ElaSaeurDesAnges's Journal
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2 entries this month
14:12 Jul 13 2025
Times Read: 16
You want to know what strength is?
It’s not some polished, shiny thing people clap for. It’s not a feel-good quote or a survivor's smile on tv. It’s this
Waking up when you don’t want to.
Looking in the mirror and barely recognizing the thing staring back, but putting on the armor anyway.
I’ve lived in cages, real and invisible. Bound, blamed, broken, and told I was too much, or not enough, or both at once. I’ve been the disease, the danger, the beast in the story, when all I ever wanted was to be the girl someone chose first, not the one they tried to fix or run from.
But I learned. Oh, I learned.
I learned how to survive hell without screaming.
How to walk with demons and not flinch.
How to turn numbness into power, and pain into precision.
They don’t see the things I’ve buried. The memories that claw at me in the dark. They don’t see the blood on my hands from trying to protect people who never gave a damn. But I see it. I carry it. And still, I keep going.
I’ve been gentle when I could’ve destroyed.
I've held love in a world that told me I wasn't worthy of it.
I’ve restrained the beast they provoked. I’ve whispered “come closer” even when I was bleeding inside.
I’m not strong because I healed.
I’m strong because I didn’t die.
And if you ever doubted me… you better pray I never decide to stop holding back.
19:39 Jul 12 2025
Times Read: 47
they said i was a girl
but i’ve always felt more like a grave.
soft enough to bury things in
ugly things.
screaming things.
things no one claims.
people say they feel empty.
i envy that.
emptiness is clean.
i’m not empty
i’m infested.
the things that live in me
don’t sleep.
they claw the walls of my ribs
and laugh when i pray.
god doesn't answer the infected.
i’ve worn smiles like meat
stitched over the rot.
laughed with blood in my throat
so they wouldn’t see it spill.
i don’t cry anymore
i leak.
like something punctured
but still walking.
there’s a room in my mind
where no one goes.
i keep it locked.
even i knock
before entering.
inside it
shadows with my voice,
a child faced corpse
with my name sewn into her gums,
and a mirror that lies unless i’m hurting.
(it’s always honest now.)
some days i wake up
and something else has used my hands.
written things.
drawn symbols.
scratched confessions
into the wall behind my bed
in a language i almost understand.
i don’t want love.
i want ruin.
something that fits the architecture
of my insides.
i am not waiting to be saved.
i am waiting
for the last candle to die
so the things watching me
will finally speak.
don’t light a match for me.
don’t write a poem.
just close the door
and let the dark finish what it started.
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