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#soulwork
I miss the softness of my soul like you miss a limb that still aches long after it’s gone. It used to rise to the surface, warm as breath on glass, fragile as moth wings beating against porch light. I could feel everything. Too much, maybe, but I was alive. Now there is a quiet in me that does not belong to peace. It is the quiet of abandoned houses. Of curtains stiff with dust. Of a piano no one touches because the keys remember. I hardened slowly. Not in a single storm, but in small, daily weather. A word withheld. A truth twisted. A door that closed and closed and closed. I learned to cauterize tenderness. To press flame against feeling until it stopped bleeding. Called it growth. Called it wisdom. Called it necessary. But some nights I feel her knocking from the inside of my ribs. Soft hands. Soft voice. Asking why I left her there. The softness of my soul was not weakness. It was light. And I smothered it to survive the dark. Now I move through rooms like something half-formed, all edge, all echo. People say I seem strong. They do not see the grave I carry. I miss crying without shame. Trusting without strategy. Reaching without calculating the cost of the fall. There is a version of me buried beneath scar tissue, still tender, still luminous, still believing that love does not always require armor. Sometimes I press my hand against my own chest just to check, just to see, if anything soft is still breathing in there. And in the dark, when no one is watching, I swear I can hear it. ::Faint:: ::Fragile:: ::Not dead:: Just afraid to come back into a world that taught it how to disappear.
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Mar 2
Mar 2, 2026 at 3:53 PM UTC
Untitled
I miss the softness of my soul like you miss a limb that still aches long after it’s gone. It used to rise to the surface, warm as breath on glass, fragile as moth wings beating against porch light. I could feel everything. Too much, maybe, but I was alive. Now there is a quiet in me that does not belong to peace. It is the quiet of abandoned houses. Of curtains stiff with dust. Of a piano no one touches because the keys remember. I hardened slowly. Not in a single storm, but in small, daily weather. A word withheld. A truth twisted. A door that closed and closed and closed. I learned to cauterize tenderness. To press flame against feeling until it stopped bleeding. Called it growth. Called it wisdom. Called it necessary. But some nights I feel her knocking from the inside of my ribs. Soft hands. Soft voice. Asking why I left her there. The softness of my soul was not weakness. It was light. And I smothered it to survive the dark. Now I move through rooms like something half-formed, all edge, all echo. People say I seem strong. They do not see the grave I carry. I miss crying without shame. Trusting without strategy. Reaching without calculating the cost of the fall. There is a version of me buried beneath scar tissue, still tender, still luminous, still believing that love does not always require armor. Sometimes I press my hand against my own chest just to check, just to see, if anything soft is still breathing in there. And in the dark, when no one is watching, I swear I can hear it. ::Faint:: ::Fragile:: ::Not dead:: Just afraid to come back into a world that taught it how to disappear.
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Optional is not an option anymore. I will roam and I will writhe. I will rally and rebuild. I will pave a road, I'll launch a ship. I'll race a train, I'll run like hell. Option is not an option anymore. I'll **** the marrow from my spine. I'll hold my head above the moon. I'll dive in the deep, I'll out speed a bullet. I'll wander out, I'll slide away. I'll lead an army and bomb the past. Declare unrest and start new rule. Crown a new king, I'll carve a new stone. I'll turn a new leaf and I'll sing a new song. I'll make a new wish And I'll burn a new bush. I'll write a new page And jump in with both feet. I'll love a new lover And befriend whom you hate. I'll start a campaign. I'll torch down our home. I'll move heaven and earth one inch to the left. I'll shake and I'll regroup. I'll push and I'll **** I'll bend, and I'll break and I'll steal, I WILL TAKE Because optionals not an option anymore. Sahn   6/8/14
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Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
Optional *draft edition* (the process)