#timesup - Hello Poetry

i asked you to save me for eighty, but i’m looking at the calendar today and realizing it was never actually about you. i was just counting the weeks it took to build a fortress out of my own wreckage. today is the eighty. and the math doesn't feel like a physical weight anymore— it feels like an acquittal. i spent two years watching boys like you fumble through the easy mechanics of consumption. i watched you reach for the cookies, the unwrapped things, the girls who treat your own dignity like a punchline because you were too lazy to peel something real, too terrified of a conversation that requires you to actually stand behind your words. you chose the convenient layout because you couldn't handle the heavy, jagged prose of a girl who demands substance. but the house has divided, and i’m not looking at your side of the floor anymore. i spent my first winter in a black-and-white pantsuit, learning that the room is full of hollow fronts. i learned that there are no inherently good people, only beautiful, desperate actions we choose to take. that i can only bleed so much onto someone else’s legal pad before my own rounds start running dry. i spent my first spring retreating into the static, learning that when the world get too loud, i shut down. i learned to bury my head in the music, i learned that i give too many chances, and that instead of fearing the gavel, i could become the force behind it. i spent this winter learning that the fear in my chest is just an echo of a round i already finished. i learned that when i care— i care deeply. but that not everyone deserves a seat in my chamber. if i have to choose myself first, and second, and third, and a hundred times over, it’s just reclaiming the keys to a kingdom i almost gave away. i spent this spring tracing the outline of my own shadow. i looked back through the ledger of every season i survived, and in the process of auditing the wreckage, i finally stumbled into my own core. the girl you met in that black-and-white suit was just playing at being grown. she stood at a plastic podium, arguing amendments, believing that passing a mock bill could change the world. she thought authority came from a title and a clean ballot. i know now that the chamber can't save anyone. the mock bills don't fix the broken things outside the glass. but i can. i change the world one real, messy action at a time. i change it in the margins, where the spotlight doesn't reach. it’s in one honest poem left on a classroom wall. it’s in one midnight letter sent to a boy who was drowning in his own silence. it’s in the quiet choices to stay real when everyone else is putting up fronts. all my little, insignificant motions on the floor— they add up to something heavy. it’s funny, isn't it? i used to check the room to see if i was allowed to breathe— now i just do it. i fake the confidence until the brass feels warm in my palm. i am flawed, and i am angry, and i am sad— but i am the one holding the ballot. i used to think the way i felt things was a liability. i spent years trying to harden the ink, trying to make my chest as clinical as the air in the chamber. but i was wrong. my empathy isn't a weakness. it is the asset that lets me see the people who are actually hurting, the ones who look up to the podium and just need someone to be strong. and the people who matter? they don't leave the argument on read. they don't show up only when the speaker points are convenient. they show up with hands ready to carry the weight they promised. they are the ones who write poetry into the margins of your life, the ones who look up at you and make you want to be stronger, the ones who believe in your solvency because their actions prove it, even when the ink bleeds. even the ones you didn't think were watching. let the critics dissect the cross-examination. i am letting go of the things beyond my control, reclaiming my jurisdiction, and embracing the linear regression of my own healing. so enjoy your crumbs and your second-hand sugar. i’m looking in the mirror today, and for the first time, the girl looking back at me is whole. she doesn't need you to save her an orange. she’s already eating it.

0

May 16

May 16, 2026 at 11:34 AM UTC

sd_nerd27

the math of the 80

i asked you to save me for eighty, but i’m looking at the calendar today and realizing it was never actually about you. i was just counting the weeks it took to build a fortress out of my own wreckage. today is the eighty. and the math doesn't feel like a physical weight anymore— it feels like an acquittal. i spent two years watching boys like you fumble through the easy mechanics of consumption. i watched you reach for the cookies, the unwrapped things, the girls who treat your own dignity like a punchline because you were too lazy to peel something real, too terrified of a conversation that requires you to actually stand behind your words. you chose the convenient layout because you couldn't handle the heavy, jagged prose of a girl who demands substance. but the house has divided, and i’m not looking at your side of the floor anymore. i spent my first winter in a black-and-white pantsuit, learning that the room is full of hollow fronts. i learned that there are no inherently good people, only beautiful, desperate actions we choose to take. that i can only bleed so much onto someone else’s legal pad before my own rounds start running dry. i spent my first spring retreating into the static, learning that when the world get too loud, i shut down. i learned to bury my head in the music, i learned that i give too many chances, and that instead of fearing the gavel, i could become the force behind it. i spent this winter learning that the fear in my chest is just an echo of a round i already finished. i learned that when i care— i care deeply. but that not everyone deserves a seat in my chamber. if i have to choose myself first, and second, and third, and a hundred times over, it’s just reclaiming the keys to a kingdom i almost gave away. i spent this spring tracing the outline of my own shadow. i looked back through the ledger of every season i survived, and in the process of auditing the wreckage, i finally stumbled into my own core. the girl you met in that black-and-white suit was just playing at being grown. she stood at a plastic podium, arguing amendments, believing that passing a mock bill could change the world. she thought authority came from a title and a clean ballot. i know now that the chamber can't save anyone. the mock bills don't fix the broken things outside the glass. but i can. i change the world one real, messy action at a time. i change it in the margins, where the spotlight doesn't reach. it’s in one honest poem left on a classroom wall. it’s in one midnight letter sent to a boy who was drowning in his own silence. it’s in the quiet choices to stay real when everyone else is putting up fronts. all my little, insignificant motions on the floor— they add up to something heavy. it’s funny, isn't it? i used to check the room to see if i was allowed to breathe— now i just do it. i fake the confidence until the brass feels warm in my palm. i am flawed, and i am angry, and i am sad— but i am the one holding the ballot. i used to think the way i felt things was a liability. i spent years trying to harden the ink, trying to make my chest as clinical as the air in the chamber. but i was wrong. my empathy isn't a weakness. it is the asset that lets me see the people who are actually hurting, the ones who look up to the podium and just need someone to be strong. and the people who matter? they don't leave the argument on read. they don't show up only when the speaker points are convenient. they show up with hands ready to carry the weight they promised. they are the ones who write poetry into the margins of your life, the ones who look up at you and make you want to be stronger, the ones who believe in your solvency because their actions prove it, even when the ink bleeds. even the ones you didn't think were watching. let the critics dissect the cross-examination. i am letting go of the things beyond my control, reclaiming my jurisdiction, and embracing the linear regression of my own healing. so enjoy your crumbs and your second-hand sugar. i’m looking in the mirror today, and for the first time, the girl looking back at me is whole. she doesn't need you to save her an orange. she’s already eating it.