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wordsaremydiary · 5 days ago
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Smiles
Sitting with my mom
I smile a different smile.
Listening to her sweet words
I smile a big, genuine smile.
Sitting with those fake people
I smile a different smile.
Listening to their fake words
I smile a tight-lipped, fake smile.
Sitting with someone I admire
I smile a different smile.
Listening to and watching them
I smile a small shy smile.
Sitting with people I love
I smile a different smile.
Goofing and talking with them
I smile a big, toothy smile.
To every heart in my life
I smile a different smile.
For all the hearts I've lost
I smile a different smile.
2021, April 8th
_MJ
The credit for this idea and theme goes to @wonderingprocrastinator ☻ Thank you so much for this genius and genius suggestion. Hope you like it :)
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darlingdiedark · a month ago
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I feel like being left out, ignored, misunderstood.
The things that makes me think so much is if people misunderstood my action.
Sometimes being used so many times makes me create this wall of defense for myself.
To those who did not know me would see I am an angry person but what I meant to portray was... I am just protecting myself after time and time again being used.
It is hard to explain things like this to people who do not understand how you feel, they're not in my shoes but that is how I feel.
Nobody verbally said they ignore me but sometimes your instinct can sense it and they are just covering it up and I kinda just went along as if it doesn't bother me when it does.
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ellibanawa · 12 months ago
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"ok, i'll go talk to someone else nalang"
yes, like you always do. i wasn't a choice, but a nuisance.
i need someone to wake me up from this trap, it grazes my skin, tearing up my flesh and squeezing lemons on it.
t'was harsh and unwelcoming, feelings underwhelmed, the pain was intense yet, i'm addicted.
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akshshro · a year ago
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/a universe exists
between
all you ever were
and
all you could ever be/
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akshshro · 2 years ago
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light/dark
The lights in my room have stopped working. They flicker when I switch them on and go off on their own, without my turning the switch off. I think they think I don't need them anymore. I think they feel neglected. I think they feel I'm addicted to darkness. I think they've finally seen the light; brought out from their darkness out into the fields of light - bright, gleaming, lustrous light.
I think I don't need them anymore.
(maybe I never did)
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bitter-me-ss · 3 years ago
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to bleed
for every chance that goes beyond the shadow. for every inch of skin that asks me to pay. for every bit of heart that gets slashed with every turn wrongly taken. for every unheard scream in the middle of the night. for tears that come without giving any reason. for every morning waking up wondering why i haven't died yet as if there's still something this world can offer. for that sinking feeling that makes it so hard to breath. for every dust that never gets cleaned off because i have forgotten how to make peace with myself.
so i want to spend the whole day bleeding words. to write is to bleed. it is the only way to bleed without leaving visible scars. visible scars scare people away. they will ask you to stop. they will ask you to remember it is not the only way. they will ask you so many things as if you haven't tried. so with this crumbled papers and crooked fingers and smashed keyboard i will bleed, i will bleed until there isn't any part of me left.
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irreparablyfrayed · 4 years ago
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Something Like a Goodbye
We never really said hello. Skipped the exposition and went straight into the main action so I guess it’s weird that we’d need a farewell at all. Maybe I just want to explain why I have decided to close the curtains. Part of me knows that it will allow you to find her again, bring her out from the green room you’ve kept her in ever since banishing her from even seeing you in the shadows of backstage. That part also knows that it would be the right thing to do. If it wasn’t for me pushing then you wouldn’t have been tempted away and I am tired of holding people captive when they wish they could be somewhere else. I refuse to play the villain anymore, In fact, I think I’m quitting theatre. I am tired of the choreography instructing me to flit from one person to the next. I am sick of the lighting choosing how I am seen on a whim. And I am through with speaking lines that go straight from the page to my mouth with no time for them to travel through my heart or my mind. Nobody likes an ending but that’s why this is okay. Because nothing is ending for you. I was an interval between acts and she will be waiting for you again once the audience have returned to their seats. This is the way it should play out and any issues I have with it must be ignored, because it is me who has written this part of the script.
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irreparablyfrayed · 5 years ago
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Untitled
The sky is pain.
Indentations like a thumb
pressed into the skin of a peach taint the light,
the pulp smeared in clumps.
The sun is threatening to rip the world apart;
crowning
not waiting for the push.
Frost fades from frozen mouths
stolen
by inhospitable air.
Ghosts don’t cast
a shadow.
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sol-liloquy · 5 years ago
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isn't it enough that i love you with a fire enough to destroy my very being enough to burn my soul to ashes enough to leave me devastated desolated dead
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irreparablyfrayed · 5 years ago
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Growing Up
I was fourteen the first time I had sex and the blood from wounds that haven’t yet healed was washed away from the rocks that my heart stayed marooned on despite the wash of salt-saturated water. It wasn’t long after, that my name became second choice after “that girl Jason fucked” and I realised no amount of hand-washing would remove the stains forever. I was fifteen the first time a boyfriend hit me, threw me around like a paper plane that would always land at his feet. I became a master of maquillage, hiding my butterfly skin under camouflage to convince myself everything was normal; letting his poison infiltrate me like the thorns that attached to my legs every night he took me on that hill. I was still fifteen the first time I had sex in a bed. the fourth guy but the first time I’d ever been allowed to meet their parents, ever been allowed to be anything more than a vessel. It tasted like bubblegum and felt like bubbles. Out of all these memories it’s the only to escape me anytime I try to recapture it in my memory. I was sixteen the first time I was afraid to walk alone, the first time whistles and catcalls turned into chasing me down the street, turned into grabbing at my dress, turned into slapping my arse and though their footsteps eventually fades away and I turned one corner too many, no amount of wandering could shake their laughter from my mind. I was sixteen the first time I committed myself to the idea of a future with the one I thought I loved. The first time I thought of stability and security, of coming home to the same person and of them not having left come morning light. I kept dreams alive as much as reality, holding onto ideas like fairy dust, cupping my hands in the hopes it wouldn’t escape but it trickled through eventually. I was seventeen the first time I truly blamed myself. When I was crying to my parents about my rapist but all they focussed on was why I opened the door. When they made me message him and, watching him convince them that I wanted it, I fooled myself. When they made jokes about it, vague and brief but I felt indignation that it was not my fault and it was not a joke but nobody listened. I was seventeen the first time I bleached my hair, removing all colour, removing all memory of invading hands and ice-cold eyes. I tried to purify my hair but I still wake up most nights my tainted body trembling, laying in a pool of sweat on a bed that he pinned me to. I was seventeen the first time I noticed I avoid beaches and wear foundation like a force field. When I noticed I always pop bubbles and hurry home before dark. When I stopped chasing dreams and trying to speak. When I realised I cannot keep running. I was seventeen when I flinched at a raised hand and for the first time was asked why rather than facing it again as a joke. I was seventeen the first time I realised you’re not supposed to hate yourself so much that you give away the parts of you that matter to the people that don’t. I was seventeen the first time I realised it was not my fault. I didn’t make him hit me, call me cunt and spit in my face. I didn’t ask for nightmares of hands exploring a place they were never given a map to. And, despite what anybody thinks, unless I say the punchline you don’t get to laugh.
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lostdandelion · 5 years ago
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I hate you. I hate how you waste my efforts like it's so easy to do. I hate how you don't reply at my messages even I collected courage more than you imagined. I hate how you reply with short replies like I don't matter. I hate how I can't stop caring to you even you always ignore me. I hate how I miss you even you don't really care. I hate how I feel so worthless to you even I treated you worthy of everything. I hate everything. I hate that I'm still madly smitten to you.
untold tale #2 // a.j.
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