented a verb that means to leave someone before they prove they would’ve. I use it daily. It conjugates into silence. It rhymes with obviously. The doctors say it’s chronic. Pre-traumatic glow disorder. I blush before the pain hits. I glitter out of spite. Don’t ask if I’m okay. Ask which version of me is answering. Ask if I remembered to name my wounds before dressing them up like confetti.

34