#selferasure
It’s not the hit.
that part is simple.
it’s got a shape,
it’s got a bruise
you can point at
like a cheap tattoo you regret.
the real mess is later.
the morning after
when the coffee tastes like pennies
and the light comes in
and makes your place look like
a bad decision.
you tell people
it’s nothing.
because telling the truth
takes too long.
and most of them
only want the short version anyway,
the one that fits
between their errands
and their appetite.
so you practice.
you get good at it.
it’s fine.
it’s nothing.
it’s been worse.
you hand that sentence out
like a receipt
for a thing you never wanted to buy.
and you get tired,
tired in a way sleep can’t fix,
tired of translating pain
into clean words
for people who need it tidy
or they won’t believe you.
the hit is not the end.
the end is when you start shaving yourself down
without anyone asking.
you swallow the laugh.
you tuck away the opinion.
you apologize early
like it’s a habit
like it’s a tax.
you shrink
so the room can feel bigger.
then you walk around
like you owe the world
a smaller you.
like you should take up less space
and be grateful
for whatever they leave you.
and that’s the part that ruins you.
quietly.
like rust.
Jan 4
Jan 4, 2026 at 6:22 PM UTC
Every man has left a different door open in me.
I keep the lights on for all of them.
I have learned to call this love
instead of what it is:
a mouth that stays open
long after the word has gone.
They come to me burning
and I let them.
I have held so many people
through the worst nights of their lives
and still gone to bed alone,
my hands still warm
from someone else's grief.
The ribcage is a room.
I have known this for years.
I have furnished it for everyone
but myself.
How beautifully they applaud the bruise.
To be known for the song
is to be unknown for the throat.
I am always the feast,
never the table.
I watched a boy kiss a girl under the streetlight,
his mouth the anchor,
her body the sea.
I have so much water in me
and I am still dying of thirst.
They walked back to their lives
I built out of air.
I built out of air
and called it enough.
I called it enough.
God, I called it enough.
May 16
May 16, 2026 at 5:02 PM UTC
As the blossoms would cherish a pretty smile — I keep offering
the softest parts of me, hoping someone will notice the bloom,
not the trembling stem beneath it. I start plucking away the petals
of myself; turning my own hands into the gardeners who decide
which version of me should survive.
And every time I pull a part of me off, I whisper a blessing
and a burial — change this, hide that, soften here, don’t show
too much there. It’s strange how becoming better can feel so
much like becoming less.
I stand in the mirror repeating the ritual:
“I love this version… I love not this version of me.”
Both truths hold me, both truths undo me.
Some days I bloom. Other days I collect
the petals I’ve torn off and try to remember
what I looked like before I started editing
myself into someone else’s
_favourite flower._
Nov 25, 2025
Nov 25, 2025 at 4:00 PM UTC