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19:45 Jul 12 2025
Times Read: 9
i’m not made of pretty lines.
i’m not written in gold ink or
whatever the hell they think
makes a person poetic.
i’m the part you skip in a book
because it feels too much like
something you’re scared to look at.
my thoughts come cracked
but sharp,
like broken glass in your pocket
you didn’t mean to carry it,
but now you're bleeding.
i don’t do small talk.
i don’t do “fine.”
i’ve loved people like they were gods
and watched them shrink
into silence.
sometimes i stare at the sky
like it owes me answers.
sometimes i sleep beside
my own shadow
just to feel something that stays.
i’m not healing.
i’m transforming.
it’s not the same.
don’t confuse the two.
i’ve got ghosts that hold my hand
when no one else does.
they know my name
better than my family does.
i've burned things i used to pray for.
and still,
i want softness.
real softness
like the kind that doesn't run
when you cry in the middle of the night
for no good reason.
i don’t want to be saved.
i want to be met.
seen.
touched like i’m a real thing
and not just some storm people watch
from behind glass.
this isn’t a poem.
it’s just me
spilling.
take it
or don’t.
but at least it’s fucking real.
i don’t write pretty.
i write like something’s under my skin
trying to crawl out.
some days i think i’m a warning,
not a person.
some days i want someone
to hold me like they mean it
but not say a fucking word.
don’t ask me what’s wrong.
don’t ask if i’m okay.
just sit there.
light a smoke.
look away when i fall apart.
stay.
i talk to people who aren’t here.
dream of things i shouldn’t know.
feel things that choke me
when the room is quiet.
(i hate the quiet.)
i wasn’t made for this world
or maybe this world wasn’t made for me.
either way,
i'm always outside
looking in.
no one opens the door.
love?
i’ve begged for it.
shoved pieces of myself
into mouths
that only wanted silence.
i call that past.
but it still drips.
i want something real
but real doesn’t want me.
too much.
too weird.
too broken.
too loud in the wrong ways.
some people have god.
i have
scars that don’t fade,
dreams that don’t end,
eyes that see too much
and never get seen.
i’m not strong.
i’m just still here.
and that’s not the same thing.
don’t call this a poem.
it’s just the bleeding part.
you asked who i am.
this is the part i usually hide.
now you know.
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