Sweet Craving
She Will Return
You’ve inflicted a wound
down the length of her spine.
Sabotaging the currents
to maintain her movements
give way to the wind.
With the immense distance it provides,
she will carry on.
Her skin sticks and glows a little,
glistens in the sunlight.
She’ll return
and destroy all that you are,
leaving behind
trails of ash and stains
Kill Me
How To Be
you see
i know how to be
courteous,
a beggar;
believer
a star in the night
holding me
Too Small
my heart is tired
she wants to go home
i tried to build her one
but they’re all too small
she never fit
Ripe and Mean
When we went without
I forgot my name
Things were not good
We’d be ripe and mean
We’d beg and fight
Skin splitting
Play tug of war with our faces
Growl through negative space
I am awake
I am awake
I am awake
I plead
insanity
I give
him control
Still
painting him in contrast
Nest of Sorrow
I just sit in my nest.
And wail and cry and sob.
I’m fragile and I delight in explosion.
At the edge of grief
I’m swallowed by it whole.
— from Repetitions of Ruin
(incantations from the same wound)
Someone
Rooted into my soul,
he was vital, he oppressed
Potent love,
a bold kind.
Violent
His tongue barbaric
Puissant hand in hand
But he needed me.
I needed him—
I was afraid to say.
He held me.
He told me,
he’d keep me safe.
Shielding my power with his power
He was my someone
He was someone
Sacred Beauty, Silent Battles
I was taught to be beautiful, no matter what I was going through.
A sacred ritual passed down—lipstick, clean clothes, perfume. Even in despair, my outer world had to glow. I’ve mastered the art of seeming fine.
High-functioning depression means I show up glowing—
even when I’m collapsing on the inside.
Because I was taught: no matter how you feel, look good so no one would know.
People assume I’m okay because I look okay.
Because I’m pretty. Because I dress well. Because I smile. Because I post.
But that’s the mask. That’s the part I learned young:
if you look put together, maybe no one will ask too many questions.
My mother raised and instilled in me to always show up looking good—no matter what. And so I did. Even when I was quietly dealing with depression, eating disorders, suicidal thoughts/attempts, a bottomless abyss of self-hate etc. I never wanted anyone to know. I just wanted to survive.
And now that I’m older that’s backfired. Now when I say, “I’m not okay,” people respond with, “But you look so good.”
As if beauty is proof of wellness.
As if pain can’t wear lipstick.
Not all sadness screams.
Some of it moves quietly—wrapped in silk, masked with laughter, walking through the world unnoticed.
High-functioning depression is being praised for your strength, carrying sorrow with elegance. All the while drowning in silence.
It’s shining bright, yet being invisible because you’ve mastered the art of seeming fine.
It’s exhausting.
Too Soft
Freegrandmaa 