#vulnerablewriting
I am a drop of water from an empty tap –
the waters split in two by Moses’ staff;
a skeletal thing surviving somehow –
a chaff of my own skin, painting over
the scars of every other part of my being.
Sometimes so cold, paralyzed –
masked over time, heart sanitised…
a pandemic; to outdated for _mjolo_
to love solo, but for it all to feel so low.
Because ultimately what I give is all
I hope will return in full back to me;
still it all returns partly, where the ocean
remembers your tears, the deeper you
sink… __this must be my Brink.__
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 5:18 PM UTC
Don’t close your eyes on your dreams—
you’ll lose sight of what you believe.
The will of your work is measured by
the work you’re willing to put in.
As I live in a house of emotions,
courting words to plead my case—
bleeding through a see-through face.
A quiet ache, always on trial.
Knowing that the high-and-mighty
Christian is the easiest target to bring down.
Careers cut short— because in short, they
never really knew the Lord.
_And me?_
I live like the world’s greatest plot twist,
my mind a tornado of thoughts—
every turn unexpected,
every breeze loud with questions.
I’ve known the chill of a cold finger turned
trigger. And felt the weight of a sharp tongue
used as a silencer. As it’s easy to shoot yourself
down the same way you shoot others—whether
whispered or screamed out loud.
But those who follow their worth,
instead of searching for it in the crowd—
those are the ones who stand out.
__Aloud.__
Jun 22, 2025
Jun 22, 2025 at 7:34 AM UTC
In a brief squeeze, my chest _wheezed_—
there goes my heart, falling out of itself,
into another rhyme, into another line.
Queue me up for feeling less than myself,
lost in being so lost.
Letting go of old grievances just to make
room for new ones today.
“I’m not okay”—
but I won’t say it, because you MAYBE
won’t think of me the same.
Sometimes I’m determined, other times,
indulgent. I look like I’ve got it together,
but beneath the surface,
_I’m exhausted_—
completely out of order.
_Struggling. Sweating._
But short on words to explain what’s wrong.
I’d be seen as too much for speaking my
pain aloud— but pain is always louder
when it’s silent.
So I speak now for those who are just like
I am.
__We are We__:
navigating identity crises in these
stretched-out teen years of our twenties.
We are plenty— and still enough to
surround each other in love that counts,
instead of letting life count us down
or count us out. We will rise. __Together.__
Jun 21, 2025
Jun 21, 2025 at 3:40 PM UTC
He once told me
he wanted to die in a place
that looked like a poem.
I told him
I wanted to live
like I was one.
We were doomed by aesthetics—
too many soft glances,
not enough spine.
He held my wrist like a snow globe
but shook me too hard.
He said I was all feeling,
no logic.
As if logic ever begged anyone to stay.
Once,
he told me I reminded him
of a girl in a painting.
I should’ve asked
what happened to her
after the gallery closed.
I used to count his heartbeats
when he slept,
just to know something
inside him still worked.
I wore my prettiest dress
to the argument—
just in case
he needed reminding
that I’m not easy
to walk away from.
He looked at me
like a cliff he might leap from
or photograph.
I stopped saying his name
and started writing
in second person.
It still felt like calling him home.
Even now,
I write you into metaphors
so I can pretend
you were never real—
just a concept,
a cautionary tale,
a ghost that rhymed.
You wanted tragedy.
I wanted truth.
We got
whatever this was.
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 10:29 AM UTC