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The most dangerous minds are the dark empaths. At first glance, they look like prey; soft, harmless, unthreatening. But their minds have been forged in the fire of the wounds and abuse, tempered by pain into something sharper than steel. They don't just notice you - they clock you. Every word, every gesture, every slip in their masks becomes data they quietly collect. What makes them dangerous is their duality: the ability to feel deeply while calculating coldly, to connect while dissecting, to comfort while disarming. You think you are seen but in truth, you are being profiled.

"Ahh," the Wolf said, "crowds terrify women like you.
All that noise, all that desperate begging to be seen.
They clap for the shallow because they're afraid of the real.
And women like you can't stand that - you're too raw,
too deep, too goddamn honest. So they call you cold,
pretend you don't matter. Fuck them.
If you ever stepped into their ring you couldn't play the act anyway -
you'd rip their mediocre illusion apart and dance
while the whole fucking circus burned down.

the truth is i didn't
want to want you.
i didn't want to lose
control of my thoughts.
i didn't want to feel
the void of need.
just understand you are
a well fought secret
obsession. a war of
attrition that i would
never be able to win.

and in my mind i've
made love to you at
least a thousand times.
and my logical brain
knows it is just
an escape.
but that's the part
that doesn't know
how to interpret
things that this heart feels.
and you were always
something that needed
no interpretation,
you were always something that
demanded to be felt.

you weren't
the villain.
i wasn't
the saint.

we were
just two
haunted humans
trying to grow roots
in a ground
still shaking
from old graves.

you were
just a lesson
i kept trying
to turn
into a lifetime.

I never loved you gently.
I loved you like the last cigarette -
with trembling hands
and a promise to quit after this one.

but before I let you go,
I have to admit that...
I begged the universe
to make you stay.

I'm fine, I really am.
I still get up, brush my hair,
make it to work on time,
and text back when I can.
I do the things that make it look
like I'm okay.
I still laugh
when someone jokes,
even if it doesn't reach my chest.
I eat enough (barely), sleep enough (hardly),
talk enough (not at all), just enough
to not raise concern.
Sometimes,
I stare at the ceiling
long after the lights are off,
wondering how I got
so good at pretending
I want to be here.
I don't cry every day now,
just when no one's around.
And that's progress, right?
So yeah, I'm fine.

COMMENTS

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Adain
20:23 Apr 14 2026

I read your post.

I didn't want it to stand alone.

There are not many comments on journals on this website in my opinion.

So here's at least one.

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GlorifiedxSinner
23:32 Apr 14 2026

thank you

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POST COMMENT

My beloved demons,
though quiet,
are never quite silenced.

Calm as they may be,
they wait patiently
for a reason to awaken,
take an overdue breath,
and crawl back to my ear.

They watch and observe,
so when they whisper
"What do we have here?"
I smile and prepare.

"Why do I always feel like I'm not enough?"

Because you were taught to earn your place instead of believing you already belonged.
You learned to measure your worth by how much you gave, how little you needed, and how well you hid your pain.
It's hard to feel enough when your earliest proof of love was conditional.

"Hurt people hurt people though."

Not all hurt people hurt people.
Some spend their lives making sure no one else feels what they did.
Some break cycles.
Some build safe spaces.
Some turn pain into purpose.
Hurt people don't just hurt people.
Hurt people heal people too.

"... I just don't want to be like my parents."

Then you have to do what they couldn't, wouldn't, or didn't know how to.
Feel what they avoided.
Say what they silenced.
And heal what they passed down.
You don't break the cycle by becoming someone else.
You break it by becoming more YOU than you were ever allowed to be.

Sometimes I sit with this heavy thought...

How different life could've been if I ever got the chance to actually live... instead of constantly healing from things I never asked for. I wonder who I would've become if I wasn't always recovering from someone else's damage, from situations that weren't my fault but somehow became my responsibility to carry. There's a kind of sadness in realizing that most of my energy went into surviving, not living. And maybe that's what hurts the most - not what happened, but everything I missed while trying to make sense of it. The moments I lost. I deserved more. But life... it never waited for me to catch up. It just kept going while I stayed behind - patching up wounds I never caused.

I will leave such an imprint on your heart
that anyone you entertain after me
will have to know me in order to understand you.

i am made of bullets; shrapnel.
You are solar flares and soft lips -

Better creatures could love you, this I know.
But now they'll have to get through your memory of me.

As a woman, one of my deepest darkest desires is to be completely useless to men.
You know when they say women over 30 are expired; childfree women are selfish; ugly, fat, old women are unfuckable. I dream of being that level of useless to men. Because that's when they'll finally leave you alone. That level of isolated swamp witch...
No, actually they won't completely leave you alone - they'll keep reminding you that you're useless and unfuckable - which is great, because in their minds that's an insult but in mine it's an underestimated compliment. I dream of being fucking useless to men; because I wasn't born to be fucked and used by them. I use them as the tools they continue to prove themselves to be.

they call my honey,
so i paint my lips dark red.
they call me sweetheart,
and invite me into their beds.
they call me princess,
like that's my hidden "guilty" pleasure.
but i am a demon,
and a queen.
call me Goddess.

The night does not frighten me,
It is where I was born,
Under skies stitched with secrets,
And stars that learned to spell my name,
Now, every shadow is my kin.
With all my love.

I didn't rise from it.
I crawled, crept.

I still flinch at kindness,
like it's a trick,
like love is a hand
that closes into a fist.

Some days I'm fine.
I pay my bills,
I answer my texts,
I laugh at the right parts of conversation.

And then my body remembers
before my mind does.
A tight chest.
A sudden deep nausea.
The urge to ruin something good
just to feel in control again.

I survived it, yeah.
But I couldn't tell you how,
not now or ever.

All I know is
it hurts less than it did,
and more than I admit;
and I'm learning to hold myself
without gripping too hard.

Because, yeah, I'm still here.
And that has to count for something ...
Right?