#sadgirlpoetry - Hello Poetry

The battlefield may have healed, but the trenches are still there. Now the field blooms red. Poppies scatter across hillsides like little mouths left open, soft and crimson, fed by something buried deep below. From a distance, it looks beautiful. That is how these things survive by learning how to disguise themselves. The earth sealed over long ago. No smoke. No sirens. No fresh graves left exposed to weather. Only quiet dips in the ground where damage once lived violently. Only careful hands pulling sleeves lower when the seasons change. The battlefield may have healed, but the trenches are still there. Sometimes they ache in cold weather. Sometimes in warm. Sometimes for no reason at all. And beneath the poppies, the soil still remembers every place it was split open. I think that is what scares me the most, not the ruin itself, but how ordinary it becomes. How the body adapts to carrying small private wars. How people compliment the flowers without noticing what feeds them. Every spring, the field blooms red again.

0

May 10

May 10, 2026 at 5:57 PM UTC

WiltedEverly

What Blooms There

The battlefield may have healed, but the trenches are still there. Now the field blooms red. Poppies scatter across hillsides like little mouths left open, soft and crimson, fed by something buried deep below. From a distance, it looks beautiful. That is how these things survive by learning how to disguise themselves. The earth sealed over long ago. No smoke. No sirens. No fresh graves left exposed to weather. Only quiet dips in the ground where damage once lived violently. Only careful hands pulling sleeves lower when the seasons change. The battlefield may have healed, but the trenches are still there. Sometimes they ache in cold weather. Sometimes in warm. Sometimes for no reason at all. And beneath the poppies, the soil still remembers every place it was split open. I think that is what scares me the most, not the ruin itself, but how ordinary it becomes. How the body adapts to carrying small private wars. How people compliment the flowers without noticing what feeds them. Every spring, the field blooms red again.

38

Supermarket, fluorescent hum overhead, softening everything that should feel sharper. I take a basket before I need one, something to hold so I don’t look lost. At home everything repeats. Nan in the kitchen, something always baking. Pop at the nook with tea, steam at the same hour. Dad behind a closed door or not there at all. Nothing loud. Nothing wrong. Just set. Here, people move like they belong to where they are going. An old woman slow through the aisle, coat brushing her legs, bread tucked under her arm. No pause. No search. Just forward. I watch her until she disappears. Something in me doesn’t follow. I’m still here. Holding nothing. Further down a young man studies his receipt like it might say more. Milk. Frozen meals. Something sweet. He folds it carefully. Pockets it. I look away before he looks back. I drift. Pick things up. Put them back. My basket stays light. Not empty unfinished. The aisles stretch on full of people who already decided. At checkout, I place something down. A chicken caesar wrap in a plastic box. Already made. Already chosen. Beep. The receipt prints thin proof I was here at all. Outside, I stand still watching the automatic doors open and close like nothing is waiting for me. The world keeps moving anyway cars, footsteps, voices as if I never stood there at all. Then I leave and it doesn’t notice.

0

Apr 18

Apr 18, 2026 at 9:57 AM UTC

WiltedEverly

Receipts I Wasnt Meant to Read

Supermarket, fluorescent hum overhead, softening everything that should feel sharper. I take a basket before I need one, something to hold so I don’t look lost. At home everything repeats. Nan in the kitchen, something always baking. Pop at the nook with tea, steam at the same hour. Dad behind a closed door or not there at all. Nothing loud. Nothing wrong. Just set. Here, people move like they belong to where they are going. An old woman slow through the aisle, coat brushing her legs, bread tucked under her arm. No pause. No search. Just forward. I watch her until she disappears. Something in me doesn’t follow. I’m still here. Holding nothing. Further down a young man studies his receipt like it might say more. Milk. Frozen meals. Something sweet. He folds it carefully. Pockets it. I look away before he looks back. I drift. Pick things up. Put them back. My basket stays light. Not empty unfinished. The aisles stretch on full of people who already decided. At checkout, I place something down. A chicken caesar wrap in a plastic box. Already made. Already chosen. Beep. The receipt prints thin proof I was here at all. Outside, I stand still watching the automatic doors open and close like nothing is waiting for me. The world keeps moving anyway cars, footsteps, voices as if I never stood there at all. Then I leave and it doesn’t notice.

75

The city keeps him awake. Not with noise, with glow. Screens layered over screens, light stacked into light until the night forgets itself. He sits in it willingly, move pieces across a digital board, black to white, white to black, predicting endings ten steps before they arrive. Everything here follows rules. Everything can be won, or lost, or learned. Outside, the sky is sealed shut. He says stars don’t come anymore. She wraps herself in a blanket that smells like dust and sun, and slips out to the paddocks where the world finally exhales. Grass whispers against itself. Fences creak like they remember things. The dark is not empty here, it watches back. She lowers herself into it, curling small against the cold, like if she takes up less space it might leave her alone. But it always finds her. It settles in slow, threading through her ribs, pulling tight in places no one else can see. The sky, at least, breaks open for her. Constellations scatter themselves ancient and indifferent, and every so often something tears loose. A streak of light, brief and burning, gone before it means anything. She gathers those moments anyways. Wishes on them, quick, quiet, desperate, like pressing her hands against a door that won’t open. He studies pattern. Knows how knights move in L-shapes, how queens dominate the board, how every mistake can be traced back to a single, careless choice. He understands pressure, anticipation, the slow collapse of a position you can’t quite save. But this this has no board. No turns. No rules. Just the way her voice sometimes thins, like it’s being pulled somewhere else. Just the way silence sits too comfortably on her shoulders. She lies back further into the grass, blanket slipping, cold seeping in unnoticed. The sky keeps undoing itself above her, small, beautiful failures falling out of the dark. She wishes harder. Not for things, not really just for somewhere else. He pauses mid game, cursor hovering, a move waiting to be made. For a moment, he stares past the screen at nothing, at everything he can’t name. He wishes, not to anything in particular, just into the dim, electric quiet that whatever is pulling her under would let go.

0

Apr 11

Apr 11, 2026 at 6:36 PM UTC

WiltedEverly

Two Kinds of Nights

The city keeps him awake. Not with noise, with glow. Screens layered over screens, light stacked into light until the night forgets itself. He sits in it willingly, move pieces across a digital board, black to white, white to black, predicting endings ten steps before they arrive. Everything here follows rules. Everything can be won, or lost, or learned. Outside, the sky is sealed shut. He says stars don’t come anymore. She wraps herself in a blanket that smells like dust and sun, and slips out to the paddocks where the world finally exhales. Grass whispers against itself. Fences creak like they remember things. The dark is not empty here, it watches back. She lowers herself into it, curling small against the cold, like if she takes up less space it might leave her alone. But it always finds her. It settles in slow, threading through her ribs, pulling tight in places no one else can see. The sky, at least, breaks open for her. Constellations scatter themselves ancient and indifferent, and every so often something tears loose. A streak of light, brief and burning, gone before it means anything. She gathers those moments anyways. Wishes on them, quick, quiet, desperate, like pressing her hands against a door that won’t open. He studies pattern. Knows how knights move in L-shapes, how queens dominate the board, how every mistake can be traced back to a single, careless choice. He understands pressure, anticipation, the slow collapse of a position you can’t quite save. But this this has no board. No turns. No rules. Just the way her voice sometimes thins, like it’s being pulled somewhere else. Just the way silence sits too comfortably on her shoulders. She lies back further into the grass, blanket slipping, cold seeping in unnoticed. The sky keeps undoing itself above her, small, beautiful failures falling out of the dark. She wishes harder. Not for things, not really just for somewhere else. He pauses mid game, cursor hovering, a move waiting to be made. For a moment, he stares past the screen at nothing, at everything he can’t name. He wishes, not to anything in particular, just into the dim, electric quiet that whatever is pulling her under would let go.

85

It isn’t sadness so much as gravity. A constant pull toward the floor no one else seems to feel. Mornings arrive already tired. The light does its best but never quite reaches the back rooms of my chest where things have been stored for years and forgotten. People say it will pass, as if this were weather. But this is climate. This is living under a sky that never storms, never clears just stays overcast until you stop checking. I function well enough. I answer messages, wash cups, remember birthdays. On paper, I am fine. In practice, everything takes twice the effort for half the feeling. Joy shows up occasionally, polite, brief, like a neighbour returning mail. I thank it. I don’t ask it to stay. There is no bottom to hit here, no dramatic collapse just a slow erosion of colour, of urgency, of believing that wanting counts for much. Still, I keep going. Not bravely. Not hopefully. Just steadily. Like someone who has learned how to live with a weight that never lifts, and calls that survival.

0

Jan 23

Jan 23, 2026 at 10:52 PM UTC

WiltedEverly

Low Tide

It isn’t sadness so much as gravity. A constant pull toward the floor no one else seems to feel. Mornings arrive already tired. The light does its best but never quite reaches the back rooms of my chest where things have been stored for years and forgotten. People say it will pass, as if this were weather. But this is climate. This is living under a sky that never storms, never clears just stays overcast until you stop checking. I function well enough. I answer messages, wash cups, remember birthdays. On paper, I am fine. In practice, everything takes twice the effort for half the feeling. Joy shows up occasionally, polite, brief, like a neighbour returning mail. I thank it. I don’t ask it to stay. There is no bottom to hit here, no dramatic collapse just a slow erosion of colour, of urgency, of believing that wanting counts for much. Still, I keep going. Not bravely. Not hopefully. Just steadily. Like someone who has learned how to live with a weight that never lifts, and calls that survival.

48

The days don’t rise or fall. They sit. Heavy. Like air that’s forgotten how to move. I wake already late to myself, bones filled with ideas of staying still. The mirror offers a version of me that looks completed, as if nothing more is required and nothing less would be noticed. Time keeps going without resistance. Meals happen because they must. Words leave my mouth on schedule, measured, appropriate, never enough to trouble anyone with the weight behind them. There is a dull arithmetic to being alive, what I take up, what I return, how easily the sum would reach zero without causing imbalance. Even sadness feels inefficient, a low hum instead of a cry. I don’t want to disappear loudly. I just want to reduce myself until the world doesn’t have to adjust. Somewhere between breath and thought the idea settles: that I am superfluous, an extra margin left wide after the text is finished. So I remain small. I pass through rooms carefully. Not hoping to be missed, only hoping that staying doesn’t count as taking too much.

0

Jan 18

Jan 18, 2026 at 3:46 AM UTC

WiltedEverly

Superfluous

The days don’t rise or fall. They sit. Heavy. Like air that’s forgotten how to move. I wake already late to myself, bones filled with ideas of staying still. The mirror offers a version of me that looks completed, as if nothing more is required and nothing less would be noticed. Time keeps going without resistance. Meals happen because they must. Words leave my mouth on schedule, measured, appropriate, never enough to trouble anyone with the weight behind them. There is a dull arithmetic to being alive, what I take up, what I return, how easily the sum would reach zero without causing imbalance. Even sadness feels inefficient, a low hum instead of a cry. I don’t want to disappear loudly. I just want to reduce myself until the world doesn’t have to adjust. Somewhere between breath and thought the idea settles: that I am superfluous, an extra margin left wide after the text is finished. So I remain small. I pass through rooms carefully. Not hoping to be missed, only hoping that staying doesn’t count as taking too much.

36

It wasn’t even a real party. Just family. Nan and Pop, my aunt, my parents. No friends to invite. No crowds to disappoint. There were going to be water balloons, darts stuck into a cork board, stupid little games that made the day feel a little lighter. Sixteen was supposed to be small but mine. Now everything feels heavy. The balloons are gone. The games are gone. The day stayed, but the meaning didn’t. They talk about dates and plans like I’m not standing right there. I don’t count down to my birthday anymore. __There’s a countdown hanging over me, and it ends when I stop belonging at home.__

0

Jan 4

Jan 4, 2026 at 4:12 AM UTC

WiltedEverly

Small but mine

It wasn’t even a real party. Just family. Nan and Pop, my aunt, my parents. No friends to invite. No crowds to disappoint. There were going to be water balloons, darts stuck into a cork board, stupid little games that made the day feel a little lighter. Sixteen was supposed to be small but mine. Now everything feels heavy. The balloons are gone. The games are gone. The day stayed, but the meaning didn’t. They talk about dates and plans like I’m not standing right there. I don’t count down to my birthday anymore. __There’s a countdown hanging over me, and it ends when I stop belonging at home.__

23

I can be laughing and mean it, I think. Then something shifts. A word, a look, a nothing. My smile stays where it is, but inside everything changes instantaneously. I don’t fall apart. I don’t cry. I just go quiet, like someone turned the volume down and forgot to turn it back up.

0

Dec 29, 2025

Dec 29, 2025 at 11:27 PM UTC

WiltedEverly

Instantaneously

I can be laughing and mean it, I think. Then something shifts. A word, a look, a nothing. My smile stays where it is, but inside everything changes instantaneously. I don’t fall apart. I don’t cry. I just go quiet, like someone turned the volume down and forgot to turn it back up.

15

I keep waking up in the wreckage of a life I swore I’d fix by now. The walls don’t echo anymore even the silence is tired of me. I used to dream in colour. Now everything feels dipped in the same dull grey, the shade of apologies I never stop repeating. Every regret has teeth. They drag across my thoughts, biting into the memories I pretend I’ve healed from. I taste blood and call it growth. People talk about hope like it’s a light switch, as if I can just flick it on and stop feeling the weight of every version of me I’ve already buried. Some nights, I rehearse my absence just to feel in control, imagining who would notice, who would lie about caring, who would sleep fine anyway. I don’t want grand endings. I just want the ache to stop pressing its thumbprint into my ribs. I want one hour where my thoughts don’t circle like vultures waiting for the final collapse. But I keep breathing, out of habit or spite, I’m not sure. Maybe survival is just a slow, uninterested miracle that I haven’t earned but keep receiving.

0

Dec 2, 2025

Dec 2, 2025 at 7:29 PM UTC

WiltedEverly

Disenchanted

I keep waking up in the wreckage of a life I swore I’d fix by now. The walls don’t echo anymore even the silence is tired of me. I used to dream in colour. Now everything feels dipped in the same dull grey, the shade of apologies I never stop repeating. Every regret has teeth. They drag across my thoughts, biting into the memories I pretend I’ve healed from. I taste blood and call it growth. People talk about hope like it’s a light switch, as if I can just flick it on and stop feeling the weight of every version of me I’ve already buried. Some nights, I rehearse my absence just to feel in control, imagining who would notice, who would lie about caring, who would sleep fine anyway. I don’t want grand endings. I just want the ache to stop pressing its thumbprint into my ribs. I want one hour where my thoughts don’t circle like vultures waiting for the final collapse. But I keep breathing, out of habit or spite, I’m not sure. Maybe survival is just a slow, uninterested miracle that I haven’t earned but keep receiving.

43

standing at the edge staring over the sky up above i wear blue, feel the rain on my skin and wonder how it'd be like if i were to just give up. a metaphorical ruin in all its might pen in hand, smoke coiling in the pit of stomach a heart that's too tender for this world bandaids, torn, wasted, blood soaked scars, numerous, multiple, scalded, searing, borderline rot a porcelain doll needs to be perfect glass button eyes that shine like the moonlight a smile stitched in thread and silk, perfect at all times strings ought to be pulled, it ought to move perfect slightest crack in the jaw of disobedience and cut all the threads that tie her to existence the hollowed out torso must be snatched tight fill the empty with the shoulds stuff it up with cotton pillowy soft and smooth fingers held in a perfect swirl eyelids dunked in silver, lashes painted and curled they created her with wishes for a different one she came to life, unbeknownst to the prays of her creators assuming she was needed, she gave her all failed—character, turned a bright velvet rot they failed her illusioned into thinking a necessity would rise where she'd be needed she worked all her life trying to prove—worth it, worth what even is that? porcelain lungs kept her weak enough walked and ran had her wings stolen, the branches cut just so she couldn't ever grow them again venom infiltrated her being, yet she kept going the same, hiding all the vulnerabilities sometimes, often, trying to encompass failing—drifting off the shore she tried, gripped onto the landing's edge took a step up trusted the wrong hand and so she became one among the fallen she grew the happy drug, clumsy clownery aiming to attack the hurt she'd pull the hands of those were too far those way too down, bringing them up foolishly empathetic, she always had the right words decade over and here she was realization dawning upon what was considered normal had made her mind go wary she didn't see the same with the other manufactures hers—just refused to carry the burden of existence, of not being friends with the other dolls they dimmed down her brightness, thunder came upon—and disguised her as the monster she pulls at herself disgusted seeing the reflection of what she has failed to be the doll she should have became the one they never wanted to brag thus came upon the search for some mighty a protector with a sword and shield racked brains and held hands asked for genuine—it turned out to be a mine filled land another facade, disappointment— it began to feel like nothing and then numb was all she had disqualified out of the race of being put up in the stores kept on the sidelines, with the ones that lose their chores they were perfect, on the display built for reasons, developed for anything but treason she relapsed, they played, toyed her around until she grew tired of the dates repeating themselves, same things over different days then came the hour—when she ripped herself apart held what was the soul they'd given her did it not turn out to be art? the soul needs nourishment requires the nutrients of love, of care, of resemblance protection from the weather, sunshine during the dark this one dissembled herself to tether they wouldn't have known couldn't ever see was everything at once nothing at all for eyes to seek splintered her ribs in trying to breathe through the ties lived through the silence, getting used—to the voices chambers of memory, locked away, dissipated decay of life, once that was held up proud in devotion affection turned sour, always a hidden meaning lullabies held infection, becoming a permanent ghost in order to stop bled in violet sometimes a black often there was nothing to bleed she ripped at that was left “is it fair to bleed upon the ones who didn't give you the wounds?” “is it fair to talk to let my darkness come over you?” you could cower, or fear, or walk away you could choose to just not listen i think it'll be better that way but for me to do the same i'd have to talk and talking is not what i can do so i sit late nights, after trips in my bedroom i lie, halfway on the bed staring at the glass panes of my balcony watching it rain and it rains so good just a few minutes ago i was drenched in the tears of the skies and i felt i thought i'd cry with it feel it, let it go but i cried after it as if it left something or i'd meant to wash out everything that i felt under the rain, choosing to get drenched but i think it washed out all the walls that i'd put up they were false, not strong or tall enough and so they tore, broke down and i—once again—bare to the world i felt it all and let it seep out i lie on my bed converses dripping in mud down my legs i aim to say i hate it but right now i don't care about the mess that it makes i just continue to read and write whatever hurts and i try to draw but my hands are clammy and they shake i can't take pictures either feels uncanny there's a movie playing it tells me to _speak_ tells me to move on with commitments to love and to repeat it's the need i can't do it something's up with me there's the mess of wiring in my brain i think somewhere a long long time ago it got electrocuted with pain and now i got shocks in form of feelings and when it hurts i tend to rule it out because it's not worth it and because i don't deserve it and i can't accept it i can't even seem to take it i wanna be heard without having to perform but i think i'm turning to every single thing that i thought wrong _a disappointment?_ i hope i'm not the movie however a quote— ‘if something's eating at you, you gotta find a way to use it’ so i shall use it put forward and even go as far as to misuse it i shall write just—don't don't don't react, alright? _it wouldn't matter if i disappeared like i'll be considered a loser by those who term to hold me dear what will the society say, they'll think of that not me, cause i just wasn't worth all that_ _mattering—is a tough achievement do i? for anyone really? jot down this event and i try to tell myself all the time i don't give a **** but the thing is i do and i wanna matter except i'm easily as replaceable as the piece of paper_ _i can't speak up when it matters the most so i tend to let moments just go and i can't express to save someone's life i can't do any shit—to save my own, right? and i absolutely always mess everything up like chaotic is fine, but being this way—a ****** chaos?_ _i might be the issue i feel like i'm nothing_ _and it messes me up cause i just spoil things there's the immense level of sadness that i carry it feels like it resides in my bones, way deep behind my eyes like every time i try to speak it just doesn't feel right like i stare, and observe and i try to understand them and love_ _but reciprocated—finding it acceptable enough is something i'm yet to achieve and i know they wouldn't bother honestly, no one does_ _just don't understand it like it isn't like i had a bad breakup or like i lost a family member or like i was violated that bad it doesn't feel fair to feel this big dark messy level of sad when life wasn't even that worse like everyone has it no?_ _but they told me i feel too much "if i'm too much accept me no?"_ _i feel like nothing and sometimes i want to give in to the night walk away not look back become one with the rain or the sky or the wind and just disappear forever_ _"i'm fine, trust me i'll be fine" i just don't understand it_ _why have such a sad soul? why make things sad, when they are entirely whole every single time i speak it's burdening and i wouldn't do that to my enemies i don't think i'm doing okay like i'll be—obviously "i'm okay" during moments and hours but at the end there's something really wrong with me like i'm broken? whatever is wrong with me can't be dealt with or made just right enough for people to see i'm not that bad i feel like i don't deserve to be here (i wanna take up all the place in your heart and consume it, not tear it apart)_ _am i sickening?_ _i'm not good enough "no don't say that" i'm not though "please don't say that" i'm not good for anything "please—the fresh wound and you're too sensitive"_ _like i don't deserve compliments or anything for that case and every time someone says i'm good or i make them feel good it feels fake_ _like what do u aim at what you talk about i'm pretty sure i'm messed up a piece that seems to make things up i can't make jokes but can be the clown can't make u laugh, but that's what my life's all about i don't even know how to have fun or make it fun boring, sidepiece overlooked, freaked out, messed up_ _nothing helps nothing really i'm numb and i feel too much it's complicated_ _"i don't wanna feel this way i don't wanna be this way i wanna be normal"_ _every time i write it down feels like i'm faking like it isn't even that bad they still can't see it i'm in the wrong body perhaps this isn't me wasn't who i was but i write down everything i'd want people to know even then i feel judged it's my own self and the demon on my shoulder_ _feels so bare though at times, i want to be alone but i despise it being in someone's company having to pretend it's normal being myself getting eaten away, by the paranormal watching them live and feeling like why the sadness exists only within me? where does it come from do i perhaps have a curse have i done something really really bad a long while ago?_ _writing was my oxygen now it's become poison i let it breathe but it consumes within me like a lochless monster and it takes up every bit of my skin i've got words inked, you just can't see cause they're transparently written_ _could i be invisible or hide somewhere, for a while until it feels feasible to exist again and to breathe without it having feel like there's a big big black hole vacuuming all the good, leaving behind all the bad there's a tightness in my chest_ _could i bleed, metaphorically? or physically even—let it seep and stain even the black will it stop hurting then? every time it feels good_ _was asked for something positive could come up with nothing what even is there but then i looked at their faces and they seemed to wonder oh such dire thinking we're all kind of messed up?_ _ask me how i feel i'd say great cause i do at least until i'm silent, for a second left alone to look around need help, not okay_ _"i'm alright don't worry it's just sometimes it gets too much to carry"_ _so i put it down_ _for periods, as it might be this bag that i've had since a forever, so bad, it carries all that i mistook for fortune and humor i get to play pretend have gotten quite good at that so i know when you intend to leave and that you will, cause you have to just leave_ _can't be bare cause they wouldn't care so i go along with their desires especially when they assume oh you know me? you love me and care for me? you wouldn't bat an eye when you see what levels i've achieved being ****** up i feel like i don't deserve any of you or this_ _but i know when things aren't real! can't even be delusional i try to be confident to pretend but it all seeps out through somewhere so many wounds uncountable, invisible do i wrap them or sew them shut to prove?_ _i don't know how to be complete can't go on with this pit of sad feel like i tend to infect and **** me, please before i do i can't infect you with myself too_ _"ignore this i'm alright trust me speaking the truth i cried i'll be done and back to normal in a day"_ i feel jealous of the rain it collects over time, pours until nothing remains the sky feels lighter it shines a bit brighter i just shower under it would want to wring myself dry like it i ought to sleep but there's violet in my hands

0

Jul 31, 2025

Jul 31, 2025 at 5:21 AM UTC

poeticaofisshues

the perfect character's monologue

standing at the edge staring over the sky up above i wear blue, feel the rain on my skin and wonder how it'd be like if i were to just give up. a metaphorical ruin in all its might pen in hand, smoke coiling in the pit of stomach a heart that's too tender for this world bandaids, torn, wasted, blood soaked scars, numerous, multiple, scalded, searing, borderline rot a porcelain doll needs to be perfect glass button eyes that shine like the moonlight a smile stitched in thread and silk, perfect at all times strings ought to be pulled, it ought to move perfect slightest crack in the jaw of disobedience and cut all the threads that tie her to existence the hollowed out torso must be snatched tight fill the empty with the shoulds stuff it up with cotton pillowy soft and smooth fingers held in a perfect swirl eyelids dunked in silver, lashes painted and curled they created her with wishes for a different one she came to life, unbeknownst to the prays of her creators assuming she was needed, she gave her all failed—character, turned a bright velvet rot they failed her illusioned into thinking a necessity would rise where she'd be needed she worked all her life trying to prove—worth it, worth what even is that? porcelain lungs kept her weak enough walked and ran had her wings stolen, the branches cut just so she couldn't ever grow them again venom infiltrated her being, yet she kept going the same, hiding all the vulnerabilities sometimes, often, trying to encompass failing—drifting off the shore she tried, gripped onto the landing's edge took a step up trusted the wrong hand and so she became one among the fallen she grew the happy drug, clumsy clownery aiming to attack the hurt she'd pull the hands of those were too far those way too down, bringing them up foolishly empathetic, she always had the right words decade over and here she was realization dawning upon what was considered normal had made her mind go wary she didn't see the same with the other manufactures hers—just refused to carry the burden of existence, of not being friends with the other dolls they dimmed down her brightness, thunder came upon—and disguised her as the monster she pulls at herself disgusted seeing the reflection of what she has failed to be the doll she should have became the one they never wanted to brag thus came upon the search for some mighty a protector with a sword and shield racked brains and held hands asked for genuine—it turned out to be a mine filled land another facade, disappointment— it began to feel like nothing and then numb was all she had disqualified out of the race of being put up in the stores kept on the sidelines, with the ones that lose their chores they were perfect, on the display built for reasons, developed for anything but treason she relapsed, they played, toyed her around until she grew tired of the dates repeating themselves, same things over different days then came the hour—when she ripped herself apart held what was the soul they'd given her did it not turn out to be art? the soul needs nourishment requires the nutrients of love, of care, of resemblance protection from the weather, sunshine during the dark this one dissembled herself to tether they wouldn't have known couldn't ever see was everything at once nothing at all for eyes to seek splintered her ribs in trying to breathe through the ties lived through the silence, getting used—to the voices chambers of memory, locked away, dissipated decay of life, once that was held up proud in devotion affection turned sour, always a hidden meaning lullabies held infection, becoming a permanent ghost in order to stop bled in violet sometimes a black often there was nothing to bleed she ripped at that was left “is it fair to bleed upon the ones who didn't give you the wounds?” “is it fair to talk to let my darkness come over you?” you could cower, or fear, or walk away you could choose to just not listen i think it'll be better that way but for me to do the same i'd have to talk and talking is not what i can do so i sit late nights, after trips in my bedroom i lie, halfway on the bed staring at the glass panes of my balcony watching it rain and it rains so good just a few minutes ago i was drenched in the tears of the skies and i felt i thought i'd cry with it feel it, let it go but i cried after it as if it left something or i'd meant to wash out everything that i felt under the rain, choosing to get drenched but i think it washed out all the walls that i'd put up they were false, not strong or tall enough and so they tore, broke down and i—once again—bare to the world i felt it all and let it seep out i lie on my bed converses dripping in mud down my legs i aim to say i hate it but right now i don't care about the mess that it makes i just continue to read and write whatever hurts and i try to draw but my hands are clammy and they shake i can't take pictures either feels uncanny there's a movie playing it tells me to _speak_ tells me to move on with commitments to love and to repeat it's the need i can't do it something's up with me there's the mess of wiring in my brain i think somewhere a long long time ago it got electrocuted with pain and now i got shocks in form of feelings and when it hurts i tend to rule it out because it's not worth it and because i don't deserve it and i can't accept it i can't even seem to take it i wanna be heard without having to perform but i think i'm turning to every single thing that i thought wrong _a disappointment?_ i hope i'm not the movie however a quote— ‘if something's eating at you, you gotta find a way to use it’ so i shall use it put forward and even go as far as to misuse it i shall write just—don't don't don't react, alright? _it wouldn't matter if i disappeared like i'll be considered a loser by those who term to hold me dear what will the society say, they'll think of that not me, cause i just wasn't worth all that_ _mattering—is a tough achievement do i? for anyone really? jot down this event and i try to tell myself all the time i don't give a **** but the thing is i do and i wanna matter except i'm easily as replaceable as the piece of paper_ _i can't speak up when it matters the most so i tend to let moments just go and i can't express to save someone's life i can't do any shit—to save my own, right? and i absolutely always mess everything up like chaotic is fine, but being this way—a ****** chaos?_ _i might be the issue i feel like i'm nothing_ _and it messes me up cause i just spoil things there's the immense level of sadness that i carry it feels like it resides in my bones, way deep behind my eyes like every time i try to speak it just doesn't feel right like i stare, and observe and i try to understand them and love_ _but reciprocated—finding it acceptable enough is something i'm yet to achieve and i know they wouldn't bother honestly, no one does_ _just don't understand it like it isn't like i had a bad breakup or like i lost a family member or like i was violated that bad it doesn't feel fair to feel this big dark messy level of sad when life wasn't even that worse like everyone has it no?_ _but they told me i feel too much "if i'm too much accept me no?"_ _i feel like nothing and sometimes i want to give in to the night walk away not look back become one with the rain or the sky or the wind and just disappear forever_ _"i'm fine, trust me i'll be fine" i just don't understand it_ _why have such a sad soul? why make things sad, when they are entirely whole every single time i speak it's burdening and i wouldn't do that to my enemies i don't think i'm doing okay like i'll be—obviously "i'm okay" during moments and hours but at the end there's something really wrong with me like i'm broken? whatever is wrong with me can't be dealt with or made just right enough for people to see i'm not that bad i feel like i don't deserve to be here (i wanna take up all the place in your heart and consume it, not tear it apart)_ _am i sickening?_ _i'm not good enough "no don't say that" i'm not though "please don't say that" i'm not good for anything "please—the fresh wound and you're too sensitive"_ _like i don't deserve compliments or anything for that case and every time someone says i'm good or i make them feel good it feels fake_ _like what do u aim at what you talk about i'm pretty sure i'm messed up a piece that seems to make things up i can't make jokes but can be the clown can't make u laugh, but that's what my life's all about i don't even know how to have fun or make it fun boring, sidepiece overlooked, freaked out, messed up_ _nothing helps nothing really i'm numb and i feel too much it's complicated_ _"i don't wanna feel this way i don't wanna be this way i wanna be normal"_ _every time i write it down feels like i'm faking like it isn't even that bad they still can't see it i'm in the wrong body perhaps this isn't me wasn't who i was but i write down everything i'd want people to know even then i feel judged it's my own self and the demon on my shoulder_ _feels so bare though at times, i want to be alone but i despise it being in someone's company having to pretend it's normal being myself getting eaten away, by the paranormal watching them live and feeling like why the sadness exists only within me? where does it come from do i perhaps have a curse have i done something really really bad a long while ago?_ _writing was my oxygen now it's become poison i let it breathe but it consumes within me like a lochless monster and it takes up every bit of my skin i've got words inked, you just can't see cause they're transparently written_ _could i be invisible or hide somewhere, for a while until it feels feasible to exist again and to breathe without it having feel like there's a big big black hole vacuuming all the good, leaving behind all the bad there's a tightness in my chest_ _could i bleed, metaphorically? or physically even—let it seep and stain even the black will it stop hurting then? every time it feels good_ _was asked for something positive could come up with nothing what even is there but then i looked at their faces and they seemed to wonder oh such dire thinking we're all kind of messed up?_ _ask me how i feel i'd say great cause i do at least until i'm silent, for a second left alone to look around need help, not okay_ _"i'm alright don't worry it's just sometimes it gets too much to carry"_ _so i put it down_ _for periods, as it might be this bag that i've had since a forever, so bad, it carries all that i mistook for fortune and humor i get to play pretend have gotten quite good at that so i know when you intend to leave and that you will, cause you have to just leave_ _can't be bare cause they wouldn't care so i go along with their desires especially when they assume oh you know me? you love me and care for me? you wouldn't bat an eye when you see what levels i've achieved being ****** up i feel like i don't deserve any of you or this_ _but i know when things aren't real! can't even be delusional i try to be confident to pretend but it all seeps out through somewhere so many wounds uncountable, invisible do i wrap them or sew them shut to prove?_ _i don't know how to be complete can't go on with this pit of sad feel like i tend to infect and **** me, please before i do i can't infect you with myself too_ _"ignore this i'm alright trust me speaking the truth i cried i'll be done and back to normal in a day"_ i feel jealous of the rain it collects over time, pours until nothing remains the sky feels lighter it shines a bit brighter i just shower under it would want to wring myself dry like it i ought to sleep but there's violet in my hands

384

He said, “One day I just said **** it.” Like that. Just like that. Quit his job, sold his stuff, bought a van and now it’s him and Wolfie, his pointy-eared pup, somewhere between red dirt and blue sky on a road that doesn’t ask for permission. I found him on some random forum — not even supposed to be there — we talked tonight, he told me things like I wasn’t just a name with no face. He told me about the sunsets he never planned to see, how they sneak up on him like a song that makes you stop walking, how the sky melts into colours too good for photos. And Wolfie, perched besides him, alert and calm, ears slicing the wind like she was born for freedom. He said he did everything he was told to do. Uni. Job. Money. Success. People clapped. He felt nothing. So he left. No map, just vibes and Spotify. And here I am. crammed into a plastic desk, under buzzing lights learning about wars I’ll never fight in clothes that aren’t me surrounded by people who talk but never say anything real. I told him I’m 15 and tired all the time. He said, “That’s heavy for 15.” I said “It’s heavier when no one notices.” He said “Hold on. You won’t always be stuck.” And maybe it’s weird, but I keep thinking about his van under that endless sky, Wolfie with ears like tiny sails chasing ghosts across sunburnt sand, and him choosing beauty on purpose. And I pretend I’m not this ghost in a uniform but her the girl who said **** it and meant it. Maybe one day, when the world stops demanding hall passes, I’ll do it too. Maybe I’ll find my own road and a dog like Wolfie and a van and a sky that doesn’t judge me for wanting to disappear into something more.

0

May 3, 2025

May 3, 2025 at 8:46 AM UTC

WiltedEverly

Van Man by a girl who still has to ask to go to the bathroom

He said, “One day I just said **** it.” Like that. Just like that. Quit his job, sold his stuff, bought a van and now it’s him and Wolfie, his pointy-eared pup, somewhere between red dirt and blue sky on a road that doesn’t ask for permission. I found him on some random forum — not even supposed to be there — we talked tonight, he told me things like I wasn’t just a name with no face. He told me about the sunsets he never planned to see, how they sneak up on him like a song that makes you stop walking, how the sky melts into colours too good for photos. And Wolfie, perched besides him, alert and calm, ears slicing the wind like she was born for freedom. He said he did everything he was told to do. Uni. Job. Money. Success. People clapped. He felt nothing. So he left. No map, just vibes and Spotify. And here I am. crammed into a plastic desk, under buzzing lights learning about wars I’ll never fight in clothes that aren’t me surrounded by people who talk but never say anything real. I told him I’m 15 and tired all the time. He said, “That’s heavy for 15.” I said “It’s heavier when no one notices.” He said “Hold on. You won’t always be stuck.” And maybe it’s weird, but I keep thinking about his van under that endless sky, Wolfie with ears like tiny sails chasing ghosts across sunburnt sand, and him choosing beauty on purpose. And I pretend I’m not this ghost in a uniform but her the girl who said **** it and meant it. Maybe one day, when the world stops demanding hall passes, I’ll do it too. Maybe I’ll find my own road and a dog like Wolfie and a van and a sky that doesn’t judge me for wanting to disappear into something more.

63

My mouth is a magpie. I collect syllables like shiny things and scream them into soup. Alphabet in disarray. Syntax on fire. Verbs wearing fishnets. I said please but it came out pyre. I said love but it burned at both ends and tasted like lightning bugs smothered in saran wrap. This isn’t poetry. It’s a word riot. A sentence rebellion. A grammar glitch in God’s inbox. I built a language out of side-eyes and stutters, called it flinchlish. Conjugated heartbreak like it was Spanish. (I hurt, you hurt, we— don’t talk about that anymore.) Sometimes I write elegies in emojis. Sometimes I tongue-twist psalms into punchlines. Sometimes I just scream into Google Docs until it autocorrects sorry to spine. My voice is a thesaurus spun too fast in a washing machine. Everything comes out wrinkled, wet, a little more mine.

0

Apr 6, 2025

Apr 6, 2025 at 9:52 AM UTC

Kiernan515

Glossolalia with a Side of Grime

My mouth is a magpie. I collect syllables like shiny things and scream them into soup. Alphabet in disarray. Syntax on fire. Verbs wearing fishnets. I said please but it came out pyre. I said love but it burned at both ends and tasted like lightning bugs smothered in saran wrap. This isn’t poetry. It’s a word riot. A sentence rebellion. A grammar glitch in God’s inbox. I built a language out of side-eyes and stutters, called it flinchlish. Conjugated heartbreak like it was Spanish. (I hurt, you hurt, we— don’t talk about that anymore.) Sometimes I write elegies in emojis. Sometimes I tongue-twist psalms into punchlines. Sometimes I just scream into Google Docs until it autocorrects sorry to spine. My voice is a thesaurus spun too fast in a washing machine. Everything comes out wrinkled, wet, a little more mine.

29