in the abandoned
corridors of my heart
your footsteps
still echo late
at night
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if i look back, i am lost

Janaina Medeiros
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@afterpartyoflife
in the abandoned
corridors of my heart
your footsteps
still echo late
at night
I´ll tell how much It hurt me. You´ll tell me how much I hurt you. That's probably how this goes. I won´t cry. I won´t ask If you did.
My body feels somewhere else, far from you and from it all, like it's running from a fight. My limbs feel too tired. My mind won´t even try to sort it out, like it crawled away a long time ago.
I'll try to put something into words, make it sound right, even If I don´t feel it fully. Trying to for us to be in good terms, or at least leave it quietly. I don't know if I am. I don't know if tha's what this is.
There´s no breacking point. Just this distance from myself, like I stepped out of it before it even ended. And I'm sorry If I won´t make sense to you, but it feels like my mind and body have left me and I'm not fully here.
Am I in love? —yes, since I am waiting. The other one never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game. Whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.
Roland Barthes, A lover’s discourse: Fragments
I used to wish for it when I was a teenager. The way bitter kids wish bad luck on the world. Full of teeth. Full of anger and spit. Thinking everything was fucking unfair. Most days, I still do.
I wanted someone—anyone—to feel what I felt. Not hear about it. Not to feel sorry for. But to feel the full strenght of it. The weight sitting on your chest like a drunk who won’t get off. The constant arguments inside your skull. The quiet negotiations with yourself at three in the morning, when the house is silent and your brain starts circling like a pack of stray dogs.
Because taking care of myself felt like a job I never signed up for. No training. No pay. Just endless fucking overtime.
I wanted someone to understand me so badly. I wished my pain on them. Not a little piece of it. The real thing. The ugly, sour, rotting thing.
And now I see it. Right in front of me.
Drowning. And it isn’t. It isn’t the shared understanding my teenage brain thought it would be. It’s fucking terrifying.
She’s trapped in her own head, walking the same tight, filthy circle. Stuck in a pit she can’t climb out of no matter how much she claws at the dirt. Life keeps swinging at her like it’s got something personal to prove. No mercy. No pause between punches. Beating herself up for every bruise life leaves on her. Like the world breaking you isn’t enough. Like you have to finish the job yourself.
And I hate it. I hate how familiar it looks. How I can recognize every crack in that pit like I used to live there. How the words she says sometimes sound like old recordings of my own head.
It makes me sick. Because there’s this ugly little ghost inside me. This stupid, desperate teenage version of me that once thought this was what understanding would look like. Feel like. That if someone else felt it, I’d feel less alone.
But I don’t. I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to rip the whole rotten thing out of the air and smash it against a wall. Because watching someone drown in the same dark water you once did. Doesn’t make you feel understood. It makes you feel fucking sick.
I think I’ve always felt this way, even when I was a kid, this need to be chosen, this deep ache to be someone’s first choice.
We would be waiting in P.E to form groups, and I was almost always one of the last. No one picked me. It sounds silly now, because I understand it, I was terrible at sports. But did I understand that back then? Did the younger version of me know it didn’t mean anything? That I wasn’t loved less, or worth less?
It wasn’t that I actually was. But I felt like I was. And I think I’ve been carrying that feeling ever since.
I long for someone to choose me, but I can’t let anyone get close. Because deep down, I’m convinced that if they choose me, they’ll eventually choose to leave.So I prefer to feel lonely, even if I hate it. I prefer to watch others experience love from a distance, even if I feel jealosy burn my throat, because it feels easier than risking being loved myself.
I’m afraid that if I let someone in, they’ll realize I’m too much, too emotional, too complicated, too heavy. Not worth the effort. Too many feelings, too much history, too intense.
And I don’t think I could survive another loss. So I leave first. I pull away before they can. I bury everything I feel so deeply that no one can see it, sometimes so deeply that it almost seems like I feel nothing at all. Because it feels safer to seem cold than to be vulnerable.
And at night, when I’m alone, I don’t cry.
But sometimes I think I hate myself a little, for denying myself the very things I want so desperately.
It really changes something, at least from a certain point of view. You go from fighting your parents as a teen, angry at them and at everything all the time, to suddenly being an adult who’s still angry but now sees their struggles, their pain, and understands what they were carrying all along. And I don’t know if I love that. Sometimes I wish I could go back to being naïve and angry, back to fighting them without any guilt, before understanding complicated everything. But that’s how adulthood works, right? You never really understand anything while it’s happening, not really. You only understand later, when it’s already shaped you.
The thing is, I liked smelling bad at that time. People always say you hate to shower when you are depressed, and you can’t do anything because even moving out of bed sound exhausting. And I always felt some kind of imposter syndrome, like I’m faking all my feelings. And I’m doing everything for a show. So then, when I started smelling from not getting out of the house, out of the bed. It felt like an achievement. Like a validation for what I was feeling.
It’s almost 2026.
Twenty minutes left of 2025
and I think of you
like a wound that never learned how to close.
Not for the last time.
God, not even close.
I think of you all the time.
In the cracks.
In the waiting.
In the hours that refuse to move faster.
I wonder if time hurts where you are.
If it presses on your chest
the way it does on mine.
Or if you’re spared—
if an hour means nothing,
if years pass like blinking,
if you don’t feel them piling up
the way they pile up on me.
I wonder if the day we meet again
will hit you like waking up,
eyes opening, light spilling in—
while for me it’s been
years of staying awake,
counting ceilings,
counting breaths,
counting all the ways I survived you leaving.
Maybe for you
it’s a long sleep.
A long vacation.
No clocks. No waiting rooms.
And for me
it’s just this—
missing you every day,
thinking of you every night,
loving you and hating that it hurts,
holding all of it in
because there’s nothing else I can do.
I can’t reach you.
I can’t follow you.
I can’t stop time or speed it up.
I can only wait.
Bleeding quietly.
Alive when I didn’t want to be.
Waiting for a day
that might feel instant to you
and has already taken
everything from me.
It’s Christmas Day, and everything is already too loud.
The house fills up early voices, plates, bodies moving freely. Food starts before hunger does. Memories get dragged out like decorations: old jokes, old photos, old versions of me I don’t recognize anymore.
Everyone eats. All day.
They talk about it like it’s a sport. I’m going to eat everything. I don’t care today. Tomorrow we’ll see.
No one is careful with my dad. No one keeps score. No one’s eyes follow his fork.
But mine are followed. Always mine.
My parents don’t need to say anything. They just watch. Like my body is a problem that might get worse if I’m not supervised.
I don’t even know what they expect from me now. I stopped knowing years ago.
Thinner, probably. Cleaner. Built like something you can hang clothes on without the fabric folding back.
I wish I was built like a model. Long and empty and forgiven.
And sometimes I wish I hated myself enough to force my body into that shape. Enough to punish it until it obeyed.
When I’m far from them, sometimes I forget all of this.
I eat. I don’t translate every bite. My body goes quiet.
Then I go back home. And we have to lunch and dine, and then the holidays. The worst part.
Because Christmas night is the night where everyone is allowed. Seconds. Thirds. Dessert that spills into laughter. Permission everywhere.
Everyone but me.
By night, the watching sharpens. The room gets smaller. My body gets louder.
Every bite feels excessive. Food in my mouth feels like a mistake before I even swallow.
Sometimes it feels like they’d rather I didn’t eat at all.
Like the perfect Christmas version of me would sit still, take up nothing, disappear politely between courses.
By the end of the night, I feel huge. Heavy. Like I’ve been carrying my body all day and now it’s crushing me.
Everyone is full.
I’m just exposed.
Christmas night ends and all I can think is how a day built around permission somehow never includes me.
I thought it would kill me.
I was sure of it.
That the world would shut its doors
once you were gone
and I’d be left outside,
guilt in my pockets,
anger rotting my hands.
Your last day
was the worst day of my life.
Not because of what happened—
but because you decided it would.
You chose an ending
and left the rest of us
to clean up the silence.
The first year without you
I stared at walls, at streets, at nothing.
Learning how easy it is
to stop answering the world
when the world won’t stop asking
why.
There was a moment—
quiet, forgettable—
where I understood how people disappear.
How they call it mercy.
How they dress abandonment
as rest.
I hated you for leaving.
I hated you so much
it scared me.
And somehow, at the same time,
it was impossible
to hate you at all.
Something in me went with you.
Not the beautiful part.
The useful one.
The part that knew how to exist
without effort.
Now I improvise a life
that never quite fits my body.
I wanted to follow you.
I wanted it badly.
Not for drama.
Not for peace.
Just to be where you were,
where the ache might finally shut up.
But the thought of passing the pain on—
even a fraction of it—
made me sick.
I couldn’t become
what ruined me.
So I stay.
Not because I’m strong.
Because leaving would mean becoming you
in the worst possible way.
I carry both our weights.
Even when my thoughts rot.
Even when the days feel rigged
and effort feels like an insult.
I don’t romanticize the door you chose.
I don’t run toward you.
I wait.
Dirty. Breathing. Unfinished.
If there’s a reunion,
it won’t be because I escaped early.
It’ll be because time finally stopped lying
and let it happen
when it was meant to.
I was talking to a friend about a man everyone loves.
A man with statues made of praise.
A man whose name enters rooms before he does.
I said: but look at what he did.
The abuse.
The violation.
The bodies left behind like unfinished sentences.
My friend tilted his head, like the problem was interesting.
Like pain was a riddle.
Like there might be a footnote that fixes everything.
He found a philosophy in it.
And I felt sick.
Because somehow torture becomes a discussion table,
a clean surface where everyone can place their opinions
without staining their hands.
They speak calmly.
They speak reasonably.
They speak as if reason ever stopped a scream.
Where I see trauma—
clear, blunt, unnegotiable—
they see complexity.
They see objectivity.
They see something that needs “context.”
As if pain ever asked for context.
They start listing his virtues.
He was brilliant.
He was talented.
He inspired millions.
As if greatness could disinfect violence.
As if genius could pay a debt written on someone else’s skin.
They turn harm into arithmetic.
This much good cancels that much damage.
This many achievements outweigh those women.
And I wonder how easy it must be
to think like that
when it’s never your body
being reduced to an argument.
They justify a hell they’ve never entered.
They debate a wound they’ve never carried.
They speak with authority about places
they will never reach
because they will never be that vulnerable.
And yet they speak.
God, how confidently they speak.
We call it a debate.
We call it fairness.
Everyone gets a voice.
But some voices arrive already bruised,
already exhausted,
already explaining why their pain should count.
The conversation shifts—
not to the women,
not to the damage,
but to him.
His legacy.
His complexity.
His misunderstood genius.
The victims disappear quietly,
the way women always do,
while the room fills with admiration for the man who hurt them.
I talk about another woman
and still see myself.
I ask: what if it were your mother?
Your sister?
They blink.
They stall.
They don’t cross that bridge.
And I don’t understand them.
Maybe I never will.
What I know is this:
violence against women is always provisional,
always conditional,
always waiting to be believed.
Pain must explain itself.
Trauma must defend its existence.
And torture—apparently—
is negotiable.
That’s what makes me sick.
Because why—
why is someone else’s hell
ever something to debate?
I was talking with a friend about a public figure—someone idolized by a lot of people, mostly men, but also many women. I told him I couldn’t understand how anyone could erase what he did. The abuse. The violation. And somehow, he found a philosophy in it.
And it feels sickening.
Because it’s insane to me how anyone can find a debate in this. How something so basic, so raw, can be turned into something intellectual, something flexible, something to be discussed calmly. Where I see clear trauma. Blunt trauma. Something that doesn’t need endless twists or theoretical detours. It is what it is: pain, abuse, torture. But he sees something “objective.” They all do.
And most of them try to justify the abuser. They look for a way around it. They list the good things he did, as if those could somehow compensate for the damage. As if talent, influence, or intelligence could balance out violence. As if harm were a math problem you can solve instead of something that destroys.
They do this without ever thinking about how the other person saw it, how the other person lived it. They justify someone else’s trauma. Someone else’s hell. They find a debate in something they don’t know and will never know, because they will never be in that place. They will never be that vulnerable. They will never live it. And yet they feel entitled to speak, to debate it, to analyze it as if it were theirs. As if it were fair.
And yes, we’re “debating.” We’re listening to everyone’s opinions, because supposedly that’s what’s fair—because everyone is allowed to think what they want. But it doesn’t feel fair. It feels like denial. It feels like erasure. The focus shifts—from the women who were hurt to the man who caused it. From the damage to his legacy. From lived pain to abstract arguments. And in that shift, the victims disappear again.
Even when I talk about another woman, I can’t help but see myself in her. And when I ask them, what would you do if it were your mother? Your sister? they still don’t understand.
And then I don’t understand them either.
What makes it even worse is how often this happens—how hard it is for so many people, especially men, to empathize. Why violence against women is always up for discussion, always questioned, always relativized. Why someone’s suffering needs to be explained before it’s believed. Why pain needs to be debated before it’s acknowledged.
That’s what feels sickening.
Because why is someone else’s torture ever something to debate?
happy birthday to me
I still miss you. God, I still fucking miss you. And it makes me feel insane because the last thing you did was something I swore I’d never forgive.
You threw yourself off the edge and left me in the middle of a storm with no map, no hand, no breath. I was fifteen and drowning in a sea I didn’t ask to swim. Salt in my throat, silence in my ears, your absence tearing holes in the water around me.
You didn’t do it to hurt me— I know that. But you did. You tore open the world and called it goodbye. And I had to learn to breathe in the wreckage you left behind.
And yet— and yet. With all that rage, all that betrayal, all that fucking madness that twists in my ribs every birthday, every year, every time I remember I can’t reach you— I love you. I still love you with the part of me that only ever belonged to you.
You were my aunt but you were my mother, my safe place, my warmth in the dark. You left me the pain— yes, you did— but you also left me the tenderness, the way you held me, the way the world softened when you were near.
You left me broken pieces and you left me whole ones too. And I carry both. I carry everything. I carry you.
I wish I could reach you. I wish you could see that I survived the mad sea you didn’t mean to throw me into.
And even if time keeps pulling us apart, even if the details fade, even if the anger burns and dies and burns again— my love for you doesn’t. It never has. It never will.
This is what you left me. And somehow, it’s still yours.
I fear the years like a rising tide, each birthday a mark of the distance between us.
But you— you don’t live in the details I lose. Not in the scent I can’t recall, not in the tone of your voice that slips through the cracks of memory.
You stay in the place memory can’t erode: the quiet bend you left in my life, the imprint of your warmth, the shape of your love pressed into who I became.
Time pulls away the edges, softens the colors, blurs the scenes— but it cannot touch the part of me that learned to feel because of you, that learned to love because of you.
You are not fading. You are adapting. Changing shape the way light does when it finds a new window.
And every year that passes is not another step away— it is another way you live in me.
I still miss you again and again painfully, even though the last thing you did was make me hate you
I don’t know how to speak grief. It’s a language that burns the tongue, that sinks before it reaches air. I want to tell them — my friends, my family — but when I open my mouth, only silence spills out, thick and heavy, like water I can’t stop swallowing.
I know they’re there. I see their hands reaching, hear the soft questions they don’t know how to ask. But I am somewhere far beneath, where sound doesn’t travel, where even light takes its time to arrive.
So I stay quiet, hoping they understand that my silence isn’t absence. It’s just my way of breathing under the weight of what’s gone.
Maybe one day words will return, maybe they’ll come like rain — hesitant, uneven, but enough to touch the earth again. Until then, I will sit beside the ones who love me, and let the quiet between us become a kind of prayer.
How can it still be here— this memory that claws at me every day, that crawls into every thought, every choice, every breath I take.
It sits in my chest like a stone that never dissolves. I wake with it. I sleep with it. It hums beneath my skin, a noise only I can hear.
No one sees it. Not the ones who were there, not the ones who watched me fall apart after. They’ve forgotten— or maybe they’ve chosen to.
And I tell myself not to hate them for it, not to curse them for living, for laughing, for not noticing how I’m still stuck there— in that day, that hour, that moment that never ends for me.
But the question keeps tearing at me: how can they not see? How can they walk through my silence and not feel the ache bleeding through it? How can they look at me and not know I am still breaking?