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 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.
-polkadot
How can someone else's absence makes me miss myself
-polkadot
I see it now, everywhere I look, a constant, unwavering reminder of the happiness I can't have, of the love I can no longer touch
#fragmentsIwishIremember
#fragmentsIwishIremember
I can't hold onto something for long for it to stay. Whether I like it or not, I quit in the early stages of spelling its name.
Lover. That's the label I cling to, a whispered mantra to lull myself to sleep. It's a comforting identity, a shield against the harsh reality that circumstances have twisted me into something else entirely. I tell myself this lie, this carefully constructed truth, to find solace in the darkness. But the truth is far less romantic.
Selfishness, a bitter fruit born from insecurity, has become my default setting. I hoard everything – friends, trinkets gifted with love, the potential for connection with others, even silly nicknames. My music, those songs that amplify the melancholic hum of my depression, they are mine and mine alone. And the places etched with memories, sacred spaces holding the echoes of my past, I guard them jealously. I want it all to myself—soul, mind, body, every thought, every fleeting emotion, meticulously preserved, untainted, utterly and completely mine.
The irony, the bitter sting, is this: I was born to love, to share, to connect. To open my arms wide and embrace the world with all my heart. But the world has dealt me a cruel hand. It has chipped and scarred me, leaving a shell of guardedness and resentment. Now, every sunrise, every face, every object is a trigger, stirring up a hatred as profound as the love I once knew. I've become a prisoner of my own making, trapped in this cage of bitterness, the echoes of my own failed capacity for love mocking me at every turn.
Selfishness, a bitter fruit born from insecurity, has become my default setting. I hoard everything – friends, trinkets gifted with love, the potential for connection with others, even silly nicknames. My music, those songs that amplify the melancholic hum of my depression, they are mine and mine alone. And the places etched with memories, sacred spaces holding the echoes of my past, I guard them jealously. I want it all to myself—soul, mind, body, every thought, every fleeting emotion, meticulously preserved, untainted, utterly and completely mine.
The irony, the bitter sting, is this: I was born to love, to share, to connect. To open my arms wide and embrace the world with all my heart. But the world has dealt me a cruel hand. It has chipped and scarred me, leaving a shell of guardedness and resentment. Now, every sunrise, every face, every object is a trigger, stirring up a hatred as profound as the love I once knew. I've become a prisoner of my own making, trapped in this cage of bitterness, the echoes of my own failed capacity for love mocking me at every turn.
Have you noticed the storm brewing in my eyes, the tempest hidden beneath a forced smile, when you ask if I'm fine? Have you felt the tremor in my voice, the subtle shake that betrays the carefully constructed calm? The excuses, so many excuses, a flimsy barricade against the truth I can't seem to face. I wanted you to notice, to see the distress, so I left a trail of my pain, a crimson wake of my struggle. But you mistook my blood for something else entirely – the finest wine, perhaps? Or was it ink, colouring the unsent letters of a heart too afraid to speak its truth?
#polkadot
And they still believe me when I say I'm fine
#polkadot
Forwarded from Blackish ✨🎧 (Yue)
I am sorry, but if I see an attractive man who is exactly my type on the road, I will do nothing, because i am an introvert.
I am full. Not with joy, not with life, but with the delicate, papery wings of dead butterflies.
And underneath, there's a bitterness that claws its way up my throat, a taste that won't leave my mouth.
I crave the emptiness of starvation. But there's this stubborn ember, this flickering desire to live, to breathe, to feel.
I long to look at the vibrant green leaves, to feel the sun warm my face. But my eyes, they betray me, drawn instead to the dried, brittle leaves beneath my feet
I yearn to be a lover and to receive love with an open arm without fear, without hesitation. But that longing is swiftly overtaken by a deeper desire, a pull to disappear, to shed this suffocating skin.
And underneath, there's a bitterness that claws its way up my throat, a taste that won't leave my mouth.
I crave the emptiness of starvation. But there's this stubborn ember, this flickering desire to live, to breathe, to feel.
I long to look at the vibrant green leaves, to feel the sun warm my face. But my eyes, they betray me, drawn instead to the dried, brittle leaves beneath my feet
I yearn to be a lover and to receive love with an open arm without fear, without hesitation. But that longing is swiftly overtaken by a deeper desire, a pull to disappear, to shed this suffocating skin.
❤1