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I’ve always felt an almost defiant pull toward spaces not built for peace—the kinds of places where calm isn’t handed to you, but carved out by necessity. For years, it was bathrooms. Pink and white tiled sanctuaries where panic could unravel in private, where I could collapse and collect myself in the same breath. Those spaces hugged my chaos without asking questions.
Now I find myself inside a library—a new one, unfamiliar yet unnervingly tender. It doesn’t try to soothe me. It just is, and in that quiet refusal to coddle, I feel at home. I am alone, yes, but not lonely. I am submerged, not lost. For the first time in a long time,
I can hear myself without interference. I’m beginning to meet myself where I am, instead of where I should be.
To the strange, unlikely rooms that have held me—thank you. You were never meant to be safe harbors, but somehow, you were.
Apr 23, 2025
Related Recs
Why would you do that to me?
I keep trying to locate the moment everything broke. Like it’s a pin on a map I can circle in red. But there is no clear shatterpoint—no clean fracture, no dramatic climax. Just pressure. Gradual. Relentless. Until one day, I couldn’t carry it anymore and I don’t even remember deciding to drop it.
Maybe the line was never drawn.
Maybe I was never taught I could draw one.
Is that my fault? His? Does fault even matter?
Was it an accident? Was it cruelty? Was it just the consequence of being small in a world that teaches people to take what they want?
I don’t know.
And I’m learning to live with not knowing.
But lately—strangely—I think I’m healing.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. But quietly, like the way snow melts: slow and almost imperceptible, until suddenly there’s grass again.
I’m letting go of the obsessions that gnawed at me.
I have energy again, like I finally remembered how to move.
I’m picking up pieces of old joy, half-buried but still intact.
I’m remembering the things I loved. The things that loved me back.
And maybe, most importantly,
I’m forgetting the things that never really mattered at all.
5d ago
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a couple months ago I'm out behind the gabled house with dregs of home still seeping through its edges, a sharp sort of newness ripping the seams of who I am & who I was, sweaty fingers slipping from between each other with the bloodied grasp of desperation - it is a spring day, and I am here again. the leaves are new and the blinking infant furled in the strands of my chest takes a breath and every time I trudge through these vine-ridden woods I feel her grubby hands trace the creases in my ribcage. there are ghosts here, the soulmate-friend across the ocean and I and the way we'd take axes to the already-fallen trees like our anger was spraying away with the bark and we were left with only breeze. there are the phantoms of our hands stuck in the mud, ripped leaves beneath our fingernails as we unclogged the flow of the creek and watched the water dig its trenches deeper, and now i'm watching it capture the light of a new year in my hometown alone. through the leaves and over the tinny chorus of water-on-rock I hear the echoes of a mother calling to her children in a game of hide-and-seek, her children laughing, the clamor of it like a memory captured on tape and played back. there is a hole here, radio waves rippling through years folded back and punched through, I a bystander to the reminiscence of a stranger years down the line when some part of that laughter will be lost. it is here. it is here now, in the backyard of a house I sometimes call home.
May 5, 2025
My room is a corridor of doorways. Not a space, not a shelter, but a network of half-thoughts and abandoned exits. The floors reek of piss, like some wild dog marked its territory and then left me to rot in it. The walls pulse with memory. Or maybe delusion. Either way, it’s loud in here. Thoughts swarm like ants — frantic, mindless, pathetic — all scrabbling for something to hold on to. Information. Meaning. But there’s nothing. Just famine. Starvation of sense. A thousand tiny legs searching for crumbs in a house that hasn’t been fed in years.
And every day the sky breaks open again. Not metaphorically. The rain here isn’t poetic. It hammers. It devours. It doesn’t cleanse; it drowns. The ants drown, but they don’t die. They keep moving, twitching, twitching, twitching. Not alive. Not dead. Just full of guts and nerves and the viscera that keep them twitching. That hard carapace we all grow when the storm doesn’t stop. That’s all they are. That’s all I am.
Sometimes I think I’ll dig my way in. Crawl through the iris of my own eye — molecular, meticulous — and enter the network of my brain like a savior. A surgeon. Maybe a god. Maybe I’ll find the ants and teach them how to be more than twitching muscle and damp despair. Maybe I’ll name them. Maybe I’ll give them something like hope.
But dry drowning is real. No matter what they say. And the terrifying thing is — there’s no evidence it isn’t.
May 27, 2025
Top Recs from @_reckstar_
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Jun 4, 2025