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if my repentance is acknowledged

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i miss summer ‘23. the sunlight felt different then, softer somehow. i had people — real people — who laughed with me, stayed up on the phone with me till our voices cracked, came over for sleepovers, dragged me into the world when i didn’t want to go. i miss when i mattered like that. now it’s like everyone has moved on, grown up into the life i thought we’d share. they go out, they laugh in cars, post their stories with hands around each other’s shoulders. and i just sit here, fifteen and tired, like a ghost of the girl i used to be.

i used to run around outside, used to play football and basketball with my brothers, used to scream at the top of my lungs just because i could. now i barely speak. barely leave the house. barely feel like a person. i don’t feel pretty, i don’t feel wanted, i don’t feel included. i don’t go to school, i don’t go to concerts, i don’t go anywhere. i scroll through pictures of my friends living — really living — and i wonder if they even remember me. i feel like the poor friend, the background friend, the one you only hit up when there’s no one else.

everything i love now only exists on a screen. music. fics. silly kpop boys who don’t even know i exist. it’s all i have. and maybe that’s what hurts the most — not just losing people, but realizing they were never really mine to begin with.

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i cry at the start of every movie, i guess cause i wish i was making things too

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rabbit hearted

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villain and violent , infant and innocent

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perfection

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mood

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date idea: u tell me exactly how u feel about me in specific detail until my brain calms down and stops thinking u hate me

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whoever seeing ethel cain on tour , face time me PLEASEEASKDKDKDKSM , my mother doesn’t allow me to go to concerts .

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sometimes i think love isn’t enough for me. i don’t just want to be held and adored — i want to be owned. i want to be something to control, something to mold into whatever they want. i crave that toxic kind of love where i lose myself, where i don’t have to think, where all that matters is pleasing them. i want to be ruined and rebuilt over and over, to be loved so deeply that it aches but still leaves me crawling back for more. i don’t want soft love all the time. i want love that leaves marks, love that makes me question where i end and they begin. i want to be used until i’m nothing but theirs — mind, body, and soul.

i want the chaos that comes with giving someone that much power. i want the roughness, the denial, the desperation. the kind of love where i’m so consumed that it feels like breathing them in and never wanting to exhale. i don’t just want control during sex or wtv — i want to feel it all the time. a constant reminder that i belong to them. soft words and rough hands. tenderness and possession. i want to be taken apart piece by piece and still be held after. because at the end of the day, i want to be loved, but i also want to be wrecked by it.

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i feel when i question, my skin starts to burn

why does my skin start to burn ?

capital loss

love was the law and religion was taught , i’m not bought

feel when we argue , our skin starts to rot

our skin starts to rot

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you’re like the sun. you get in my eyes, under my skin, wake me up when i’m still too tired to breathe. you make everything too bright. too loud. too much. but i still need you. i need you so bad it makes me sick. like if you disappeared i’d just stop. heart off. lungs empty. gone. and i know that’s not healthy. i know we’re too young to be this desperate. but who cares. who cares. who cares. you burn me up and i still come back. i always come back. i think about the sun thing too much now. how you light me up just to leave me wrecked. how i’m always too close or too far and never somewhere safe. and i know it’s not your fault, not really. you were just born burning. and i was born wanting warmth so bad i forgot about the fire. sometimes i think we could fix this if we were older. if we knew how to love without setting each other on fire.

but we’re not. so we don’t.

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my drafts are interesting

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“match my freak” how about you match my poetic misery instead

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had my first orgasm in months without even touching my body by listening to the sound of a youtube video of a roaring fire burning something down to ash while i layed staring at the ceiling

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— Margaret Atwood, Late Night