#emotionaldecay
I see your smile in buildings, you still live in my heart —
a part of me; apartment walls built up and down, all of
their tenants moving in and out. A crowded room, one
bathroom, toothpaste crust on the sink — my living room
feels so uncomfortable not living with you.
The kitchen light hums, drawing cockroaches out at night,
not even shy when we stare eye to eye — I guess even pests
get used to company. Cupboards empty, with only food for
thought to feed my hope.
Still I pray the rent isn’t overdue — the landlord of depression
bangs on my door at the end of the month, the middle of the
month, the beginning — _anytime he wants_.
We shared this house, but never lived in our hearts.
We shared this mattress, but never rested our worries.
We shared this address, yet got lost chasing after each other.
Now, the buildings are all vacant — windows hollow,
paint of your smile peeling off the walls, flaking down like
tired laughter. And every echo, sounds like your name.
Nov 4, 2025
Nov 4, 2025 at 3:25 PM UTC
Been on the market for some time, but not really waiting
for what’s in store. __This heart__ — a brittle scaffold,
holding up a thousand regrets, building into a house
of missteps. It’s got too many stairs, and I keep misjudging
a couple steps. The pain feels unreal, reaching backward,
but everything we’ve done always lives in the past — _to pass._
The scars on my skin bear soil erosion; the body remembers
what the mind buries. And my teeth — slowly eroding —
still carry a brave smile, as if pretending counts as healing.
Sure, I can fake confidence, sure — but only for others.
Never for myself. No, not truly. Because really what’s
the point of buying into that sort of thing, when the price
of pretending always costs more than it’s worth?
Oct 18, 2025
Oct 18, 2025 at 2:25 PM UTC
Glass tears dance on the lawn of dreams –
offered sweetness at hand; while the Beast
breathes fire over frost; black fur coiled in winter’s
chill, his warmth a lie dressed in comfort.
He offers blindness as a blessing, the bliss
of the thoughtless path. In the silence of white
winter, you take his claw, mistaking it for a hand.
“To die for”—a morbid metaphor— what is the gift
of a Beast meant for?
Around him, the dancing lich spins— leeches
birthed from tombs of need. A cliff that clefts;
as a cleft lip cannot speak the truth, it only bleeds.
Closed eyes cannot paint the dark—
but they stay loyal to its canvas.
Left bereft—travelers avoid certain subjects:
being sick of yourself, tasting your own *****
But hush now— we’ll skip the topic. Change the
subject. And bury that scent.
As she was sent; and of all the objects she takes
from the Beast—he cures grief with a sugar-coated sting.
But bittersweet is still a shade of sweet, it rots your teeth,
and maybe he works with the tooth fairy to collect what
decay leaves behind.
But in the cold, no one heals— they run to the hills,
as their heels are clicking in panic of snow-bitten ground.
Perhaps this time, Little Red took the wrong road—
and the wolf she met, has grown hungrier from
feasting quietly on empty bones.
....there's no-one to save her at all.
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 5:18 PM UTC
__I. Ignition__ _(1st Gear)_
We built this bond with bolts and wires,
not warmth. Call it a connection— but it
was code, calibrated smiles and pre-programmed
concern. You turned the key, and I came alive
Just long enough to move when you needed motion.
________________________________________
__II. Drive__ _(2nd Gear)_
We were just motorheads, revving louder than we felt.
Not riders—just parts in motion. Fueling the ride,
but never the journey. You drove me— not toward a
future, but to the edge, where metal meets rust, where
trust wears thin. Your “drive” was reserved for those
who mapped your ending in their eyes— those who
promised arrival, but never shared the breakdowns.
________________________________________
__III. End__ _(3rd Gear)_
But not everyone is there for the real ride.
Only a few stayed when the wheels locked
and the road curved off course. So if this message
reaches you— the ones who truly cared— know this:
you weren’t just passengers. You were the engine.
Jun 2, 2025
Jun 2, 2025 at 3:14 PM UTC
If weeds could thrive—
Grow under duress,
Withstand the stomping,
Cling to minimal breath,
Evade the storm—
Then I want to be one.
No—
I am one.
But the downfall,
It’s a weakness:
Weeds get wiped out faster.
They welcome death
By choking what breathes beside them.
And so do I.
I realize.
I thought my forte was depth—
Roots dug well.
But now it’s dried, cracked,
And starting to burn
Others with it.
May 14, 2025
May 14, 2025 at 4:18 PM UTC