#traumahealing - Hello Poetry

I did not break. I adapted. The Watcher — eyes sharp, pulse wired, reading danger before it breathed. Paranoia, I called her. Trauma, she was. The Fire — love fiercely or lose everything. Cut first. Burn first. Strike first. Too much, I said. Fear of being left, she was. The Pleaser — soft voice, over-giving hands, apologising before words formed. Weak, I called her. Survival, she was. The Ghost — blank eyes, drifting, watching my own life like it belonged elsewhere. Broken, I called her. Protection, she was. The Shadow — heavy, quiet, pressing in, carrying pain that threatened to consume me. Shame, I called her. Survival, she was. The Fighter — back straight, pride stubborn, homeless but unbowed, fear in one hand, pride in the other. Cold, I called her. She was surviving. Years passed — doors closed. Trust shattered. Safety disappeared. Mind split into extremes — safe or unsafe, love or loss, forever or never. Nervous system alarmed. Every raised voice, every pause, every shadow a threat. I thought I was unstable. Difficult. Disordered. But I was dysregulated. Unhealed. Running from fires that were already over. Every mask had a job. The Watcher prevented danger. The Fire prevented abandonment. The Pleaser prevented conflict. The Ghost prevented collapse. The Shadow prevented being consumed. The Fighter prevented defeat. They kept me breathing when I did not know how to live. Healing came slowly — pausing when the chest tightened, questioning what was real, staying when survival screamed run. I am still healing. Some days the Watcher wakes first. Some days the Fire flares. Some days the Ghost drifts. Some days the Shadow presses heavy. But now I notice. Now I breathe. Now I choose. I do not hate the masks. They built me. They carried me. They survived for me. I am not just survival now. I am regulation in progress. Attachment learning safety. Nervous system slowly trusting that not every shadow is a threat. I am softer — but not weaker. Aware — but not ruled by fear. I am not cured. I am becoming. Stronger than any mask ever made me.

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Feb 20

Feb 20, 2026 at 4:33 AM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

Built From the Masks I Wore

I did not break. I adapted. The Watcher — eyes sharp, pulse wired, reading danger before it breathed. Paranoia, I called her. Trauma, she was. The Fire — love fiercely or lose everything. Cut first. Burn first. Strike first. Too much, I said. Fear of being left, she was. The Pleaser — soft voice, over-giving hands, apologising before words formed. Weak, I called her. Survival, she was. The Ghost — blank eyes, drifting, watching my own life like it belonged elsewhere. Broken, I called her. Protection, she was. The Shadow — heavy, quiet, pressing in, carrying pain that threatened to consume me. Shame, I called her. Survival, she was. The Fighter — back straight, pride stubborn, homeless but unbowed, fear in one hand, pride in the other. Cold, I called her. She was surviving. Years passed — doors closed. Trust shattered. Safety disappeared. Mind split into extremes — safe or unsafe, love or loss, forever or never. Nervous system alarmed. Every raised voice, every pause, every shadow a threat. I thought I was unstable. Difficult. Disordered. But I was dysregulated. Unhealed. Running from fires that were already over. Every mask had a job. The Watcher prevented danger. The Fire prevented abandonment. The Pleaser prevented conflict. The Ghost prevented collapse. The Shadow prevented being consumed. The Fighter prevented defeat. They kept me breathing when I did not know how to live. Healing came slowly — pausing when the chest tightened, questioning what was real, staying when survival screamed run. I am still healing. Some days the Watcher wakes first. Some days the Fire flares. Some days the Ghost drifts. Some days the Shadow presses heavy. But now I notice. Now I breathe. Now I choose. I do not hate the masks. They built me. They carried me. They survived for me. I am not just survival now. I am regulation in progress. Attachment learning safety. Nervous system slowly trusting that not every shadow is a threat. I am softer — but not weaker. Aware — but not ruled by fear. I am not cured. I am becoming. Stronger than any mask ever made me.

93

Misery is where distasteful love likes to hide— where she keeps falling for showboats dressed like lifeboats, the world watches her drown again. Funny how even the coldest kiss feels warm when you’re tired of being alone. Golden boys shine loud from a distance, but up close, their glow goes too quiet. Their hearts aren’t real, their promises aren't heavy, and the intentions lose their colour the moment she holds them too close. Their words hit like fireworks— bright, loud, gone fast. They aim for her heart, _shoot a couple shots,_ but only the true ones stay after the impact, to help cover the bruise. But most take what they want, leaving the apology unfinished, and move on like she was a season. Most of them live behind masks; clean edges, perfect smiles, their lies rehearsed to look like devotion. And the real ones carry their scars in plain sight, not competing for gold, silver, or bronze, just hoping for an honourable mention in the story of someone they hope to love. At the funeral of her latest heartbreak, most of the gold walks away untouched, leaving her misery as the only inheritance they know how to leave behind. And the rest stand there again, the good guy in the corner, loving her like a truth she refuses to learn: _Some halos come with horns._

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Nov 29, 2025

Nov 29, 2025 at 6:00 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

His Verse (The Halo Effect)

Misery is where distasteful love likes to hide— where she keeps falling for showboats dressed like lifeboats, the world watches her drown again. Funny how even the coldest kiss feels warm when you’re tired of being alone. Golden boys shine loud from a distance, but up close, their glow goes too quiet. Their hearts aren’t real, their promises aren't heavy, and the intentions lose their colour the moment she holds them too close. Their words hit like fireworks— bright, loud, gone fast. They aim for her heart, _shoot a couple shots,_ but only the true ones stay after the impact, to help cover the bruise. But most take what they want, leaving the apology unfinished, and move on like she was a season. Most of them live behind masks; clean edges, perfect smiles, their lies rehearsed to look like devotion. And the real ones carry their scars in plain sight, not competing for gold, silver, or bronze, just hoping for an honourable mention in the story of someone they hope to love. At the funeral of her latest heartbreak, most of the gold walks away untouched, leaving her misery as the only inheritance they know how to leave behind. And the rest stand there again, the good guy in the corner, loving her like a truth she refuses to learn: _Some halos come with horns._

22

Just forgive him He is too old now She said We do not know how many days he has left I can forgive him, and so can you She said But momma— We are not the same, don’t we? You can forgive him for the sake of your late mother. But I am not. I am who I am. I forgave him too many times. I forgave him for my whole life— For you sake And your belief in karma. But there is a limit to what I can forgive him. Don’t you think? That your righteousness killing me slowly? Don’t you know I forgave him before? Momma, I am not as forgiving and loving as you. The man who was supposed to protect me, you, and your momma. He was, is, and will still be the evil of the story I told. Momma! See! Me—the only plant you ever grow Grow with The hatred that was nourished by your venom. Ha! Ma! You see it now? This plant is never growing in ecstasy like you expected But Momma, don’t you ever worry about it. It will grow as it should be— bruised and broken. The plant of forgiveness is what I am supposed to be. But I cannot be what you want me to be So I ended up being the plant of resentment.

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Jun 9, 2025

Jun 9, 2025 at 6:35 AM UTC

theescapist2001

The Plants of Forgiveness

Just forgive him He is too old now She said We do not know how many days he has left I can forgive him, and so can you She said But momma— We are not the same, don’t we? You can forgive him for the sake of your late mother. But I am not. I am who I am. I forgave him too many times. I forgave him for my whole life— For you sake And your belief in karma. But there is a limit to what I can forgive him. Don’t you think? That your righteousness killing me slowly? Don’t you know I forgave him before? Momma, I am not as forgiving and loving as you. The man who was supposed to protect me, you, and your momma. He was, is, and will still be the evil of the story I told. Momma! See! Me—the only plant you ever grow Grow with The hatred that was nourished by your venom. Ha! Ma! You see it now? This plant is never growing in ecstasy like you expected But Momma, don’t you ever worry about it. It will grow as it should be— bruised and broken. The plant of forgiveness is what I am supposed to be. But I cannot be what you want me to be So I ended up being the plant of resentment.

35