#spilledthoughts
if you question it
it was never certain
standing in the rain
wet to the bone
a boy
wondering
wandering
questioning
reasoning
talking to the empty street
and a lamppost
speaking his mind
about everything and nothing
his voice shaking
between the drops
the lamppost flickering
like it's tired from listening
for a moment
he stops
thinking
he hears an answer
but no
just the rain
hitting the concrete
and it never answered
it just kept falling
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 9:40 PM UTC
Nothing new pulls the heart.
Love written for a dusted piece of garden,
where melody of rain falls apart.
Where people make reels,
you write how bitter pain feels.
When they go to bar,
your mind drifts to stars so far.
They influence the society,
yet you choose to stay under the blanket of imagery and poetry.
You are not lost,
found within words where magic pulls the most.
A moon child who talks to darkness,
listens to the words of wind,
the connection isn’t easy to find.
Divided by measure, yet united by pain we treasure.
Hallway of memories,
unfinished paintings and whispering stories.
We live ? it’s a lie.
Sunflowers without sunlight,
long time died.
They may have thousands of people follow,
but you stay alone within words that never stop to grow.
The pain burns your throat,
standing on desert takes away a lot.
Someone said the ending depends on intention,
let’s wait together for Afterlife Station.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 3:58 PM UTC
He came like a star
in my life
and left
like a thunderstorm
Love is the word
that had been holding us together
but the love
itself was missing
He gave me butterflies
at first
but I didn't know
those same butterflies
were going to
ruin the flowers
inside me.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 3:07 AM UTC
Melt me into a thousand, reflective sighs. I ache for such sweet release — hypnotic, cathartic. I want to see myself drown once — with my life flashing in a slow-spinning liquid mirrorball. Just once in such graceful, calm, permanent surrender. Just once, and for the last time.
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 4:14 AM UTC
I’ll think of you, of our memories together
of your hands entwined in mine
of morning kisses and tight hugs
of the love you once told me forever.
This will be the last time I’ll ever ache for your loss.
Aug 18, 2021
Aug 18, 2021 at 10:24 AM UTC
i.
i always find a space for myself
in small places:
ii.
in my mother's open wounds,
there i dance with salt and lime
and my father's misplaced angers.
iii.
in the scratched frames
under the nails of an angry girl.
in between cowering sunbeams
i lick the walls clean of dust.
iv.
in the fifth page of thrifted book,
back when i was in love with bukowski,
i look at the stains of a summer day sin
and see a five-feet
egyptian sarcophagus taped with figures;
what is the hieroglyph for pity,
so that hathor takes me back to the tight spaces of her womb?
what is the hieroglyph for homelessness?
what is the hieroglyph for misplaced?
v.
i always find a space for myself
in small places:
in the holes of a tire,
in between discolored knuckles,
in desperate places where a body gives up
and wastes away;
there's a space for one more.
vi.
i always find a space for myself
in small places — they wait with such quiet patience
like a father to a prodigal child —
i always find a space for myself
waiting in small places,
it calls hauntingly, like a well-loved, familiar ghost.
yet i cannot come back.
i am too huge with sorrows now —
too full with wistful human bones.
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 8:36 AM UTC
august is a map of my fullest aches. it always has heartbreaks for me to feel. it is all the wrong lights hitting all my wrong angles and now i'm facing a mirror of my body covered in torn traces of breaths — an empty space, a backdrop for a sight of star dusts lingering. august is a map of my feet where the sea has buried technicolored glasses — all swelling, all wounds dulled by the salt and the summer rain. soon, august will all wear off like a cruel high; it's done seeing me mourning, and i'll be an empty shell for september to wash away.
walk past me in the shallow seas. walk past me in full aching state. walk past me — look past; i long to be a ghost of something delicate, something not terrifying, something that doesn't haunt.
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 9:46 PM UTC
i am looking at it now from afar — that certain kind of pain that would mirror mine; how immense it must be to go through it, and i can only imagine getting out. how immense the pain must be, how terrible, to wish for a kind of comfort only a certain, abrupt finality can bring. i am looking at it now from afar: skin as gray as mine and lately, the daybreak just brings in its rays more nights for us to swallow.
if it brings you any semblance of a cold comfort — the one you seek, i hope you know, i'll die in your place. i wish i can take it all away.
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 3:22 AM UTC
i.
pluck the aching out of my ribs — one by one
as though they were teeth that had sunk —
latched themselves onto these bones,
until it is but a pile of bite marks,
a pile of mildewed flowers —
festering like sins, like punishment.
pluck each bruising bone,
some things belong to my chest.
some, to firelight.
ii.
pluck a rib,
make the sweetest, purest, brand new woman —
all lace girdle and nectarine lips,
stepping out of the outskirts of my skin
as i watch from the other side of an exit wound — the inner side.
maybe in another life, that can be me.
thou shalt not covet.
i close the window.
i zip the skin.
iii.
tonight, i kneel in a confessional —
screaming away all banal sorrows,
screaming away all banal sins.
pull the aching out of my ribs —
it's in its rawest just before the dawn.
pull the aching out of my ribs.
a corrupted sight
for awakened flowers. ringing church bells. hummingbirds.
oh, a corrupted sight.
and mornings will hear its aftermath.
Mar 21, 2021
Mar 21, 2021 at 10:53 PM UTC
maybe some types of chaos do not have to make sense or unveil some semblance of an epiphany. some types of chaos, you just have to feel. some types of chaos, you just have to lie through.
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 9:54 AM UTC
rip my chest the way you would an ugly sight of flowers. take everything away. i have no need for this much aching. i have no need for this much consuming anguish — this much self-violence barely restrained by my ribs. rip my chest and leave me empty of breaths and prayers for saints who don't know my name. leave me clean, and numb, and brand new — without memory and without any trace of all agony i ever kept between the lines of my poems. this isn't one — this isn't one anymore.
rip my chest and take everything away. rip my chest, i beg you, and take away all of my violence. take away all of my pain. take away all that i ever was, now just hurting — now, just lying around in waste.
rip my chest and take away all that i am.
rip my chest.
leave nothing behind
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 2:56 AM UTC
no i am not kind, i will pull your heart out of your chest — stain it with fleeting moments of softness before running it over with my train-wreck hands. i will pick you wild roses — they all die in my palms; maybe so will this love. i will kiss you and hold you, as we slow-dance our way to disaster; all we can do is sigh and crumble like greek ruins dying in a modern city. is it so bad, then, loving you with the kind of love that breaks and terrifies, and leaves you hurting and burning and wanting more? is this so bad, then, when it's the only way i've ever loved, and the only way i've ever known?
Feb 15, 2021
Feb 15, 2021 at 10:25 PM UTC
i need a safe place to take off my skin and scoop out all the sorrows it carries. it peels. it burns, like a banished soul. but i have stopped saying my prayers — they just crumble into a ghostly sigh. i need a safe place — to take a peek at my demons without looking like one of them: a hurtful father. a forsaken son. a snake that sheds its memories and sins. i need a safe place to still my breathing — without my fingers pressed on a bruise and without my hands around neck. i need a safe place — a place away from all these thoughts, away from all these hurting. away from all of me.
Feb 12, 2021
Feb 12, 2021 at 9:41 PM UTC
i.
the scent of sorrow, hanging in the air
rotting away what's left of this skin.
wrists — sewn shut
are wrists undone:
the morbidity of it all pervades —
this i confess.
ii.
look not. turn not, for
each careful stare, each scornful gaze
has me falling back into darkness;
maybe eurydice has found comfort in its arms.
maybe so have i.
maybe this is how it's always meant to end.
iii.
lately, sunsets no longer melt
into an afterglow —
they just turn into the night.
at least it dims
the futility of drawing each shallow breath
from places filled with smoke and dust;
there used to be something there:
this, i confess.
this, i remember.
there used to be something there.
there used to be something h e r e.
— fray // november, must you be so cruel to my trembling hands left with no heart to break?
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 6:04 AM UTC
I'm sorry if someone made you feel like it was hard to love you
I'm sorry if you feel like being exactly who you are isn't good enough
I'm sorry if you look in the mirror and hate what you see because someone else said that you weren't beautiful
I'm sorry if you've ever questioned whether your life was worth living because some **** told you the world would be better off without you.
I'm sorry if youre reading this right now and relating to this.
I'm sorry if society's expectations of how a girl should look, what size they should be, and how they should ask, made you think that you were doing it all wrong.
I'm sorry your beautiful soul has ever had to question anything about who you are because the truth is, the world needs more people like YOU.
The truth is they're all wrong.
And I'm sorry for all the years you believed them and all of the tears you cried and nights you asked God why you weren't good enough.
You are.
You always were.
You were never hard to love, you were just loving the wrong people.
I'm sorry they wasted your time.
But its about time you stop hating yourself for not being everyone else's idea of yourself, and start being the version of yourself that you can live with and love.
-c.m.
Sep 30, 2020
Sep 30, 2020 at 12:32 PM UTC
And I hope you miss her so much; I hope the warm glow of her skin, and the aimless walks, and the sound of her laughter, and the blackberry kisses dipping on your tailbone were all worth it — spoiling what I'd hoped was pure.
Delicate.
Home.
And I hope it's hauntingly beautiful — the way she looked at you like you were all the sunsets I've left behind. I hope you would run out of breath everytime she smiled against your neck. I hope the mere way she said she loved you unsettled your knees. And I hope it hurts — the mere thought of her not saying it — no longer saying it. And I hope you at least loved her so much, for those stolen times that you were together; I hope it was beautiful. Magical. And I hope it felt like coming home. Otherwise, you broke my heart for what wasn't even worth it. You broke my heart for nothing.
Aug 17, 2020
Aug 17, 2020 at 6:32 PM UTC
Where do I start in letting you go?
It's not in the ruminations. All they'll long for are simpler, purer times, back when loving me was everything you ever knew — back when sighing your name didn't hurt. Now it's a whisper, settling on the ground long after the woodsmoke has stopped lingering. Now, it's just a memory settling deep in an open wound.
And love, where do I start in letting you go? My hands are still bruised from writing poems, when you already were handing me crumpled paper roses — all etched with endings I was afraid to write. The moment you kissed her lips, did you already let me go? Now here on my shoulder rests the weight — the mess of it all. Tell me, what do I do with these words, falling helplessly on my lap? What do I do with all this hurting? What do I do with all this love?
And where do I start in letting you go, when my shaking hands still refuse to confront your absence? When my throat still refuses to abandon all yearning — a wounded huntress that still screams for the moon. And I'd hoped it is easier to stop loving you after your skin had been tainted by her lips, ghosting gently — forming into the sweetest of smiles.
And I'd hoped it is easier to stop loving you after you had drowned August's promises against her hair when you'd deepen your kiss — after you had surrendered September's 4 a.m.s, November's love letters, December's midnight rains, January's stove-lit dances, February's moonlit walks, March's Irish teas and solitude, and April's quiet peace — all of it, spoiled, in the name of her kiss. Now all of it — in ruins, lying, waiting patiently for a can of worms, burrowing their way into everything I held dear.
Rome didn't burn down in a day. I wish I would. I wish we would; what's left in ruins won't ever hurt.
And so love,
where do I start in letting you go?
// "Tell me all the ways of letting you go."
Aug 11, 2020
Aug 11, 2020 at 2:13 AM UTC