Gonna blur this and give a trigger warning for anyone who has suffered through any sexual abuse. Its not graphic or anything but ya know, anyway
Unclean
I carried silence like broken glass
in the lining of my coat
careful not to move too quickly
lest the pieces press deeper
People spoke to me in weather reports
"you'll heal"
"time helps"
"storms pass"
but no one tells you
how long a body can stay winter
I learned to fear ordinary things
doorways, footsteps, the click of a lock,
my own reflection at 2 a.m
Some nights I scrubbed my skin raw
trying to erase fingerprints
memory kept redrawing
Shame became a second heartbeat
I wore it beneath every sentence
beneath every smile that looked whole enough
to keep questions away
Still morning kept arriving
rude thing
persistent thing
And slowly
not beautifully
not all at once
I began returning to myself
First in fragments
laughing without apology
sleeping with the curtains open
saying NO without trembling afterward
Then in louder ways
taking up space at tables
wearing clothes that felt like mine again
looking strangers in the eye
without shrinking
The hardest part was learning
that survival is not gratitude
I did not have to call my suffering
a lesson
for it to mean something
What happened to me
was violence
what I became afterward
was not ruin
I am still learning
how to live inside this body
without treating it like a crime scene
But listen
there are days now
when sunlight touches my face
and I do not flinch.
Days when my name
sounds like it belongs to me again.
And though the wound still speaks sometimes
it no longer gets the final word
Unclean
I carried silence like broken glass
in the lining of my coat
careful not to move too quickly
lest the pieces press deeper
People spoke to me in weather reports
"you'll heal"
"time helps"
"storms pass"
but no one tells you
how long a body can stay winter
I learned to fear ordinary things
doorways, footsteps, the click of a lock,
my own reflection at 2 a.m
Some nights I scrubbed my skin raw
trying to erase fingerprints
memory kept redrawing
Shame became a second heartbeat
I wore it beneath every sentence
beneath every smile that looked whole enough
to keep questions away
Still morning kept arriving
rude thing
persistent thing
And slowly
not beautifully
not all at once
I began returning to myself
First in fragments
laughing without apology
sleeping with the curtains open
saying NO without trembling afterward
Then in louder ways
taking up space at tables
wearing clothes that felt like mine again
looking strangers in the eye
without shrinking
The hardest part was learning
that survival is not gratitude
I did not have to call my suffering
a lesson
for it to mean something
What happened to me
was violence
what I became afterward
was not ruin
I am still learning
how to live inside this body
without treating it like a crime scene
But listen
there are days now
when sunlight touches my face
and I do not flinch.
Days when my name
sounds like it belongs to me again.
And though the wound still speaks sometimes
it no longer gets the final word
Unwise
I speak before I understand
trip over every simple thing
I build my thoughts like crooked towers
and watch them collapse by evening
I'm always late to what is clear
always choosing the harder lie
People hand me maps with patience
and still I get lost every time
I wear mistakes like second skin
collecting proof that I'm not wise
But no one tells you how exhausting
it is to be wrong your whole life
I speak before I understand
trip over every simple thing
I build my thoughts like crooked towers
and watch them collapse by evening
I'm always late to what is clear
always choosing the harder lie
People hand me maps with patience
and still I get lost every time
I wear mistakes like second skin
collecting proof that I'm not wise
But no one tells you how exhausting
it is to be wrong your whole life
A few thoughts:
First things first: poetry and the words in general a form of art i'm familiar withy mainly because it takes a lot more effort to "feel" them. Visual art, but also taste and olfactory stimulation have a much more immediate effect on me.
That being said, I've been through a few posts here. Only a few, because I was not able to process more for now. Not only because it's not my comfort zone, but aslo because there are some raw emotions here i simply did not expect here in general. I mean... In any other forum i can read/process a dozen of pages, several hundreds of contributions within minutes. Not here.
There are some really intense lines. They hit hard. Ok, maybe not everything is "fantastic".. So what? I do see the intention, effort and sincerity.
Thank you all for your contributions, I'll have another dive in this sub forum every now and then and look forward to that.
First things first: poetry and the words in general a form of art i'm familiar withy mainly because it takes a lot more effort to "feel" them. Visual art, but also taste and olfactory stimulation have a much more immediate effect on me.
That being said, I've been through a few posts here. Only a few, because I was not able to process more for now. Not only because it's not my comfort zone, but aslo because there are some raw emotions here i simply did not expect here in general. I mean... In any other forum i can read/process a dozen of pages, several hundreds of contributions within minutes. Not here.
There are some really intense lines. They hit hard. Ok, maybe not everything is "fantastic".. So what? I do see the intention, effort and sincerity.
Thank you all for your contributions, I'll have another dive in this sub forum every now and then and look forward to that.
How To Break Up With Your Therapist (additional note, I still have not broken up with my therapist)
Do you send an email?
or fake your own death?
because both cost the same emotionally.
Is there a template?
Hello,
thank you for teaching me how to breathe,
unfortunately I must now become smoke.
They’ve seen you cry
so hard your face forgot its own shape.
They’ve watched you explain trauma
with diagrams and metaphors and that one dream
not about teeth,
about the breakup,
your head everywhere,
everyone interchangeable,
waking up sweating,
nothing solid,
people shedding identities,
you checking your own name
for loose seams.
They know your attachment style.
They know your mother lives in your spine.
They know you joke when you’re cornered.
They know things
Which feels illegal.
They’ve held the weight
of your mummy issues,
the quiet gravity of her death,
how birthdays stopped meaning celebration
and started meaning survival.
They know that part too.
So how do you casually announce
that you’re leaving
someone who can tell you’re dissociating
by the way you blink.
You practice.
You rehearse in mirrors.
In the shower.
At traffic lights.
I think I’m ready.
I’m in a better place.
I’m just taking a break.
All lies.
What you mean is:
I am afraid of how much you can see me.
They will nod.
That calm nod.
That regulated nod.
That nod that makes you feel like a feral raccoon
being gently encouraged toward a carrier.
They will say they’re proud of you.
This feels hostile.
You are trying to escape
and they are emotionally stabilising at you.
You start sweating through insights.
Your leg does that thing.
Your brain opens seventeen tabs.
Also;
£65 an hour.
Sixty five pounds
to be perceived.
To cry in a safe chair.
To learn new words for old damage.
To disappoint someone professionally.
You are about to upset
a licensed adult.
This seems structurally unfair.
The people pleaser in you wakes up.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
You don’t want to hurt their feelings.
You don’t want to be someone
they mention in supervision.
You don’t want to become
an anonymised anecdote.
You don’t want to be
someone’s unfinished case study.
You begin bargaining with reality.
Maybe I just reduce sessions.
Maybe I fake a calendar conflict.
Maybe I become a lighthouse keeper.
Maybe I dissolve into administrative error.
They taught you boundaries
and now you’re trying to use one
on the person who taught you boundaries.
This feels like trying to arrest your own doctor.
They say:
The door is always open.
Your soul leaves your body.
No.
open door
open chest
open file
open mouth
open wounds
open calendar
open me.
Not closure.
Not safe.
Not done.
You forget how chairs work.
You forget how sentences end.
You are suddenly eight years old
and forty at the same time.
You are trying not to cry
in front of someone
who has literally watched you sob
into a £12 box of tissues.
You nod.
You smile.
You agree with everything.
Now you have to live knowing
your therapist exists somewhere
with a file that contains your worst thoughts
and a polite pen.
They know about your childhood.
Your ex.
That intrusive thought you whispered
like it might hear itself.
They watched you dismantle your personality
with the focus of a bomb technician.
They saw you become aware.
You cannot unknow yourself.
You stand up too fast.
Your limbs feel rented.
You thank them
like they just topped up your water
instead of teaching you
how to survive abandonment.
Outside, the world is loud.
Everyone is just walking around
with zero therapeutic supervision.
This feels irresponsible.
Later, at home,
you realise healing apparently includes
mourning someone who knows
your emotional password.
You hear their voice everywhere.
What are you feeling right now?
Stop.
You answer anyway.
You pace.
You spiral.
You google:
is it normal to miss your therapist?
You do not enjoy the internet.
You draft an email.
You delete it.
You draft another.
Just checking in.
Just clarifying.
Just saying thank you.
Just confirming I didn’t emotionally inconvenience you.
Just making sure I got my £65 worth of closure.
Just making sure I still exist.
You close your laptop.
Growth.
Maybe breaking up with your therapist
isn’t about being cured.
Maybe it’s about realising
you are now in charge
of your own nervous system.
Which feels like being handed
a live animal
and a manual written in panic.
Also, it’s your birthday soon.
You already don’t know
what to do with that.
You walk forward anyway.
Sweaty.
Self aware.
Noticeably unhinged.
Carrying insight, grief,
and a deep fear of disappointing professionals.
Congratulations.
You are now mentally healthy enough
to panic alone
in your own voice.
Do you send an email?
or fake your own death?
because both cost the same emotionally.
Is there a template?
Hello,
thank you for teaching me how to breathe,
unfortunately I must now become smoke.
They’ve seen you cry
so hard your face forgot its own shape.
They’ve watched you explain trauma
with diagrams and metaphors and that one dream
not about teeth,
about the breakup,
your head everywhere,
everyone interchangeable,
waking up sweating,
nothing solid,
people shedding identities,
you checking your own name
for loose seams.
They know your attachment style.
They know your mother lives in your spine.
They know you joke when you’re cornered.
They know things
Which feels illegal.
They’ve held the weight
of your mummy issues,
the quiet gravity of her death,
how birthdays stopped meaning celebration
and started meaning survival.
They know that part too.
So how do you casually announce
that you’re leaving
someone who can tell you’re dissociating
by the way you blink.
You practice.
You rehearse in mirrors.
In the shower.
At traffic lights.
I think I’m ready.
I’m in a better place.
I’m just taking a break.
All lies.
What you mean is:
I am afraid of how much you can see me.
They will nod.
That calm nod.
That regulated nod.
That nod that makes you feel like a feral raccoon
being gently encouraged toward a carrier.
They will say they’re proud of you.
This feels hostile.
You are trying to escape
and they are emotionally stabilising at you.
You start sweating through insights.
Your leg does that thing.
Your brain opens seventeen tabs.
Also;
£65 an hour.
Sixty five pounds
to be perceived.
To cry in a safe chair.
To learn new words for old damage.
To disappoint someone professionally.
You are about to upset
a licensed adult.
This seems structurally unfair.
The people pleaser in you wakes up.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
You don’t want to hurt their feelings.
You don’t want to be someone
they mention in supervision.
You don’t want to become
an anonymised anecdote.
You don’t want to be
someone’s unfinished case study.
You begin bargaining with reality.
Maybe I just reduce sessions.
Maybe I fake a calendar conflict.
Maybe I become a lighthouse keeper.
Maybe I dissolve into administrative error.
They taught you boundaries
and now you’re trying to use one
on the person who taught you boundaries.
This feels like trying to arrest your own doctor.
They say:
The door is always open.
Your soul leaves your body.
No.
open door
open chest
open file
open mouth
open wounds
open calendar
open me.
Not closure.
Not safe.
Not done.
You forget how chairs work.
You forget how sentences end.
You are suddenly eight years old
and forty at the same time.
You are trying not to cry
in front of someone
who has literally watched you sob
into a £12 box of tissues.
You nod.
You smile.
You agree with everything.
Now you have to live knowing
your therapist exists somewhere
with a file that contains your worst thoughts
and a polite pen.
They know about your childhood.
Your ex.
That intrusive thought you whispered
like it might hear itself.
They watched you dismantle your personality
with the focus of a bomb technician.
They saw you become aware.
You cannot unknow yourself.
You stand up too fast.
Your limbs feel rented.
You thank them
like they just topped up your water
instead of teaching you
how to survive abandonment.
Outside, the world is loud.
Everyone is just walking around
with zero therapeutic supervision.
This feels irresponsible.
Later, at home,
you realise healing apparently includes
mourning someone who knows
your emotional password.
You hear their voice everywhere.
What are you feeling right now?
Stop.
You answer anyway.
You pace.
You spiral.
You google:
is it normal to miss your therapist?
You do not enjoy the internet.
You draft an email.
You delete it.
You draft another.
Just checking in.
Just clarifying.
Just saying thank you.
Just confirming I didn’t emotionally inconvenience you.
Just making sure I got my £65 worth of closure.
Just making sure I still exist.
You close your laptop.
Growth.
Maybe breaking up with your therapist
isn’t about being cured.
Maybe it’s about realising
you are now in charge
of your own nervous system.
Which feels like being handed
a live animal
and a manual written in panic.
Also, it’s your birthday soon.
You already don’t know
what to do with that.
You walk forward anyway.
Sweaty.
Self aware.
Noticeably unhinged.
Carrying insight, grief,
and a deep fear of disappointing professionals.
Congratulations.
You are now mentally healthy enough
to panic alone
in your own voice.
Perfect world
A loving look for all to see
A danger lurking underneath
The soft touch as it appears to others
A warning you will behave
That tone of voice, I am well aware
The well formed mask slips
Making seconds feel like eternity
Then just like that it's back in place
No one knows,no one sees
Secrets hidden behind closed doors
The silent walk of shame and fear
As reprimands and threats hang high
Disgust ringing clear for your demon child
Knowing what lays await at home
The marks are too deep to ever leave
The chores of many left only to one
As your perfect girls laugh and play
The world you've created so perfectly
A world of smoke screens and lies
Sends fear trembling through my soul
Away from your place of worship
Away from your blinded companions
Away from where I am safe
Reminding me even now
As you always did
I do not belong
In your perfect world
A loving look for all to see
A danger lurking underneath
The soft touch as it appears to others
A warning you will behave
That tone of voice, I am well aware
The well formed mask slips
Making seconds feel like eternity
Then just like that it's back in place
No one knows,no one sees
Secrets hidden behind closed doors
The silent walk of shame and fear
As reprimands and threats hang high
Disgust ringing clear for your demon child
Knowing what lays await at home
The marks are too deep to ever leave
The chores of many left only to one
As your perfect girls laugh and play
The world you've created so perfectly
A world of smoke screens and lies
Sends fear trembling through my soul
Away from your place of worship
Away from your blinded companions
Away from where I am safe
Reminding me even now
As you always did
I do not belong
In your perfect world
Vacant
I do not want joy tonight
It asks too much of me
I do not want healing
or silver linings
I want the silence
of winter fields after snowfall
everything buried
everything still
Pain has made a home in my ribs
pulling the strings of my breathing
like cruel hands on a violin
Every memory arrives sharpened
Every hour bruises
So let me be numb for a while
Let me drift beneath feeling
where sorrow cannot follow
Turn my heart to stone
to something incapable of breaking
Because hurting this deeply
makes even emptiness
feel merciful
And if tomorrow asks me
to carry all this again
let tonight at least
be vacant
a dark room
where nothing touches me
I do not want joy tonight
It asks too much of me
I do not want healing
or silver linings
I want the silence
of winter fields after snowfall
everything buried
everything still
Pain has made a home in my ribs
pulling the strings of my breathing
like cruel hands on a violin
Every memory arrives sharpened
Every hour bruises
So let me be numb for a while
Let me drift beneath feeling
where sorrow cannot follow
Turn my heart to stone
to something incapable of breaking
Because hurting this deeply
makes even emptiness
feel merciful
And if tomorrow asks me
to carry all this again
let tonight at least
be vacant
a dark room
where nothing touches me
The Ink Beneath the Sleeve
They told us not to cry
said silence was the shape of strength,
that a clenched jaw was a crown
and a wound ignored would heal.
So we learned to speak in glances,
nods,
shrugs,
and the long sighs we exhaled into beers.
But some of us
ran out of places to store the ache.
So we turned to skin
a blank page no one was reading
and carved the chapters no one asked about.
Not for attention.
For translation.
For the desperate hope that pain,
when made visible,
might finally be understood.
Each scar:
a sentence in a script of silence.
Each mark:
a punctuation in a monologue never heard.
Tragedies written in red ink,
where the world only saw
misbehavior,
not memoir.
And still
I flinch when someone’s gaze lingers too long.
Not because I’m ashamed of the scars,
but because I know what they might say
if they learn to read them.
These marks feel like Braille
raised lines of pain,
a language the fingers weren’t meant to trace.
I’m terrified someone might decode the story
I never meant to share,
the kind you feel before you understand.
Because talking?
God, talking feels like treason
like handing your shame to someone
who might drop it,
laugh,
or worse,
walk away.
We were taught that a real man
builds walls,
not doorways.
That sharing is weakness,
and weakness is failure.
So we lock our grief in our ribcages,
let it rattle like a ghost in a house
no one believes is haunted.
But there is no bravery
in bleeding alone.
No honor in quiet deaths.
This is not a confession.
This is a call.
To open the shutters.
To hand each other matches
and say, “Let’s burn the script that says we must be silent.”
Your story belongs
in the open,
not hidden beneath sleeves.
Let’s stop writing tragedies in skin
and start speaking them
out loud.
They told us not to cry
said silence was the shape of strength,
that a clenched jaw was a crown
and a wound ignored would heal.
So we learned to speak in glances,
nods,
shrugs,
and the long sighs we exhaled into beers.
But some of us
ran out of places to store the ache.
So we turned to skin
a blank page no one was reading
and carved the chapters no one asked about.
Not for attention.
For translation.
For the desperate hope that pain,
when made visible,
might finally be understood.
Each scar:
a sentence in a script of silence.
Each mark:
a punctuation in a monologue never heard.
Tragedies written in red ink,
where the world only saw
misbehavior,
not memoir.
And still
I flinch when someone’s gaze lingers too long.
Not because I’m ashamed of the scars,
but because I know what they might say
if they learn to read them.
These marks feel like Braille
raised lines of pain,
a language the fingers weren’t meant to trace.
I’m terrified someone might decode the story
I never meant to share,
the kind you feel before you understand.
Because talking?
God, talking feels like treason
like handing your shame to someone
who might drop it,
laugh,
or worse,
walk away.
We were taught that a real man
builds walls,
not doorways.
That sharing is weakness,
and weakness is failure.
So we lock our grief in our ribcages,
let it rattle like a ghost in a house
no one believes is haunted.
But there is no bravery
in bleeding alone.
No honor in quiet deaths.
This is not a confession.
This is a call.
To open the shutters.
To hand each other matches
and say, “Let’s burn the script that says we must be silent.”
Your story belongs
in the open,
not hidden beneath sleeves.
Let’s stop writing tragedies in skin
and start speaking them
out loud.
If the world came to an end
If the world came to an end
Would i forget
the taste of exotic spices,
the smell of flowers
and the taste of whisky?
If the world came to an end
Would i forget
the touch of silk,
the sound of rain
and laughter with friends?
If the world came to an end,
I would not forget
That i loved you
If the world came to an end
Would i forget
the taste of exotic spices,
the smell of flowers
and the taste of whisky?
If the world came to an end
Would i forget
the touch of silk,
the sound of rain
and laughter with friends?
If the world came to an end,
I would not forget
That i loved you