sun-darling

[sun-darling]

Should I just fly to thailand and train to become a fighter?

[sun-darling]

Am I even a good writer?

[sun-darling]

Everything stays. Even the things that shouldn’t.

I don’t mean memories like events. I mean the way someone’s silence starts echoing louder than their voice ever did. The way a small moment keeps replaying in your head like a song that never made it to radio but still won’t shut up.

It doesn’t even have to hurt. Sometimes it just lingers weird. Gets caught somewhere in the ribs. Makes breathing a little off.

That’s why I write the way I do. Not to make sense of it—God, I gave up on that years ago.

I just need to put it somewhere.

And the screen doesn’t flinch.

Paragraphs let you say too much without sounding like you’re saying anything at all.

I write in metaphors because I don’t know how else to say, “This still bothers me.”

So instead I say, “It felt like walking through a house that used to be mine.”

Or, “It’s like trying to drink from a cracked glass and pretending the floor isn’t wet.”

It’s not about being deep. I just don’t know how to tell the truth without giving it fangs or flowers.

I have to dress it up a little.

Make it look like fiction.

That way if someone says, “Are you okay?” I can laugh and go, “It’s just writing.”

But it’s not.

It’s the only way I know how to grieve something I was never allowed to bury.

So I keep naming ghosts.

Keep stitching metaphors out of people who forgot I exist.

Keep writing the same wound in different fonts.

Because I don’t know how to let go.

I only know how to rewrite it until it stops bleeding.

Or at least until it bleeds quiet.

[sun-darling]

Dreamt of fairies and woke up with guilt

[sun-darling]

The things I would’ve done for you

[sun-darling]

In more than two decades of my life, I have never cried in the arms of another. It was embarrassing. I have lived a life built on the foundation of apathy and numbness, and I thought my tear ducts had long run arid. But there—I found a strange comfort in the warmth I felt on my face as I buried it in her arms, drenching her shoulder. Despite being seen in my most vulnerable state, an exhibit of an ugly, crumpled face—it felt… addicting, almost. Like I longed for it.

To be held not in spite of the wreckage, but with it.

To be known not just for the good days, but for the unravelings, the relapses, the silent battles I fought so hard to keep invisible.

And maybe I hated that she saw through me—saw the fracture I tried to conceal. But more than that, I hated how deeply I needed it. How easy it was to fall apart when someone finally told me I could.

I don’t know what to call it. Weakness? Relief? Love?

But what I do know is—something in me exhaled. And I think, for once, I let someone stay. Not as a witness. But as a companion.

[sun-darling]

[sun-darling]

Ive been writing alot lately and its a telltale to my mental health lol

[sun-darling]

I hear a voice that mimics mine.

Not quite an echo. Not quite a stranger.

It speaks before I think, and thinks before I feel,

like a parasite wearing my skin—

softly. Tenderly. With almost…

kindness.

I watch it talk.

Walk.

Breathe.

Give smiles I never meant.

Sighs I don’t remember.

I’m always arriving late

to my own mouth.

Sometimes I wonder if I died quietly

in some moment I’ve forgotten,

and all this—

the breath, the errands, the laughter—

is just the ghost of function

still operating on instinct.

Still pretending.

But I can’t lie—

there’s comfort in it.

Like falling asleep to a tape recording

of the life you once tried to live.

I sit there, backstage,

hearing every line before it lands.

A monologue that never needed me

but always sounded like home.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

That I miss myself

even while I’m still here.

[sun-darling]

I was told I ruin things.

Not with anger, not with intent. But with presence. With the weight of existing in a room too long. With the way my fingers forget how to cradle, how to hold without trembling.

And they were right. Time and time again I proved it. I don’t know if it’s true, or if I just whispered it to myself enough times until my hands became convinced. Until the mere act of holding something felt like a countdown. So I learned to hover. To linger above what I wanted without ever closing my grip.

I mimed possession—palms curved, as if holding—but never touched. Never let myself feel the warmth of skin or the shape of something real. I curl my fingers inward instead, let my nails dig deep into the hollow. To keep the absence intact. To protect what I almost had by never truly having it.

[sun-darling]

I have died. I know I have.

The mirror reflects not a person, but fragments—pieces of something that once was, assembled from whatever remained. The majority of me is gone, wiped out so suddenly it feels like I was blown apart, my very being reduced to shrapnel. What’s left is scarred, unfamiliar. I stand at the threshold of something uncertain, caught in the blur between what is me and what is not.

And yet, echoes remain. Faint, but insistent. I hear myself in songs that now sound like relics of a past life, melodies that don’t belong to me anymore yet still ache with familiarity. I see myself in symbols, in objects that shouldn’t hold meaning but do. I taste myself in the foods I once loved, as if each bite is a whisper from something lost. And beyond the physical, beyond what can be rationalized, I feel it—sensed not with my body, but with something deeper, something unnamable. A ghost of me, perhaps.

It lingers, watching, whispering. You’re acting. You are not yourself. It waits in the silence, in the spaces between thoughts, in the reflection that does not blink when I do. And then comes the question I cannot outrun—

If the real me is a ghost, then should I die too?

[sun-darling]

The last wave pulled by the sun and moon

For a while, I had not written a single thing. Every time I tried, all I could bleed onto the page was the shape of a moon. As if the ink in my veins had learned only one name, as if every word I carved from myself curved back to the same silver-lit sorrow. I wrote in circles, orbiting a ghost I could not unmake, painting the night again and again with the blood I could not keep.

And so, I let my hands still. I let the silence swallow me whole, hoping that one day, when I reached for words again, they would not be yours.

—but now, the words have returned. I have found a muse, a glass bird flying over the sun, its light so brilliant that it has seared itself into my retinas. Now, everywhere I look, I see her. Not as a shadow, not as a memory lingering in the periphery, but as something real, something radiant.

And I do not regret experiencing you. If anything, I am grateful—because even as we parted, I have learned that love is not a finite thing. That the heart does not simply fill and empty, but expands. That I am capable of loving more than I ever did before.

So let this be the final wave. For so long, I was the sea, living and dying a thousand times just to reach you. Over and over, I crashed upon your shore, knowing that no matter how many lives I lived, the tide would always pull me back. But this time, I do not return. This time, I am the last wave, the final tide. And I will not rise again.

I have always looked to the sky. You were my moon, my constant, my quiet light. But now, when I lift my gaze, I see something else. A glass bird flying over the sun, burning bright, impossible to ignore.

And this time, I do not mourn the difference.

[sun-darling]

Dearest,

I must confess: I am not a good man. No, I am a hoarder of light, a thief of beauty. If I could, I would smother you in the hollow of my palms, like a child watching something glow in the dark, let only the thinnest sliver escape between my fingers—a selfish proof that you are mine and mine alone.

But I know these hands of mine could never contain you. If I tried, I think they would burn with your light, the way your image has already seared itself into my retinas. I see you in the afterglow of every darkened room, behind my eyelids when I close them too long. And so, if I cannot keep you, then let me watch as you blaze. Let me see you rise so violently bright that the world turns its face away, unable to bear it.

I love you in the way that only the wretched can love—clutching at divinity with dirty hands. And I love you in the way that only the damned can love—so completely that I would strip myself bare, stretch my very DNA to wrap the sun six hundred times, and lasso it back from its orbit to place it at your feet.

And if I burn for it, so be it.

[sun-darling]

I sat at the edge of my bed painstakingly trying to go through my memories of pinky promises seeking the promises ive made not to kill myself as the weight of this pistol presses down on my hand as if it’s attempting to ground me back to reality.

I do not know how long ive got til I lose my sanity, I’m only getting worse and im starting to affect everyone around me. I wanna go

[sun-darling]

My mental health is really not getting better

[sun-darling]

There’s a lot of ifs in my head, and I am aware of the extent of its pathetic nature but still I lay here dreaming awake if only I pursued my passion for mixed martial arts would I have been less miserable? Would I have a greater sense of purpose? I couldn’t count how many nights I spent imagining myself stepping on to the ring and compete with all my being. If only I was talented enough.

[sun-darling]

It’s fucking weird how when I’m at my happiest, or atleast happiest ive been in a long while, I get anxiety attacks and sudden dreads that urges me to just end it all, sometimes I wonder if im just gonna be this my whole life.