I saw X.
It was tender, satiating for once. The first time we’ve connected that I left feeling… satisfied.
He was in tune with me. He listened to me and gave me what I wanted.
I felt his heart outside of his nervous system. I felt it on his body, tasted it on his skin, and heard it in his voice as he whispered to me.
He feels safe with me.
I spoke his love language as he laid his head on my bosom, and I caressed his head, back, and arms. I soothed him. I’m protective over him beyond myself.
I told him I cared about him and expressed other affections. I kissed his head. He’s my baby.
This time I adored him all the way.
We laughed and teased. I told him I felt safe with him. We held each other’s bodies, pressing skin against skin, rubbing our faces together, biting cheeks. He adores me.
We became yin and yang, and I loved it. Saliva and sweat—I didn’t mind.
I don’t need to know what it is anymore. I’ve worn myself out trying to understand.
I surrender.
He means something to me. What we have is genuine. It’s not some fantasy anymore. It’s real. Out of my head. Real.
I wanted to reassure him. Remind him that he’s special to me.
X is my lover, and I think I need him.
Time will continue, but I’m in a vulnerable place, and I’m no longer embarrassed to admit that I need him.
I needed him yesterday. We fell asleep on the phone.
I feel warm when he calls me his Mulberry.
We talked while I was at work, and I didn’t feel so alone in it all. I feel emotionally and spiritually safe knowing he’s here.
It’s easy to assume—or even wish—for more. Though I don’t think that’s us.
Something about X soothes me like a child checking to make sure their mother is still there, then finding out she is. The relief. The calm that follows.
Maybe I am not as strong as I thought.
This space is good.
I am chaos and loud. I am mad and an exciting time. I make safe spaces for people to exist, and they choose to exist with me.
Get to know someone long enough, and you’ll eventually see a piece of yourself in them.
I want to hold on to X.
I don’t want to let go of what we are.
I just don’t.
How To Be
you see
i know how to be
courteous,
a beggar;
believer
a star in the night
holding me
The One Who Stayed Grounded
He aroused me till numb
My heart sedated by his insanity
Caught me mid-revelation
Reaching for me at the height of his vision
.
I wanted him to come with me
But he wasn’t that type of guy
It pained him to watch me as I’d fly
Still front and center he’d release me wild
He ached to carry me whenever I fell
.
Rubbed me up with aloe vera
And intuitive kisses to heal
Wanted to make it well
Fading as I opened to it
Defeated in the win
So I held him also in sin.
Collapsed
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)
Saltblood Psalms
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
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.
Truly
Too Soft
The Wall
A woman staring at a wall
Holds heartships, big time worry
No memory on Wednesdays
Her equilibriums all tired out
She wears and tears the seeds of a woman
She’s been staring at that wall damn near my whole life
Freegrandmaa 