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I didn’t notice at first—
how the paper darkened
whenever my mind did.

How my hand obeyed the ghosts in my head,
spilling ink I never meant to pour,
turning every sketch into a dismembered memory
I could not bury.

I told myself,
“It’s just art.”

As I painted a black silhouette,
rope tight around the neck,
calling it “expression,”
but my mind whispered,
“This is how you feel.”

Tell me—
what kind of art strangles you
while you’re still alive?

I drew her lipstick smudged,
eyes screaming for help,
and said, “It’s just a concept,”
but it was me, wasn’t it?

Mascara running at 3 A.M.,
the mirror whispering,
“Wipe it off before they see you’re breaking.”

I painted limbs cut, bones broken,
stuffed her into a bag on the canvas,
called it “creative,”
but it was me, wasn’t it?

Chopping parts of myself
to fit into spaces I don’t belong,
breaking what won’t bend,
silencing screams in the back of my throat.

And when I toast to a goblet,
pour another bottle before bed,
I tell myself, “I’m just tired.”

But the wine is the only one listening,
nodding back in crimson reflections,
never telling me, “Don’t think like that,”
only hushing me to sleep
when I whisper, “I can’t do this anymore.”

I wish I could read between the lines,
match the types, connect the dots,
but I am the lines, the dots,
the smudges on every page I touch,
the type they skip over,
the dot they miss,
the line they don’t read.

So I draw my pain,
sing my sorrow,
dance with ghosts that cling to my ankles,
spin for them—
round and round and round,
until I’m dizzy enough to forget,
because it’s the only way I know how to breathe.

Funny thing is—
the saddest people give the best advice.
They know what to say,
they know the words you crave,
because they crave them too.

They don’t know I say those words
because I wish someone would say them to me.

So when you thank me for saving you,
remember: I was talking to myself.
Telling me to hold on, to breathe, to stay.

My art is not just art.
It’s a confession,
a silent scream hidden in brush strokes,
in shadows,
in black silhouettes.

It is a dismembered memory
on canvas, begging to be remembered,
begging to be seen.

And maybe—
just maybe—
one day,
someone will look at what I’ve drawn
and say, “I see you.”

And I will know,
I am not alone.
A longer version of dismembered memory
One morning, the sun rose gently.
The room was quiet, but inside me—
a conversation stirred.

The Mind:
You're awake again.
Already spinning,
already storming.
The questions haven’t slept,
have they?

The Voice:
No. But you let them simmer.
You always do.
Is today the day you let them boil?

The Mind:
Maybe.
I am noisy— not in sound,
but in thoughts that hum loud under the skin.
Filled with unsaid words,
of questions and opinions I am supposed to say
but I chose not.

The Voice:
You speak in restraint,
but your silence is symphonic.
I’ve heard every word you didn’t say.
They thump behind your ribs like second heartbeats.

The Mind:
So you do hear me…
even when I let the world think I’m quiet?

The Voice:
Always.
You are a thunderclap folded into calm,
and every pause you make is sacred.

A new beat enters the quiet.

The Heart:
I hear you, too.
Every thought you swallow,
I feel it burn through me.

The Mind:
Heart, I am trying to protect you.
If I speak, if I reveal too much,
won’t you break?

The Heart:
I break anyway, in silence.
Every unspoken truth you bury,
I carry like hidden fractures.

The Voice:
You’ve mastered silence,
but the weight is crushing you both.

The Heart:
Let me feel,
even if it hurts.
Don’t numb me with silence,
don’t cage me with fear.

The Mind:
But what if I speak,
and it drives them away?
What if my truth is too much?

The Heart:
If they leave,
let them.
If they stay,
let them love the whole of you.
Your truth is not too much;
it is exactly enough.

The Voice:
Your silence is heavy,
but your truth can be light,
if you let it.

The Heart:
I am tired of beating quietly,
pretending I don’t hurt.
Let me break if I must,
so I can heal honestly.

The Mind:
It is terrifying.

The Heart:
And yet,
we are alive.
And being alive is worth the risk
of being seen.

The Voice:
You do not need to roar.
You only need to speak,
even if your voice trembles,
even if your hands shake,
even if tears come.

The Heart:
I will be with you,
soft but strong,
beating for you,
reminding you—
You are still here.
You are still here.

The Mind:
So you will stay,
both of you,
as I learn to speak?

The Voice:
Always.

The Heart:
Always.

And as the sun climbed higher,
the room was quiet—
but inside,
a new sound was born.

The sound of a truth
learning how to speak.
The sound of a heart
learning how to be heard.
The sound of a mind
learning how to let go.
Eyes never lie.
But even if I fake a smile, my eyes are still sad.
My heart still breaks into tiny pieces
I could still walk while my brain never functions well
I could still speak without even thinking about it
I could still act without listening to myself.
I do not know myself anymore.
I do not know who I am anymore.
Why do people sometimes mistook kindness and friendliness to flirting?
People already assume I like them or if I have romantic feelings towards them. But no.
Do not give people the wrong idea just because you are kind to them, make it clear, "I do not like you as someone romantically."
It’s hard when you’re not close with your parents.
Because when they’re angry at you, there’s no one you can turn to.
I’ve mastered the art of crying silently — no voice to be heard, only the tears falling.
And with the blackout, no one can see me in the dark.
You can’t even hear me breathing, because I hold it back.
I’m used to it now.
What hurts even more is when you’re praying, and the tears fall before you can even speak the prayer.
Did I develop these pictures just to burn it
Write these letters just to shred it
Sang songs during sobriety
Danced on the dancefloor, feeling high
"It was us against the world," what a pretty little liar you are
You left me all alone. In the streets sleeping.

That night, when you drove me home, was it out of gesture?
Or was it the last time you went and wanted to see me?

Because when I wore that red satin dress, you dumped me.
But I strived harder, moved to Harvard to study Law but not to follow you
No wonder a girl like me from sorority
Would become a lawyer someday.
why does your blood boil out of haste, my love
Are you mad at me? Are you tired of me?
Or do you even love me?
You did not even bother to look at me.
You can stray me away from you
Brainwash me until I forget how it feels
To bleed while being numb
Just to feel pain
Just to taste the pain of blood
Why have you forsaken me?
Did you regret meeting me?
Make haste, I plead
But never heard.
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