I am not unhappy. I am not happy either

And I only have you in my dreams

like a writer that's bad with words, a painter that's color blind, a lyricist who can't dance for shits cause they can't keep a rhythm, you're all the things that seem to not go together but end up creating magic.

Give me a few days of peace in your arms-I need it terribly. I'm ragged, worn, exhausted. After that I can face the world.

— Henry Miller | a letter to Anaïs Nin

My writing was about you. All I was bewailing in it was what I could not weep about on your shoulder.

Franz Kafka, Letter to his father.

I think I've come to terms with the fact that there will always be a ribbon of loneliness running through who I am.

I'm a simple woman I see a baby and I puke inside of my mouth

Who am I, if not the reflection of my father’s cold eyes? If not the echo of his muffled shouts, the silent screams trapped behind closed doors? If not the bitterness etched into the deep creases of his already crumbling face, a roadmap of his unspoken sorrows?

Who am I, if not the embodiment of my mother's quiet despair? If not the legacy of her shattered dreams, the burnt offering of a pie left to cool on the forgotten corner of the dining table, a symbol of her perpetually unfulfilled hopes? If not the carefully crafted smile, a mask concealing the wounds that lie beneath?

Who am I but a child trapped in a burning house, surrounded by the wreckage of my parents' lives, my own identity consumed by the flames of their brokenness? Their history, their failures, their pain - it’s all I’ve known. It's all I am. It's a constant, suffocating weight. And I am left asking, amidst the ashes and smoke, who am I, truly, if this is all that I am?

#polkadot

It's the usual. You know how it goes: sleepy eyes blinking open to a high ceiling, heavy blankets doing little to fend off the persistent chill that seems to seep into the very bones. The days blur into a monotonous cycle of the same tired conversations, the same endless loop of anxieties. The exhaustion settles deep, a heavy weight in the chest, depression stalking in on high heels, smudging the carefully applied mascara with its unwelcome tears. The coffee is lukewarm, the toast is burnt, the news is bleak. There's a dull ache in the back, a familiar tension in the shoulders from hunching over a screen for too long. The emails pile up unanswered, the laundry basket overflows, the plants are drooping. Another day bleeds into another, indistinguishable from the last, a relentless march toward another sleepless night. The usual.

How about you?

We are not entirely alive until we are entirely loved.

The only thing left for me is to wait.

Wait for-I don't know...

How wonderful it would be if my entire life so far was just a dream, and suddenly I'm someone else entirely .

Follow your heart…
Follow your heart…
But when your heart is in pieces which one do you follow?

When I said I want to be the main character i didn't mean light yagami

I think its the assumption and expectation of other's that cause heartache

My whole life
I have
ate my tongue.
ate my tongue.
ate my tongue.
I am so full of my tongue
you would think speaking is easy
but it is not.

- Salt, Nayyirah Waheed.

I trace the jagged edges of this hole you left, the emptiness that echoes where you used to be, and I question how someone else’s absence can feel so much like I am missing pieces of myself. It’s a wound, raw and exposed, and I trace its outline like a blind person trying to make sense of something that has no shape. With each touch, the pain flares, a sharp reminder of the void you created. It’s like a part of me was carved out, ripped away, leaving behind this hollow space, this gaping hole that feels more like a missing limb than a missing person. I am incomplete, fragmented, like a broken mirror reflecting a fractured image.

How can someone else's absence makes me miss myself

-polkadot