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(a poem in six stained glass windows) I. BECOMING I used to flinch when someone said “You’re gonna be big someday,” like—how big? How loud? How lonely? How much of me do I have to lose to be loved that widely? I kissed a boy once just to see if I could still feel small. I could. then I wrote about it, rhymed tongue with undone, called it healing. Some nights I Google myself with the same hunger you search a symptom. Just hoping it’s not fatal. Just hoping it is. Just hoping there’s finally a name for it. My digital footprint is a shrine to girls I outgrew but never buried, their teenage poems still written in Sharpie on the back of my ribs. My first book will ship with a hand strung bracelet that says “I survived myself.” II. PERFORMING Every time I tell the story I’m a little more clever, a little less heartbroken, a little more dangerous, a little more wrong. I have a bad habit of leaving confessions in comment sections— breadcrumbs on the internet floor, for anyone sad enough to mistake me for a map. I used to rehearse goodbyes in mirrors, just to see if my eyes could lie as well as my mouth did. They could. They still can. They called me brave for saying it out loud. But I only said it because the silence was louder. The secret to staying soft is deleting the parts where I’m anything else. I write best in hotel rooms because they feel borrowed, too— because no one expects the towels to stay white or the girl to stay quiet. III. DISGUISING “SENSITIVE” was printed on my sweatshirt the night he told me I hurt myself through him— at least now he can’t say I never gave a trigger warning. Half of my closet is clearance rack chaos, the other half is second-hand salvation— each hanger a theory of who I’ll be next. Sometimes I dress like the version of me I think he could’ve stayed for. Every good body day feels like a plot twist, like God gave me a guest pass to precious. He said I was too much, but whispered it like praise. Now I underline his fears in neon. Some nights I still wake at 3:14 to texts I dreamt he sent— all apologies and no punctuation. I screenshot compliments like they’re prescriptions, take two every six hours, pray my body doesn’t reject them. One day, I’ll ask the pharmacy if they carry praise in extended-release. Every dress in my closet whispers “wear me to his funeral,” but he keeps refusing to die, so I just overdress for brunch— and sit facing the door just in case. IV. SEARCHING I footnoted the grief. Added asterisks to all my ‘I’m fine’s.' Even my browser history reads like a girl on fire. My greatest fear isn’t that I’ll fail— it’s that someday I’ll win and realize the trophy feels exactly like loneliness, but heavier. I read horoscopes for signs of relapse, Googling “Do Libras experience nostalgia?” at 5:15 a.m. like a drunk astrologer pleading with the stars to cut me off. I used to edit Wikipedia pages for characters who reminded me of myself, changing their endings to “she survives,” “she gets out,” “she burns the diary.” They banned my IP for excessive optimism. I took it as a compliment. V. RECKONING The girls who follow me online all think I have answers. I don’t. I have questions in fancy fonts and delusions of grandeur dressed as advice. My therapist asks me to describe “progress,” and I show her unsent messages, leftover pills, and a notebook filled with poems written in my sleep— and one that woke me up Screaming. Some of you highlight my breakdowns like they’re quotes. I get it. I do it too. VI. ALONE My brain is a group chat of all the selves I've ghosted, texting in all caps and sending GIFs that scream, "Remember when you thought you'd be happy by now?" If this poem goes viral, tell them I made it big. Tell them I got loud. Tell them I wasn’t lonely. Just alone by design. Like all cathedrals are.
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Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 5:00 AM UTC
Kiernan515
Cathedral Theory
(a poem in six stained glass windows) I. BECOMING I used to flinch when someone said “You’re gonna be big someday,” like—how big? How loud? How lonely? How much of me do I have to lose to be loved that widely? I kissed a boy once just to see if I could still feel small. I could. then I wrote about it, rhymed tongue with undone, called it healing. Some nights I Google myself with the same hunger you search a symptom. Just hoping it’s not fatal. Just hoping it is. Just hoping there’s finally a name for it. My digital footprint is a shrine to girls I outgrew but never buried, their teenage poems still written in Sharpie on the back of my ribs. My first book will ship with a hand strung bracelet that says “I survived myself.” II. PERFORMING Every time I tell the story I’m a little more clever, a little less heartbroken, a little more dangerous, a little more wrong. I have a bad habit of leaving confessions in comment sections— breadcrumbs on the internet floor, for anyone sad enough to mistake me for a map. I used to rehearse goodbyes in mirrors, just to see if my eyes could lie as well as my mouth did. They could. They still can. They called me brave for saying it out loud. But I only said it because the silence was louder. The secret to staying soft is deleting the parts where I’m anything else. I write best in hotel rooms because they feel borrowed, too— because no one expects the towels to stay white or the girl to stay quiet. III. DISGUISING “SENSITIVE” was printed on my sweatshirt the night he told me I hurt myself through him— at least now he can’t say I never gave a trigger warning. Half of my closet is clearance rack chaos, the other half is second-hand salvation— each hanger a theory of who I’ll be next. Sometimes I dress like the version of me I think he could’ve stayed for. Every good body day feels like a plot twist, like God gave me a guest pass to precious. He said I was too much, but whispered it like praise. Now I underline his fears in neon. Some nights I still wake at 3:14 to texts I dreamt he sent— all apologies and no punctuation. I screenshot compliments like they’re prescriptions, take two every six hours, pray my body doesn’t reject them. One day, I’ll ask the pharmacy if they carry praise in extended-release. Every dress in my closet whispers “wear me to his funeral,” but he keeps refusing to die, so I just overdress for brunch— and sit facing the door just in case. IV. SEARCHING I footnoted the grief. Added asterisks to all my ‘I’m fine’s.' Even my browser history reads like a girl on fire. My greatest fear isn’t that I’ll fail— it’s that someday I’ll win and realize the trophy feels exactly like loneliness, but heavier. I read horoscopes for signs of relapse, Googling “Do Libras experience nostalgia?” at 5:15 a.m. like a drunk astrologer pleading with the stars to cut me off. I used to edit Wikipedia pages for characters who reminded me of myself, changing their endings to “she survives,” “she gets out,” “she burns the diary.” They banned my IP for excessive optimism. I took it as a compliment. V. RECKONING The girls who follow me online all think I have answers. I don’t. I have questions in fancy fonts and delusions of grandeur dressed as advice. My therapist asks me to describe “progress,” and I show her unsent messages, leftover pills, and a notebook filled with poems written in my sleep— and one that woke me up Screaming. Some of you highlight my breakdowns like they’re quotes. I get it. I do it too. VI. ALONE My brain is a group chat of all the selves I've ghosted, texting in all caps and sending GIFs that scream, "Remember when you thought you'd be happy by now?" If this poem goes viral, tell them I made it big. Tell them I got loud. Tell them I wasn’t lonely. Just alone by design. Like all cathedrals are.
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