ashesinverses

[ashesinverses]

Against the glass

I think I was born into fear.

It stalks me silently,

never leaving my side

since the beginning of time,

when I first lifted my chest.

A creeping shadow,

at first more me

than I am.

Spreading the haze

that tortured my lungs,

breathing against the glass,

writing words,

briefly present,

yet lingering in my mind.

The mind I'm losing slowly,

cursed,

corrupted,

twisted.

[ashesinverses]

Who am I

when I have nothing left

to drown in poetry?

I have no character,

only words that breathe within me,

reaching out their fingers

toward life.

[ashesinverses]

I never follow through.

Everything I start is endless,

never finished,

rot into nothingness,

never accomplished.

Too many ideas,

but they get lost in the haze,

losing their light

and decay into ash.

[ashesinverses]

Dear narcissistic friend,

We laugh together,

share fleeting moments.

But deep inside,

I am hollow.

Your words cut deeper

than I want to admit.

And you—

you are the worst of all.

You pull my hair,

throw me to the ground.

Why?

Because in your eyes

I look better with my hair down.

And instead of lending

me a helping hand,

you take photos of me,

lying on dirty ground,

people watching me.

The group's new profile picture.

I changed it,

but you undid it.

You say I have OCD,

and to “help” me,

you spit in my hand disinfectant.

At that moment,

it felt like spitting on me.

I waited for you,

missed my bus to stay by your side.

But as soon as we arrived,

you vanished.

I was left alone

in a place I didn’t know,

disoriented.

You were far away

on a bus to our destination.

When attention turns to me,

you become quiet, absent.

You say I am the reason

you fell into depression again.

Guilt clenched my throat,

tight and relentless.

You are angry

when I don’t have time for you.

You insult me,

disguised as laughter.

You know my anxiety,

yet you humiliate me

in front of everyone.

At our old school,

I sat alone in breaks.

The common room

reserved for you,

only three allowed—but four of us.

I was never part of it,

never belonged.

Teachers noticed.

You call me autistic,

claim my hair is molding.

You leave me,

and when I tell you it hurts,

you say:

“We’re your only friends.

Without us, you’d be alone.”

But I wouldn’t be alone.

I would only be without you.

Maybe that would be better.

Still, I remember

the moments when we were one.

In crowded halls,

you took care of me.

We had happy moments, truly.

But sometimes it feels

like you stab me from behind.

Everyone says you take advantage of me,

but I have nothing to give.

Everyone says it’s unhealthy,

but you matter to me.

Everyone says go away,

but I can’t.

Maybe I am the problem.

Too sensitive,

too dramatic.

[ashesinverses]

I want to drink your pain,

banish it to the depths

of the lake

on a warm summer night,

the moon reflecting

on its surface,

spinning silver threads

along the shore.

I want to burn it,

make it unrecognizable

on dusty ground,

crumbling

until a flower blooms.

I want to recite it

until it fills me

down to every fiber

and the shadows reveal

who I truly am.

[ashesinverses]

Run, run, run

So many missed chances,

stumbling blindly through life,

clinging to the now

without living it.

I missed my childhood.

No laughter that kisses

my bruised skin

like warm summer rain

on mild days.

No bedtime story

in the evening

when sleep is delayed.

Only pain that waits

like an echo in my bones,

words on repeat,

the belt that sings

a whimpering song,

bruises blooming,

fear, my strongest organ.

I missed my youth.

No parties with friends

that feel like home.

No conversations

in the middle of the night

soaked in cheap wine.

No getting ready together

with pre-drinks,

laughter echoing off the walls.

No shopping,

only mirrors that cry

and laugh,

pointing at me.

I don't know

who's to blame.

Is it life,

the wrong friends

or just me?

But now it's too late.

I had opportunities,

but as so often happens,

I run away.

[ashesinverses]

I want to be alone

in my room,

curtains closed,

undisturbed.

Write until my fingers refuse,

listen to music

until my ears bleed,

read until my eyelids grow heavy

and the letters blur,

words chopped off.

But being alone isn't good

in your eyes.

But then why the hell

does it feel like that?

Why can I only breathe

when I'm alone,

my soul expanding to my chest.

I don't want to talk,

let me.

But you won't.

[ashesinverses]

Your smile so sweet

and illuminating,

but your lips -

the opening of a weapon,

words like sharpened blades

your ammunition.

[ashesinverses]

Soulmates

Is this just a fable

woven to soothe

the ache of solitude?

To find meaning

in a life

that paints a gray portrait

with the ashes of our bodies?

A destiny imagined,

greater than the fragile truths

we know.

An echo of ourselves

drifting across the hollow shell

of this earth,

born of the same raw matter,

spun into two threads.

Wool present only once

in two separate lives.

Is:

“Whatever our souls are made of,

his and mine are the same”

really true?

Or is it only a lie,

a fragile cure

for the endless silence

of existence?

Whoever my other half is,

she too far gone

to reach for,

if they even exist.

[ashesinverses]

Awkward fragments of my thoughts

Alone in the park,

two girls my age,

asking for cigarettes,

I roll trembling,

paper

around tobacco,

questions,

school,

life,

face burning,

ears hot,

why so alone,

stubborn giggles

in between,

because of me?

do you want to come

with us,

no,

no,

scared but no reason,

socially

incompetent,

lying,

lie,

I'm not coming,

they leave,

I stay behind,

fire in my head,

trembling,

breathing ragged,

that's how I am.

[ashesinverses]

The one, the fourth

I am the one

who was left behind

on foreign streets,

with trembling heart,

not knowing where I am.

I am the one

you push around,

rub salt

into open wounds,

and laugh

because it's just fun for you,

no matter what I say.

I am the one

who does everything,

even when I'm weak,

and you paint a picture

in my blood.

I am the one,

unasked,

only plan B

when everyone else

is already taken.

The fourth in the alliance,

but never a part.

I am the one

you embarrass

but I know

you don't know any better,

every boundary

set in colors.

But you are color blind.

I am the one,

a punching bag

of your feelings,

angry at

what I can't do.

I don't know

if this is friendship,

or just a habit,

now that everything

is strange,

but I hold on

to familiar things,

even when it hurts.

Because I often remember

the moments when it didnt,

but always the fourth.

[ashesinverses]

It's not that I'm unmotivated,

I am motivated,

at least often,

it's just that my body

seems to be refusing.

Every millimeter is a struggle.

Ropes pull at me,

trying to see me on the cold ground.

Bones made of lead

press me down.

Fingers drop

what they were just holding on to.

Everything falls.

I do nothing.

[ashesinverses]

Hidden and yet there

An inner fire

is fanned,

glowing coal crackles,

sparks rise into the air,

painting a new zodiac sign

into the night.

Why don't you want to understand?

Flames creep

through the veins,

air so thick,

barely room

to breathe.

Pressure

on chest,

a burden so heavy.

Don't you believe me?

Despair,

a silent neighbor of rage,

familiar,

yet far away.

Lava - your blood,

ash - our breath,

dancing

and whirling

through the air,

gray takes over,

red heartbeat,

hot skin.

Can't you feel me?

This poem is inspired by the shadow challenge by @versesbyaaliyah

[ashesinverses]

You are as beautiful as…

The first leaf

in autumn,

golden brown,

a shy red,

shining brightly

along the leaf’s veins,

embracing the bare earth.

The first snowflake

in winter,

tiny crystals

adorn your head,

shining in twilight

with the stars,

dying in beauty.

The first crocus

that blooms in spring,

gazing lovely

toward the sky,

deeply rooted

in crumbly earth,

when the sun kisses

the ground again.

The first butterflies

in summer,

dancing merrily

over meadows,

when sun rays

chase waves of heat

across pale skin,

as the days grow longer

and the nights shorter.

[ashesinverses]

If there were a train

with everyone I love,

I would walk beside you

along quiet streets,

talk

until our voices fade,

and walk

until my chest forgets to rise.

[ashesinverses]

So many systems have been created, all broken and fucked up.

[ashesinverses]

I don’t know since when…

but washing my hands

has become a temptation,

too often,

too loud to bear.

Fingers suddenly feel dirty—

no touch,

no breeze.

Every liquid triggers disgust,

constricting,

immediate, unavoidable.

Disinfectant only sparingly

frees me

from invisible shackles

that cut into my wrists.

A brief sigh of relief

after diving too deep,

but too brief.

Water and soap

redeem my soul

for a while

before my mind

turns irrational again,

taken over

by thoughts that hiss

hostilely.

Every door checked,

every key turned many times,

every touch of soap a fleeting relief—

an illusion of control.

Things have gotten better:

no more red,

bloody hands

that crack

after every movement,

no more scabs

opening valleys,

a red ocean

that won’t heal.

Almost

no more checking,

no more fear,

no more compulsions,

no seduction, right?

Only the thoughts

that swirl around me remain.

But I can defend myself better,

have sharper weapons now.

I don’t give in so easily—

but sometimes…

yes, sometimes I do.

Note: I don’t have OCD, but sometimes I experience compulsions. They’re not as intense as they used to be, and I don’t struggle with a full-blown disorder. This poem reflects moments of that feeling, not a diagnosis.