#emotionaldamage - Hello Poetry

What am I but something that kept going after it should have stopped something that learned how to exist without being felt What am I but a shape with no center held together by habits that forgot their purpose I remember trying I think there was a time when things meant something when words weren’t measured before they were spoken but that version didn’t last long it kept reaching and every time it came back with less less certainty less voice less of anything that made it real until eventually there was nothing left to take and that’s when it got quiet not peaceful not calm just empty the kind of quiet that doesn’t ask questions anymore because it already knows nothing is coming back you call it different now like something is missing but you watched it leave piece by piece moment by moment right in front of you and you let it happen maybe you needed it that way something easier to hold something that wouldn’t push back and I learned I learned how to stop reacting how to stop needing how to stop being anything that could be broken again so now when you look at me and try to find what’s wrong there’s nothing to point at no anger no noise no fight left just something that stayed after everything else was worn down so if you need a name for it if you need something to blame call it what you want call it cold call it empty call it gone but don’t pretend you don’t recognize it you were there when it was made and if that makes me the villain then at least this version doesn’t feel it anymore

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Mar 26

Mar 26, 2026 at 2:39 PM UTC

xx10m

I Am The Villain

What am I but something that kept going after it should have stopped something that learned how to exist without being felt What am I but a shape with no center held together by habits that forgot their purpose I remember trying I think there was a time when things meant something when words weren’t measured before they were spoken but that version didn’t last long it kept reaching and every time it came back with less less certainty less voice less of anything that made it real until eventually there was nothing left to take and that’s when it got quiet not peaceful not calm just empty the kind of quiet that doesn’t ask questions anymore because it already knows nothing is coming back you call it different now like something is missing but you watched it leave piece by piece moment by moment right in front of you and you let it happen maybe you needed it that way something easier to hold something that wouldn’t push back and I learned I learned how to stop reacting how to stop needing how to stop being anything that could be broken again so now when you look at me and try to find what’s wrong there’s nothing to point at no anger no noise no fight left just something that stayed after everything else was worn down so if you need a name for it if you need something to blame call it what you want call it cold call it empty call it gone but don’t pretend you don’t recognize it you were there when it was made and if that makes me the villain then at least this version doesn’t feel it anymore

69

Here we go The human race They let it blow Up in our face. And here I stand A final man It all seemed planned To end this way And though I lie On the verge I cannot try I cannot Urge What gods remain Up in the sky What ending refrain To my lullaby So rest little soldier Rest little man Be strong like you're older Pretend like you can Stomach the rage Stomach the pride What ending refrain To my lullaby You fought for years You killed for more You've seen the tears As your people tore Through the borders Through the lands Tip the boulders Kick the sands You scream "go to hell!" And kick the can So here we stand The last of days Praying something Would take the pain And child you cry You've seen the worst Your blinded eye You're feeling cursed So Stomach the pain Stomach the pride What a ending refrain To a lullaby

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Nov 17, 2025

Nov 17, 2025 at 10:24 PM UTC

ethan-7

My Lullaby

Here we go The human race They let it blow Up in our face. And here I stand A final man It all seemed planned To end this way And though I lie On the verge I cannot try I cannot Urge What gods remain Up in the sky What ending refrain To my lullaby So rest little soldier Rest little man Be strong like you're older Pretend like you can Stomach the rage Stomach the pride What ending refrain To my lullaby You fought for years You killed for more You've seen the tears As your people tore Through the borders Through the lands Tip the boulders Kick the sands You scream "go to hell!" And kick the can So here we stand The last of days Praying something Would take the pain And child you cry You've seen the worst Your blinded eye You're feeling cursed So Stomach the pain Stomach the pride What a ending refrain To a lullaby

46

The suburb’s still a skeleton but now I wear its bones. I was backlit, bored, all drywall and divine punishment, first names shouted through screen doors, ceiling fans spinning someone else’s damage. I kept saying I'd leave. I kept writing it down, spending my stories on soft drinks and scar tissue, but there’s a difference between nostalgia and necromancy. Between naked and naive. Between full of stars and just falling. We said forever like it wasn’t a curse. Like it wasn’t already dissolving in the pollen. I wrote hymns for mouths, sloppy as mascara in rainlight, that made meaning feel like a dare: the emotional oversights we let ruin us twice. Flannel soul, face like unfinished business. He touched me with all the guilt of a borrowed god. Begging, but never burning clean. A slippery little eulogy sprinting toward a dawn already in someone else’s rearview. He didn’t kiss me, but he almost did. And I’ve been sick about it ever since. An ode to night that chews at the hem of what we thought we were. Being here now is already retroactive. Already haunted. Intertwined like seatbelt bruises. A small canopied disaster, still posing. still pretending. I was a rooftop girl, and I meant it. Which is worse, I think, than being believed. The sky never answered, but I kept sending poems. The suburb’s still a skeleton. I’m just better at burying what I mistook for light.

0

Jun 15, 2025

Jun 15, 2025 at 1:57 AM UTC

Kiernan515

Backlit & Burying Things (9/8/15, Rewritten)

The suburb’s still a skeleton but now I wear its bones. I was backlit, bored, all drywall and divine punishment, first names shouted through screen doors, ceiling fans spinning someone else’s damage. I kept saying I'd leave. I kept writing it down, spending my stories on soft drinks and scar tissue, but there’s a difference between nostalgia and necromancy. Between naked and naive. Between full of stars and just falling. We said forever like it wasn’t a curse. Like it wasn’t already dissolving in the pollen. I wrote hymns for mouths, sloppy as mascara in rainlight, that made meaning feel like a dare: the emotional oversights we let ruin us twice. Flannel soul, face like unfinished business. He touched me with all the guilt of a borrowed god. Begging, but never burning clean. A slippery little eulogy sprinting toward a dawn already in someone else’s rearview. He didn’t kiss me, but he almost did. And I’ve been sick about it ever since. An ode to night that chews at the hem of what we thought we were. Being here now is already retroactive. Already haunted. Intertwined like seatbelt bruises. A small canopied disaster, still posing. still pretending. I was a rooftop girl, and I meant it. Which is worse, I think, than being believed. The sky never answered, but I kept sending poems. The suburb’s still a skeleton. I’m just better at burying what I mistook for light.

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