∆ Neural Alchemist | Self-mythologist ∆
I’ve been crying hard.
It’s what I do best.
The ground is loved on by the seeds of clouds.
But I’m fragile,
and I soften in explosion.
When I experience grief,
I face it suddenly.
There is no space
— from Repetitions of Ruin
(incantations from the same wound)
Sometimes I reread the poems I wrote for past lovers and feel like… this was too good for them. I try to take it back
Too tender. Too raw. Too sacred.
Bitterness shows up first.
Memory comes next.
With it the soft ache of truth.
I remember why I wrote it, the little universe we lived in for a while.
And I remember.
I remember it was theirs. Because a version of me meant it.
Even if they didn’t deserve the whole poem forever.
Some things are real just because they happened.
And some people get lucky enough to be written about.
The love was real, so was the poem.
So I give it back.
When I experience grief
I open and everything enters.
There is no space.
I’m suffocated by spirits.
I’m blotchy, dry, aching.
— from Repetitions of Ruin
(incantations from the same wound)
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)
My deep breaths fuel my heart
Just one more night
After another
What a chore
A force of nature
To be here
To stay
To feel everything
A life of suffering—
I thrive off that shit
Like a brutal winter
My heart is raw and unfiltered
I dove deep to see her
The sacred red
Of the swallowed sea
She’ll find me
Begging
On plastered knees
She just wants to be safe
Satiated
Saved
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.
What will linger when I’m gone
If time erases everything
Are some things meant to stay
I wanna leave an imprint
You’d try to forget me
But where will you ever find a ghost as haunting?
Stitched beneath your skin
A whisper in the bones
I’ve perished
They told me so
A few times
I’m tongue tied
A thing in the undercurrent
A hole in one
When I woke I was thirsty
An insatiable existence
I know I’ll be punished
I know it’s a sin
Freegrandmaa 