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#poeticpain
just a simple question, dressed as a metaphor — where do i get buried when i can barely breathe on this earth? kind of like a suffocation so deep, filling my very being — in my veins. oh, i feel so weak. invisible cuts bleed, a kind of self-punishment. spent so long handing out pieces of myself like fragile offerings to daily otherworldly deities — hoping to provide even an inch of comfort that i usually needed. was it ever enough? yet called names, looked at in strange ways — speculated every moment, like a statue in an odd place. as if they see through it all — all the façade of being high up on the clouds. humorous, it shall be, if they were to see the stricken sounds i make — grief-filled, and vowing to never ever let a pair of hands hold my heart again. this bleeds. aches so tenderly — like trying to whisper through a scream, like trying to write to a hollow that doesn't seem to cease, like an overflowing cannon that just never really spills. will this be seen as that quiet, raw, untamed beauty? beast-like, trying to hold it within the grasp of stiff hands? have they felt a little less alone? perhaps in my company — for i wouldn't want them to go into the same feelings of never being heeded to. i wished they'd see, but i'm walked all over through. can't help it — yeah, i know. always left wondering: why can't i comfort with words as they're meant to? they feel like smoke and silence — barely hard to describe or to put down. the heaviness heaves a sigh every time i spread my arms a bit around. maybe connections are hard. maybe i should be quieter. speaking has never helped — perhaps i should tie my hands, my feet, my mouth — and vanish? disappear? become a ghost without a heartbeat — because i haven’t really been living either. will you listen to the echoes of these voices — and the way they sound in the night, and when the sun dawns, and the skies align? will you see? will you listen to me?
0
May 14, 2025
May 14, 2025 at 12:37 PM UTC
poeticaofisshues
wished to be seen, i guess
just a simple question, dressed as a metaphor — where do i get buried when i can barely breathe on this earth? kind of like a suffocation so deep, filling my very being — in my veins. oh, i feel so weak. invisible cuts bleed, a kind of self-punishment. spent so long handing out pieces of myself like fragile offerings to daily otherworldly deities — hoping to provide even an inch of comfort that i usually needed. was it ever enough? yet called names, looked at in strange ways — speculated every moment, like a statue in an odd place. as if they see through it all — all the façade of being high up on the clouds. humorous, it shall be, if they were to see the stricken sounds i make — grief-filled, and vowing to never ever let a pair of hands hold my heart again. this bleeds. aches so tenderly — like trying to whisper through a scream, like trying to write to a hollow that doesn't seem to cease, like an overflowing cannon that just never really spills. will this be seen as that quiet, raw, untamed beauty? beast-like, trying to hold it within the grasp of stiff hands? have they felt a little less alone? perhaps in my company — for i wouldn't want them to go into the same feelings of never being heeded to. i wished they'd see, but i'm walked all over through. can't help it — yeah, i know. always left wondering: why can't i comfort with words as they're meant to? they feel like smoke and silence — barely hard to describe or to put down. the heaviness heaves a sigh every time i spread my arms a bit around. maybe connections are hard. maybe i should be quieter. speaking has never helped — perhaps i should tie my hands, my feet, my mouth — and vanish? disappear? become a ghost without a heartbeat — because i haven’t really been living either. will you listen to the echoes of these voices — and the way they sound in the night, and when the sun dawns, and the skies align? will you see? will you listen to me?
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It hurts in places I never knew existed. Like how my fingertips ache, and a mournful scream lives in the back of my throat. There is a black hole where my heart once lived, dense and ravenous, swallowing light, devouring warmth, collapsing joy into nothing. Some days, the void feels large enough to consume me, completely. But still, I wake. Still, I breathe. And somehow, without noticing, I’ve grown strong enough to carry it. Not because the pain has lessened, but because it’s changing me. Sometimes, the pain wants to cry out I love you loud enough to reach you. But those words would fall into a silence you no longer fill. I wish I’d said them a thousand more times when they still had somewhere to land. I wish I could say I love you instead of I loved you. But if this grief is just love with no place to go, I will ache in all these new and strange places. Willingly. And I will wake up every day, and breathe, one breath at a time. Because this pain is simply love, wearing a different skin.
0
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 11:13 PM UTC
Mara_Ellison
Black Hole
It hurts in places I never knew existed. Like how my fingertips ache, and a mournful scream lives in the back of my throat. There is a black hole where my heart once lived, dense and ravenous, swallowing light, devouring warmth, collapsing joy into nothing. Some days, the void feels large enough to consume me, completely. But still, I wake. Still, I breathe. And somehow, without noticing, I’ve grown strong enough to carry it. Not because the pain has lessened, but because it’s changing me. Sometimes, the pain wants to cry out I love you loud enough to reach you. But those words would fall into a silence you no longer fill. I wish I’d said them a thousand more times when they still had somewhere to land. I wish I could say I love you instead of I loved you. But if this grief is just love with no place to go, I will ache in all these new and strange places. Willingly. And I will wake up every day, and breathe, one breath at a time. Because this pain is simply love, wearing a different skin.
Continue reading...
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