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?

And they still believe me when I say I'm fine

#polkadot

I don't want to be comforted by their cheap words

I give because I'm shy to take(it's simple as that)

It's either I drown in loneliness,push it down my throat,or cuddle with it.

-stay.

+ But you never held anything long enough for it to stay.

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.

How can I love you when I don't know how to love myself

I try to talk to someone but I end up deleting all my messages

I'm looking for you in the crowd of people, buses, subways and shopping centres, but you don't even exist.

The brutality of tenderness leaves me helpless

I'm not dating to marry, I'm dating to experience a breakup painful enough to kickstart my writing career

Sometimes, I wish I left all of my feelings in my basements so I could spare some to myself.

The art of double-crosssing

You said, "I love you," and stabbed me where it hurt.

Am I perhaps a riddle?

But good God
what's wrong with me,
after all? What am I missing?
Why this emptiness,
this nostalgia?
What is this anxiety as if I only loved something I didn't know?

— Clarice Lispector | a letter to Fernando Sabino