nerdybunnysworld

[nerdybunnysworld]

The Jezebel’s Rage

She is not innocent.

She is not meek.

She is not mild.

She is a storm—a wildfire that refuses to be contained.

Her eyes do not just reflect fire; they burn with it.

Pain, seared into her soul, glows beneath her skin.

Her every move is measured, every step deliberate.

She sees it all—the way your energy shifts,

the hollow ring in your voice,

the surrender in your eyes when you realize she knows.

This is not love.

This is not strength.

This is not faith.

This is a war.

A war declared in whispers, in pulpits, in laws written in blood.

A call to arms that most ignore—

because comfort is easier than truth.

She does not seek refuge in pews lined with false promises.

She does not kneel at the feet of men who mistake power for godhood.

She dances in the ruins of the sanctified,

where soot and ash are her cloak,

where silence has never been sacred.

She is the spark in the dark places,

the defiance in the forsaken,

the hands that hold the abandoned.

She does not survive on half-truths or pretty illusions,

and she will not drink from the cup of forgetfulness.

You speak of love, but only for those who bend.

You preach of mercy, but only for those who obey.

You claim righteousness, yet build your kingdom on bones.

You rewrite history in golden ink,

glazing over the blood, the chains,

the way your god was wielded like a blade

against the very people you now call lost.

The tsunami of rage rises.

The whispers of frustration grow teeth.

The emptiness of abandonment festers.

And yet you stand, clothed in sanctimony,

twisting the past into something gentle,

pretending the bad never happened—

or worse, that it was necessary.

You drown in your own lies,

like oil thick in your veins,

clogging the force of reality.

You ignore the eruptions, the consequences,

the lives your doctrine was never meant to touch—

but shattered all the same.

You sing of forgiveness and acceptance,

but only for the ones who kneel at your altar.

You promise compassion, yet abandon the ones

who refuse to carve out their own flesh to fit your mold.

You say, “Protect the weak.”

And yet, children starve in your streets,

while you hoard your tithes and call it faith.

You say, “Support the poor.”

Yet women die in silence, their suffering deemed a test.

You say, “Life is sacred.”

Yet you send the desperate to war,

turning them into weapons,

discarding them like rusted steel when they are no longer useful.

You cry, “Save the babies!”

But the woman forced to carry?

She is a footnote in your holy book.

You go on mission trips across the world,

condemning innocent souls to your sick, twisted hell,

leaving nations more depleted than when you arrived.

You strip them of what little they have,

take their land, their voices, their gods,

build monuments to your own,

and dare to say, “We saved you.”

Your hypocrisy seeps through your robes,

your judgment stains the hands you raise in worship.

You condemn the ones who choose abortion—

yet when your own wombs betray you,

you make the same choice behind clinic doors,

whispering that it’s different, because God understands.

Your god is a shepherd, you say.

Yet you mock the ones who refuse to be sheep.

So who, then, is the true wolf in sheep’s clothing?

You marry off your daughters to your deity,

call them his bride,

wrap them in silk and obedience,

while their souls bleed beneath the lace.

You stand at your pulpits,

claiming holiness,

claiming truth.

Yet the walls of your churches crack,

splintered under the weight of your own deceit.

She does not pray for your approval.

She does not seek your salvation.

She stands in the wreckage you created,

breathing in the ash,

watching as the fire takes hold.

And this time, she does not weep.

This time, she does not beg.

This time, she lets it burn.

[nerdybunnysworld]

Watch Me Thrive

I wanted it so badly—

To believe the excuses,

those paper-thin shields

you used to mask the absence of care.

They came in torrents,

a flood meant to drown me

instead of filling the gaping void

where love should have lived.

In place of your arms,

you held me at a distance,

dangling the promise of a relationship

like a carrot before a starving ass—

always just out of reach,

always just enough to keep me chasing.

You handed me burdens that weren’t mine—

stone after stone,

until my back ached beneath the weight.

When I came to you with tears,

seeking shelter,

you silenced them with rivers of excuses.

I asked for you—any part of you.

But even your scraps were calculated.

You doled them out sparingly,

like bread to a beggar,

just enough to keep me tethered.

I asked for a lifeboat,

and you threw me a toy duck,

its painted eyes mocking my despair.

You stood there,

laughing as I sank,

dismissing my struggles

as storms of my own making.

When I begged for your hand,

you kept it in your pocket.

And when I needed you most,

when the waters rose above my head,

there were no more excuses to cling to.

No raft. No rope. No anchor.

Just you,

bare and unmasked.

And you chose you.

But now, I choose me.

I will no longer settle for the scraps

you once called love.

The same crumbs I was expected to survive on—

those hollow promises and half-hearted gestures—

are all you’ll receive from me.

I am no longer hungry for your approval.

The girl you raised to be strong

has grown into a woman who is willful.

Your neglect tempered me.

Your absence forged me.

I do not need you

or the excuses you wear like armor.

I built myself a future from the ruins.

And now, I hold the fire,

while you are left to watch

as the flames light my path.

[nerdybunnysworld]

A Mother

I wanted a mother.

But you wanted a best friend.

Your laughter filled the spaces meant for lullabies,

And I sat, crying internally,

While you spilled your heart to me like water through cracked hands,

Every drop soaking the silence I so desperately craved.

You broke down to me,

Piece by jagged piece,

Telling me your struggles,

The ache in your chest,

The echo of your loneliness.

And I felt nothing,

Realizing I had lived there my entire life,

In the cold, hollow corners of a house built for two

But furnished for one.

I didn’t want riches,

Not toys, not trinkets, not the sparkle of things.

I wanted whispers of warmth,

An ear to hear the soft tremble in my voice,

Arms that could fold me whole,

Eyes that might pierce through the thick fabric of my mask,

And words like woven threads,

Binding my fragile heart instead of unraveling it.

But instead, you gave me mirrors—

Reflections of your hardships.

You pointed at my untouched plate,

Reminding me of the feast you never had.

You compared my tears to oceans you’d already crossed,

Your burdens always heavier,

Your pain always louder.

You opened your floodgates to me,

Not seeing that I was already drowning,

Not noticing my gasping breath,

My outstretched hand clawing through your current,

Begging for something solid to hold.

I wanted to learn from you,

To grow in your shadow,

To feel the strength of your roots beneath my feet.

But instead, I learned to shrink,

To quiet my voice,

To bow my head.

I became the perfect audience,

The nodding child with too-old eyes,

Listening to stories I didn’t understand

And pretending they weren’t crushing me.

I’ll never understand you.

How you could speak of loneliness

While building mine.

I work so hard to be what I never had—

The one who sees through the masks,

Who holds the hands of the weary.

But when it comes to you,

I become the child again,

Falling into line,

Hushing my tone,

Making room for more of you.

It’s an endless dance of unsteady steps.

Your lead, my follow.

Your voice, my silence.

Your flood, my surrender.

And yet, all I ever wanted

Was the sound of your heart beating for me,

Even just once.

[nerdybunnysworld]

Nine Lives Inn

The air is bitterly cold as I draw in a breath, my chest rising against the pull of the icy wind. My eyes scan the empty street, noting every shadow, every flicker of light.

You shouldn’t be here.

The warning churns in my mind like a storm, insistent and loud. Run. Hide. Forget. But my feet remain anchored to the spot, rooted by something stronger than fear. Across the street, an elderly man sits on a bench under the dim yellow glow of a streetlamp, waiting for the late bus. He doesn’t look my way. No one does.

Above me, a flickering neon sign casts its pale glow: Nine Lives. My lips twitch into a Cheshire grin at the name, the irony not lost on me. With a steadying breath, I push the door open, the heavy weight of it giving way to warmth and the low hum of music.

The bar is sparsely populated. A few stragglers linger at a table in the far corner, their muted voices blending with the occasional clink of glasses. They don’t spare me a glance as I walk to the opposite wall. My coat and hat come off, the cold left behind with them as I slide into a corner booth.

The instructions had been simple: Order a Sunny Sunday. Nothing more.

The waitress approaches, her smile too broad to be casual. When I place my order, she nods knowingly, disappearing into the back. Moments later, she returns with an envelope—a deep crimson that seems to pulse in the dim light.

She hands it to me silently, her eyes flickering to a point just behind my shoulder. I follow her gaze, turning slightly to notice a door I hadn’t seen before. It’s recessed, tucked neatly behind a divider, its edges blending seamlessly with the wall. Hidden.

The paper inside the envelope is smooth, the faint scent of ink rising as I unfold it. A single number stares back at me: 3. Beneath it, a plain black keycard rests, its weight heavier than it should be.

I stand, gathering my things, and make my way to the hidden door. My hand hovers over the handle as my pulse thrums in my ears. A deep breath steadies me, and I step into the hallway beyond.

The corridor is narrow, lined with identical doors on either side, each unmarked save for a single brass number. My heels echo softly against the floor as I count: 1. 2. 3.

The key slides into the slot with a faint click. The door swings inward, revealing a room cloaked in shadow. A single candle flickers at the center, its golden glow casting long, dancing shadows. The walls are lined with dark shapes I can’t quite make out—leather, metal, silk—but I know better than to investigate.

The instructions were clear.

I step forward, the faint warmth of the candle brushing against my skin, its glow casting flickering shadows that seem to dance around me. My eyes settle on the items in the center of the room—two pairs of cuffs and a blindfold laid out with deliberate precision. The sight sends a thrill coursing through me, anticipation blooming like a fire in my chest. My breath hitches as I reach for the ankle cuffs, the leather smooth and cold against my trembling hands. They feel weighty, their presence grounding me, reminding me of what’s to come.

My fingers trail to the zipper of the tight, black corset dress clinging to me, its lace trim skimming the tops of my thighs, the neckline dipping just low enough to tease without fully revealing. It feels like both armor and surrender, a second skin that leaves just enough exposed.

A voice slices through the silence, deep and commanding. “The instructions were clear. Leave the clothes on. Put the cuffs on your ankles and wrists, and assume the position as instructed, pet.”

My breath catches, and I freeze, the weight of the command pressing down on me. “Yes, Daddy,” I whisper, my voice trembling with submission.

I lower myself to the ground, fastening the cuffs around my ankles. The soft snick of the clasps fills the quiet room, each sound heightening the electric tension in the air. On my knees now, I secure the wrist cuffs, the leather biting gently into my skin, a reminder of who I belong to.

The blindfold feels impossibly soft as I run it through my fingers, savoring the texture. I lift it to my eyes, ready to tie it in place, but warm hands engulf mine, steady and sure.

“I’ll do that for you,” you murmur, your voice brushing against my ear like velvet.

I let my hands fall to my knees, palms upward, fingers loose, and part my thighs as you’ve taught me. My heart pounds as I wait, exposed and obedient.

“Good girl.” Your words are a low growl, steeped in approval. “You make Daddy so proud. And so needy for you.”

Heat blooms in my core, spreading outward like wildfire. Your fingers brush the nape of my neck, tracing a slow, deliberate path down to my collarbone. Every inch of my skin comes alive under your touch, igniting with a fire that only you can stoke.

My breath quickens, and I feel the veil descending—a hazy, blissful surrender that empties my mind of everything but you. Your touch, your command, your need.

“How far will you take me tonight, Daddy?” I whisper, my voice trembling with anticipation.

A low chuckle rumbles from the shadows, and I feel your hand tighten possessively around my neck. “As far as I want, Pet. And tonight, I want everything.”

[nerdybunnysworld]

Travelers Thoughts

The mind,

a trickster cloaked in shadows,

leads me down endless, winding paths.

No mantra can anchor it,

no tether strong enough

to rein in its wayward stampede.

I throw ropes like prayers,

my hands bloodied by the knots

that fray and fall apart,

sending the bull of my thoughts

to crash,

unbridled,

through the fragile china shop of my soul.

I watch the shards scatter—

dreams, memories, and fragile hopes,

all left broken,

their edges glinting like warnings

I never seem to heed.

And when the storm subsides,

and quiet moments creep in like thieves,

I begin to feel the ache of safety,

the lull of closeness pressing

too tight against my skin.

That’s when I bolt,

as though the very touch of tenderness

burns me,

as though the weight of connection

threatens to drown the air from my lungs.

The curse of knowing better

makes it worse.

I see myself unravel,

thread by thread,

as I rip apart the bonds

that might have saved me.

I tell myself it’s for the best,

that closeness is a snare,

a hunter’s trap—

and I was never meant to stay.

My heart is a coward,

beating with a rhythm of retreat.

Every moment of warmth

feels like a fleeting ember,

and I, afraid of the fire,

snuff it out before it can blaze.

I choke on words I can’t seem to voice,

their jagged edges lodging in my throat:

Wait.

No.

Come back.

I can do better.

I can be better.

But silence always wins.

And my eyes,

windows to an unraveling soul,

betray me.

Even those,

hidden behind dark lenses,

learn to mask the storm.

I watch you drift away,

your wings unfurling into brilliance.

How could I ever blame you?

They are beautiful,

a dazzling reminder

that freedom suits you.

And yet, as I let go,

not by force or request,

but by my own trembling hands,

I wonder why my soul craves the open road

when all it does is lead me farther

from the warmth of belonging.

I tell myself I am a traveling soul,

meant not to keep, but to mend.

A healer who stitches wounds

only to carry their scars as souvenirs.

Each person, a fleeting firelight,

teaches me new stories,

new colors to paint my memories with,

even as I turn my back to their glow.

But there is a weight to this wandering,

a gravity in the loneliness that follows me.

The ease of leaving,

so practiced,

is a knife I wield against myself.

It is sharp, swift,

and mercilessly precise.

And though I bleed every time,

I find comfort in the pain.

For pain, at least,

feels familiar.

It is a steady companion,

never betraying me the way connection does.

And so I wander,

carrying the ache of every goodbye,

of every unsaid plea,

folding them like maps

into the archives of my restless heart.

Perhaps this is destiny:

to roam,

to set free,

to never belong.

And yet, in the midst of sorrow,

I find beauty in the fleeting,

a bittersweet joy in knowing

I will carry their light with me,

even as I vanish into the distance.

Each goodbye

is another tale to tell,

another moment to hold close

in the endless night of my journey.

And though I long for roots,

for the grounding of connection,

I cannot deny

the pull of the road,

the call of the wind,

the wild, untamable spirit within me

that always aches

for more.

[nerdybunnysworld]

Harley’s Healing

I used to idolize them—

Harley and Joker.

Instead of seeing him

For the toxic clown he was,

And her a victim

Of a society that calls it love.

A ride or die,

That’s what they’d call it—

Where the old lady

Would stay no matter what,

Through every bruise

That painted their skin,

Through every shadow

That engulfed their soul,

Through every arrow

Driven into their heart.

They’re expected to stay,

To be the perfect little pet.

Don’t ask too many questions.

Don’t look too close.

Trust him—because he’s a man.

But there’s a power in seeing clearly,

In the healing that comes from truth.

Harley saw him—not the mask,

Not the twisted charm he wore,

But the monster underneath.

And much like me,

She found her salvation in the green,

In the plants -

The Ivy meant to Poison.

What others feared,

She embraced.

She entangled herself

Not in chains of pain,

But in vines of rebellion and rebirth.

It wasn’t his world she needed—

It was hers.

With roots strong enough

To break through the concrete

That tried to bury her alive.

Ivy called her forward,

Not as a victim,

But as an equal.

Harley found herself in Ivy’s touch—

Soft, healing, and wild.

Her love was not a cage,

But a garden,

Where Harley could bloom

And be loved for her thorns

As much as her petals.

It wasn’t escape—it was freedom.

Not perfect, but pure.

Not pain, but peace.

Together, they claimed joy

In the chaos of the world,

Growing stronger

And more entwined with every storm.

[nerdybunnysworld]

Seasons Changes

Christmas is a season draped in lights,

But for me, it’s shadowed in years wasted.

The presents under the tree weren’t gifts;

They were laced with cruelty,

Empty promises wrapped in ribbons

That unraveled into shards of broken trust.

I remember the desperation to bring the holiday alive—

Elf on the Shelf perched like a hollow guardian,

Cookies for Santa that tasted of quiet despair,

Photos taken in coordinated outfits,

Perfect smiles masking the fractures beneath.

The decor was tentatively chosen,

Every piece arranged just so,

Our little Barbie house dressed to convince the world

That warmth lived within its walls.

But the truth whispered through every corner,

Like the drafts that chilled us to the bone.

We laugh about the past now,

Like it was some dark comedy,

Brushing off the trauma,

Pretending it didn’t carve wounds

I still can’t heal.

The shit you did to me,

We say,

Didn’t really fuck me up, right?

We laugh,

And the laughter chokes like the noose

That once wrapped tightly around my neck.

The lights around the tree twinkle

With the weight of what they hide—

A flickering reflection of hopes hung too high,

Dreams suspended like the wreath on the door,

Now just ornaments of things I’ve stopped reaching for.

And the snow…

The snow blankets the world in cold,

A familiar chill that crawls into my chest,

Reminding me that no matter how far I run,

The winter always finds me.

Every year, it finds me.

But this year feels different,

Even in the cold, I find a spark.

Not from the past, but from within me.

The lights that once bound me like chains

Are softer now, less cruel,

And I see them for what they are—

Not a noose, but a chance to shine.

The wreath, once a mocking reminder

Of dreams too high to reach,

Now feels like a circle unbroken,

A sign that my story isn’t done.

And the snow… oh, the snow.

It still chills me, yes,

But it also blankets the ground,

A clean slate waiting for me to walk forward,

One step at a time.

This season may always carry echoes of pain,

But I carry something stronger:

A flame that refuses to go out,

A quiet rebellion to feel joy,

To claim peace,

Even in the winter.

[nerdybunnysworld]

Dad

I watch you fade, and it cuts deep into me—a wound I thought had finally started to heal.

Why now? Why this moment, when the cracks in our foundation were finally being mended?

We were piecing together the shards of our broken past, fitting them into something that almost resembled wholeness.

But now, I am stuck.

Stuck between forgiveness and hatred.

Between holding on and letting go.

The present and the past blur into something chaotic and unrecognizable,

A cruel dance where time folds in on itself, binding me to a pain I thought I’d buried.

I am caught in the riptide of this disease—

Pulled forward into the hollowing moments of your forgetting,

And dragged backward into the echoes of your harsh words,

Your absence when I needed you most,

The pieces of me you left scattered in your wake.

The good and the bad clash together in a storm that refuses to settle.

Your apologies, once soothing, now feel fragile,

Your tears of regret, once a balm, now sting like salt.

You cry over the things you did, the words you threw like daggers,

And for a fleeting moment, I believe we can survive this.

But then, like a flame snuffed out, it’s gone.

You’ve forgotten my name.

You ask me what we were talking about,

And I feel the ground shift beneath me.

You look at my little girl—

Her laugh, her eyes, the perfect reflection of me—and call her by my name.

And that is my undoing.

How am I supposed to heal when each step forward is met with a fall?

When every bandage I place over the wound is torn away by the jagged edges of this reality?

It’s a knife wound, deep and unrelenting,

And you—whether you mean to or not—keep twisting the blade.

I want to forgive you, but how can I when you no longer even know what you’re asking for?

I want to love you, but how can I when you’re fading into someone I don’t recognize?

And yet, I can’t bring myself to hate you,

Even as the weight of this riptide drags me under.

I hold onto the moments of clarity—

The fleeting seconds when your eyes soften,

When you remember who I am, who we were.

They are drops of rain in a desert,

Just enough to keep me here,

Caught in this endless storm of memory, love, and loss.

How do I survive this?

How do I let go of the past while it claws at me through your voice, your eyes, your fleeting touch?

Maybe I don’t.

Maybe this is a wound that never closes,

A scar that never fades.

But still, I stay.

Because love is as much about holding on through the storms as it is about basking in the calm.

Even when the person I love is slipping through my fingers like sand,

Even when the child you named after me becomes my anchor in the moments I can’t bear it alone.

I stay.

[nerdybunnysworld]

Skol to Valhalla, My Love.

My Love,

I often think back to the moments we shared, and though time has softened their edges, they still gleam with a rare light. For a season, we were two wandering souls, drawn to each other like moths to a flame. We gave warmth where there had been cold, light where there had been shadows. For that, I will always be grateful.

You let me see you as you truly are—raw, unguarded, beautifully human. I still wonder if you ever felt the same tether I did, or if I was simply a passing tide. The answer may forever elude me, but it doesn’t change what I feel. In you, I found a mirror and a teacher. You taught me to marvel at the precision of machines, to appreciate the artistry in their movements. But more importantly, you taught me to see my own worth. To believe, even if just for a moment, that I could be loved—not as an obligation, but as a choice.

Losing you felt like a violent unmooring. I was cast adrift, torn from the safe harbor I thought we had built. The ache of your absence shattered me in ways I didn’t know were possible. But even in that breaking, I discovered a kind of beauty. Each shard became a piece of my armor, a part of the person I was always meant to become.

Now, I stand stronger, wiser, and unshakably grounded. Where I once sought validation, I now carry certainty. The love I give is no longer offered with trembling hands but with the quiet confidence of someone who knows her value. I’ve rebuilt the walls you once tore down, but this time, they are not fortresses—they are foundations. They protect, yes, but they also allow me to grow.

Yet, as much as you shaped me, we are no longer bound. Whatever thread once connected us has unraveled, and I know now it is time to let go. To say goodbye. Not with bitterness, but with a quiet, aching gratitude. You were a chapter in my story that I will always cherish, but we cannot linger in a single passage forever.

I hope you have found peace, love, or whatever it is your soul seeks. I hope you look back on us with kindness, as I do. And though we walk separate paths now, know that I carry the lessons you gave me, the light you sparked within me.

So this is my farewell. Not with tears, but with hope. Not with regret, but with resolve. You will always hold a place in my heart, but I must move forward. I must find the kind of peace that comes from releasing what once was and embracing what will be.

Skol, my love. To Valhalla, or wherever our paths may lead.

Love Always,

Me

[nerdybunnysworld]

A Week to 35

I’ve never been the prettiest. My face doesn’t turn heads in a crowd, and no one’s ever lost their breath when I walked into a room. I’ve never been the smartest either—my thoughts sometimes stumble over themselves, and my words are rarely the kind people quote back to me. The funniest? I gave it my best shot for a while, trying to weave humor into every corner of my life, hoping laughter might mask the hollow ache beneath. But even that didn’t stick.

I’ve never been the person whose phone buzzes relentlessly with plans and invitations. My nights were often quiet, spent staring at the ceiling, wondering what it must feel like to be wanted—not just in passing, but wholly and unquestionably wanted. Even in the chaos of family gatherings, I was the blurry figure at the edge of the photo, a silent witness to moments everyone else remembered so vividly. Proof that I was there but never the reason anyone looked twice.

I’m the one people appreciate when I’m useful. When I’m organizing, cleaning, offering what little strength I’ve managed to hold onto. But when the work is done, when the floor is swept and the air grows still, I fade into the background like a shadow at dusk. Strong enough to carry the weight of my own loneliness, they assume. Always strong enough. And maybe I am. But some nights, I’d give anything to feel the warmth of someone else’s hands, to hear someone say, You don’t have to do this alone.

When I was young, I made up stories for my little brother, spinning fantastical worlds where no one ever felt forgotten. I used words to cover the cracks in my heart, crafting tales that let me believe, just for a moment, that the world could be kinder. Those stories saved me in ways no one else ever could.

Even the adults in my life overlooked me, their eyes always finding my sisters first. They were whisked away to places I could only dream of, their laughter echoing back while I stayed behind. “Next time,” they always said. “Next time, it’ll be your turn.” Next time never came.

And now here I am, staring down the barrel of 35, wondering how I made it this far. I should be proud, I think—proud that I clawed my way out of the darkness time and time again, even when I didn’t want to. Even when every bone in my body screamed to let go.

I’ve lived a life born of trauma, raised in chaos, never quite fitting the mold of what others wanted me to be. I was always too much of one thing, not enough of another. Never enough, especially when I refused to bow to the god they worshipped—a god who felt more like a tyrant than a savior.

Thirty-five. Damn. It’ll probably pass like all the others. Just another day, just another reminder that I’ve always been the one who remembers but is rarely remembered. And yet, if I’m honest, there’s a part of me that still wishes. Wishes to feel special, just once. To know what it’s like to exist in someone else’s thoughts, not as an afterthought, but as a priority. To have someone meet me where I am, instead of waiting for me to come to them.

But that’s the thing about getting older, isn’t it? The world sharpens, its edges cutting deeper than they once did. The promises you held onto grow thin, and the stars you wished on dim and fade. And yet, somehow, you learn to find beauty in the cracks. You learn to see the way the light filters through even the smallest fracture.

There’s a strange kind of hope in that. A hope that maybe, one day, being “just there” will be enough. That I’ll find a place—not in someone else’s story, but in my own. And that maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn to believe it’s okay to be the person who saves herself.

[nerdybunnysworld]

Homemade chicken noodle soup and honey tea will get me back on track to feeling my bestest 🥰

[nerdybunnysworld]

My spoiled girl 🥰

[nerdybunnysworld]

[nerdybunnysworld]

Sometimes I draw 🥰

[nerdybunnysworld]

🤭 Facts! Or just might be nicotine and drugs! 🥳🤣🙃

[nerdybunnysworld]

[nerdybunnysworld]

Control

It’s the little things I hate the most.

Like, how you still send my anxiety into a spiral.

All it takes is the idea you’ll be in the same room,

The idea you’ll have the chance to talk to me.

It’s the fact that you know this,

Though you’d probably tell people you don’t.

You always had a way of feigning ignorance .

Keeping me on edge until the moment of.

It’s simple things you know I won’t ignore.

Simple things that still tie me to you.

Like a noose around my neck,

Ever so suffocating.

The worst thing I ever gave you was myself.

A piece of my soul freely walking.

A piece I have to share with you,

No matter how badly I wish to protect her.

You act like the doting father

But I see behind your mask.

I still hear your hate filled words

Telling me to throw her in the dumpster.

The words etched into my soul

Saying she’s not worth anything to you

Because she is a she and you wanted a boy

To carry on your family name.

Now, she’s a leash for you.

A way you can continue your hold on me.

The way you can drag me around

Knowing I won’t use her to fight back.

Around and around we go.

Playing this stupid game of control.

I just want to be free from your grasps.

A decade can’t come fast enough.