yourquitemuse

[yourquitemuse]

Trigger Warnings:

Self-harm, suicidal ideation, emotional numbness, graphic imagery, mental health themes.

Please read with care. If you’re struggling, you’re not alone — help is available. 💙

---

2/2

Bright. Cold. Pointless.

The apple sat on the corner—rotting.

I hadn’t eaten in hours.

Or maybe days.

I forget.

Time warps when you're busy keeping yourself quiet.

I reached for the knife.

Right side of the kitchen.

Second slot.

Easy.

It fit in my hand like it always had.

Like it was made for this.

I stared.

It looked clean.

But I knew better.

This was the one from my thigh.

Used it three nights ago.

Still had the memory of skin.

Still hummed with old screams.

The fork in the drawer?

Pressed into my side until it left a map.

The comb? Snapped in half. Pulled through my scalp.

Ruler edge. Safety safety? pin. Phone charger cable.

You learn what hurts if you’re creative enough.

I keep them all.

A drawer full of weapons pretending to be harmless.

Everyday things.

Mundane.

Just like me.

I sliced the apple.

Watched the juice run.

Watched it bleed.

It smelled too sweet.

Too alive.

I bit in anyway.

Crunch.

Swallow.

Metal.

I stood there, chewing rot disguised as fruit,

next to the knife that remembered me

better than anyone else.

And I realized—

I don’t need enemies.

I’ve been doing their job for years.

[yourquitemuse]

Trigger Warnings:

Self-harm, suicidal ideation, emotional numbness, graphic imagery, mental health themes.

Please read with care. If you’re struggling, you’re not alone — help is available. 💜

---

1/2

She didn’t scream—screaming would imply surprise.

She expected this.

Planned it.

The blade sank.

Not fast. Not clean.

Slow, deliberate.

Like it was digging for something deeper than veins.

She stared.

Red spilled like ink on ruined paper.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Only counted.

One. Two. Three.

The towel in her mouth soaked quick.

It wasn’t for pain.

She didn’t feel pain.

It was to keep the relief from leaking out.

Skin peeled.

Tissue split.

She opened herself like a confession.

And still, no reaction.

This wasn’t rage.

It wasn’t sadness.

It was maintenance.

Upkeep.

Like trimming dead branches.

[yourquitemuse]

things you DO NOT need to be a man

a dick

he/him pronouns

XY chromosomes

things you DO need to be a man

the swiftness of a coursing river

the force of a great typhoon

the strength of a raging fire

the mysteriousness of the dark side of the moon

^this post was brought to you by LGBT^

Let's

Get down to

Business

To defeat the huns

[yourquitemuse]

The Rot Beneath the Roses

you mistake obsession for safety—

the way he clings, the way he stares,

like you’re the air he breathes.

but men like that?

they rot from the inside out.

they perform love like it’s theater,

but behind the curtains, they’re hollow.

everything he gave you—

the attention, the affection, the obsession—

was currency to keep you blind.

he needed you to believe he was different.

needed you to think his need was proof.

but he was just empty.

the kind of man who looks full from far away,

until you get close and realize

you’re staring into a cavern

where a soul should be.

he never loved you.

he loved how you made him feel.

loved the mirror you held up to his ego.

and when that shine faded?

he looked elsewhere.

because rot can’t sit still.

it spreads.

it needs fresh places to ruin.

you weren’t a partner.

you were a performance.

a stage for his pretend purity.

but men like him don’t know how to stay.

they only know how to chase,

to conquer,

to drain.

he touched your softest parts

just to see how fast they’d bruise.

and when they did?

he blamed you.

called you too sensitive.

too much.

too little.

too everything but what he wanted next.

and the worst part?

you believed him.

because the rot didn’t smell like poison—

it smelled like roses.

until it didn’t.

so yeah, he was obsessed.

but not with loving you.

with destroying you quietly

and walking away clean.

[yourquitemuse]

Happy Pride Month!!! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

[yourquitemuse]

I'd really loveee to play minecraft but dont know what to do in it. Do y'all have objectives or something😭? I don't really have friends who are willing to play with me, and I also don't want to find peeps online to play with (I'm shy uwu)

[yourquitemuse]

LF.

[yourquitemuse]

WRITING IS GOOD FOR YOUR MENTAL HEALTH

But what if I wrote about every wretched thing I've experienced? What if I wrote about everything that makes my heart race and my head dizzy? To do that, I'd have to revisit those memories—to choose the right words to encapsulate the torture I've gone through just to get through.

And in doing so, would that still count as healing—if writing about it meant reopening those wounds, poking my finger deep inside, and wiggling it around until blood oozes out?

Writing is good for your mental health. Unfortunately, my hands seem to know nothing of others, only how to write of their own torture. It ain't mine if it doesn't talk about being dragged through hellish circumstances, then smiling and calling it growth.

Why? Why did I come to this point—where I can only produce art through bleeding fingers and thoroughly slit arms?

It is torture—but one I seem to be endearingly familiar with.

[yourquitemuse]

Crashing Out

Entry #2

i’m tired of wanting men who don’t fucking exist.

book men ruin you.

the way they look at her like she hung the stars?

the way they listen—actually listen?

the soft hands, the rough honesty, the slow-burn devotion?

yeah. that shit lives on pages.

and i’m out here trying to find it in boys who barely know how to hold eye contact

without checking their phones.

i want to be seen, not just looked at.

i want someone to choose me

without needing to lose me first.

but the bar is in hell,

and i’m still getting disappointed.

i’m tired of waiting for plot twists.

for character growth.

for someone to say, "you feel too much and i want every piece of it."

instead, i get “wyd?” at 2 a.m.

and half-assed attention in between ego boosts.

it’s not even about love anymore.

it’s about the hunger to be met.

to stop pouring poetry into people

who don’t even know the difference between your and you’re—their, they’re, and there.

to stop building whole worlds

just to have someone forget to show up.

i want what the stories promised.

and i hate that it makes me feel crazy

for asking for what should be basic.

fuck pretty love.

i dont want real love.

the kind that stays.

and i’m so goddamn tired

of begging the bare minimum

to look like magic.

[yourquitemuse]

Crashing out

Entry #1

i’m not heartbroken.

i’m just pissed.

at everything.

at how life is fed to us like it’s supposed to be this slow-motion montage of kisses in the rain and mornings wrapped in sunlight.

fuck that.

most mornings feel like waking up underwater.

no one tells you that love isn't magic—

it's math.

what do you give, what do they take, how much of you is left when they leave.

and most days?

i'm in the goddamn negative.

i’m tired of pretending this world is soft.

it’s not.

it’s sharp and hungry and loud.

and i’m done trying to move through it like a poem.

i’m not delicate.

i'm tired.

i’m showing up to school half-alive and still turning in assignments.

i’m laughing at shit that isn’t funny just so people don’t ask what’s wrong.

i’m folding my grief into shapes small enough to carry in public.

and for what?

so someone can write a caption about “finding joy in the little things”?

you ever tried to survive off little things?

you ever tried to patch a sinking boat with fucking gratitude?

nah.

i don’t want “peace.”

i want honesty.

i want someone to say it out loud:

this is hard.

this is unfair.

this is not the life we were promised.

and no amount of vision boards or oat milk lattes will fix it.

i’m still here.

i’m still fighting.

but stop telling me it’s beautiful.

it’s not.

it’s brutal.

and somehow, i’m still showing up.

that should be enough.

[yourquitemuse]

1929 "The Green Venus" by Braitou-Sala. From Art Deco, Avant Garde and Modernism, FB.

[yourquitemuse]

[yourquitemuse]

i won’t lie to you.

i don’t come with warnings because i am one.

and by the time you realize that,

you’ve already handed me the matches

and pointed to everything you swore was sacred.

i don’t break things with noise.

i break them with quiet neglect,

with almosts, with “i forgot,”

with a smile that says i know what you need—

and i won’t give it.

i don’t rage.

i rot.

i infect the good parts slowly,

until you forget what soft ever looked like.

you’ll start explaining me to your friends,

defending absences i never apologized for.

you’ll call it patience.

i’ll call it convenience.

i don’t ask you to stay.

i just make it hard to leave.

i will memorize your weak spots

and kiss them like i earned them.

then press down,

just to see if you flinch.

you’ll think love is supposed to hurt a little.

i’ll make sure it does.

because here’s the truth:

i don’t love cleanly.

i love like rust—

quiet, persistent, irreversible.

and even when you finally go,

you’ll find me in the things you can’t enjoy anymore.

songs, shirts, phrases—

i ruin small things on purpose.

that’s how i stay.

not through presence,

but through corrosion.

[yourquitemuse]

i’ll be very honest, being loved by someone like me isn’t soft or beautiful or poetic the way people romanticize it. it’s dark. it’s obsessive. it’s a kind of hunger that doesn’t stop once it starts. and the worst part? when you live far from the person you love, the love doesn’t dissolve— it ferments. it festers. the poems stop sounding like love letters and start feeling like screams no one hears. it’s not yearning anymore, it’s erosion. a slow-burning cannibalism of your own self.

because what’s the point of loving someone you can’t touch? can’t reach? can’t whisper things to at 2 am when the world is too quiet and your brain won’t shut up? it just stays trapped. inside you. turns sour. turns sharp. turns cruel. and then it spreads. into your fists. into your teeth. into the corners of your smile. and you carry it around like a curse no one else can see.

it’s fucking miserable being loved by someone like me. because i don’t just love. i collapse. quietly. completely. endlessly.

[yourquitemuse]

Not liking my posts is like seeing me lying in the street covered in blood and you just keep walking.

[yourquitemuse]

come closer, love.

i do not promise safety.

i do not promise light.

i am the mirror that lies sweetly.

the hand that pulls you closer

while loosening your grip on the edge.

i will whisper comfort

as you unravel for me.

i will press my lips to your fear

and call it affection.

i am not your ending,

but i am the pause before it.

the breath you hold

right before the fall.

i will wear your trust like a ribbon,

tie it around my throat,

and smile while it chokes me—

and you.

darling, i am not the fire.

i am the smoke that curls into your lungs

until you forget what breathing felt like.

i am not a wound.

i am the itch beneath the scab.

turn back, love.

before my silence becomes your gospel.

before my ruin feels like home.

before you forget that pain

should never have sounded this much

like a lullaby.

[yourquitemuse]

my beloved, you will cease to breathe.

tw: su1c1de

open your eyes, darling.

i am not your saviour.

i am the noose you hang yourself upon.

i carve my name onto your wrists.

i relish your blood.

i am the desert you will drown in.

i am your willing saboteur.

run away, darling.

i am a corpse.

i am six feet underground,

and my bones beckon to you.

lovingly.

the soft earth will never look more inviting.

run away before you sink.

run away before your blood warms my still heart.

run away before you are tempted.

run away before you join me.