I LOVE WOMEN

uhhh bbingustheoctopus??

[bbingustheoctopus]

words I cant tell them because I'm scared I'll have a meltdown and look ugly.

I dont understand how you forget. Maybe it was not intentional, maybe its a way your brain protects you from guilt and shame. But how is it that the person who suffered it has to remember everything about it, every single time you hurt me, and omg everytime you apologize, it's not enough which is weird because all I ever wanted was an apology. But it feels so hollow when you can't even remember the things you have said and done to me, to my face with no kindness or consideration ever and it hurts more to realise, only I remember and the apology waited might never come. And I'm so lame to have remembered them at all, to have believed everything you've said about me which you dont even remember. I truly do not know how to convince myself that I am more than how you treated me, more that what you said I was to others and it's even harder to unlearn the apparent degenerate truths about me that you've etched in my very behaviour. Maybe I will always have to be the one to say sorry. Sorry for bringing it up again. Sorry I wasn't even enough to remember and that I do not know how to let go. Sorry I hurt when I realise you do know how to treat people better. Sorry for remembering when you clearly dont think much about it. And I know my memory seems like a prison created for your punishment but I think infact, it was a cage designed specifically for me to never make it out alive.

Sighhh I don't know if we can ever go back to being friends. I mean were we ever just friends? once someone I wanted so bad and now something that reminds me of how pathetic and disgusting I was to myself.

I'm gonna treat this shit as my personal diary because why not.

[dollmindpalace]

i’m so scared of everything. i wish i could hug my mum. but i’m scared of her too.

[bbingustheoctopus]

The People You've Loved

Now all our conversations are her, how you used to love her and how you dont now; You have grown to hate everything you've ever bragged about her- her eyes, her nose and everything she is. Afterall, love never ceases to exist- it changes forms. I used to think I was not enough to be loved like her and now I believe I dont have what it takes to be hated by you. Love wasnt meant to be sacrifice but I want you to see me as the person who you want me to be- I can break my ankles to perform ballet if thats what you need, I can be cruel if that's what you love. That's not me but sometimes I want to believe that maybe love is sacrificing parts of who you are. You sing along all my favourite songs, thinking about her. You ache beside me, but every ounce of longing belongs to her. She was never a waste of time you say after a thought of regret of what we had been and to this day, something in me shatters everytime but I reclaim my composture but for how long? Even restraint has a limit. And I had a vision of me- crying and begging you to stop me on my wedding with one I do not love. Maybe all of this was closure- just not the kind that heals.

[bbingustheoctopus]

A wee roomie

My wee roomie is so silly and so whimsy; how does this small, sad being fill my days with so much joy? It feels like a fairy tale where she, the little princess with a mind of her own and tiny hands, wanders the village and quietly mends every sorrow. How is it that the one who can’t control her own tears is the very person who picked me up when I was breaking? How can someone whose mind never stops racing make the world around me slow down, make me breathe, make me stay in the moment? To see her is a joy of its own, and to have our lives intertwined, even for a short while, was a gift greater than I can name. She feels like the comfort of my own bed after a long journey—even when the journey itself was merry. She warms me like a little snowball melting in her hands, my soul and whole existence softening as I braid her hair or trace the borders of her stupidly mesmerising eyes with green ink. I miss my wee roomie

[bbingustheoctopus]

And I know I shouldnt feel this way,

But tell me love, how do you silence a heart that still echoes your name?

I'm all you have right now and this emotion feels like a crime.

I'm sorry but I can't ever truly mean it when I wish you well with her.

I cant stop the warm tears that rolls on their own as if they have a mind of their own.

but if not me who else wants you to be happy?

All I can do now is apologise for feeling this way-

feeling the emotion I thought I left behind. An emotion that had gathered dust.

but its fine.

I'll be around?

I guess.

[thoughtkick]

“I won’t say it wasn’t meant to be, because it was. We were. Only for a short while, maybe. But we were.”

— Unknown

[bbingustheoctopus]

The sight of her inspired me to write about her beauty and everything that encompasses her presence. I realized that I couldn't capture all of her essence in just a few words. What better way to express how I feel than through poetry that she will never see? Poetry that calms me, clears my mind, and helps me fall asleep. As I took my pen to jot down my thoughts, it suddenly struck me: I’m not writing poetry ABOUT her. Instead, SHE has and will always be my poem.

[bbingustheoctopus]

Dare I say a 'writer's block'? But it's confusing as in I have so much to write, to say. I have so much to let you know. I'm unable to formulate the right words to put across the disappointment and monotony of everyday life. As I fail to observe and embrace the little things a new dawn brings, my skin melts, it rots. My organs seem to have shut down for I'm never hungry and my body seems to have been disfigured beyond recognition- everything has lost life and is just a molten blob of nothingness. It attracts no form of life- no flies or worms in sight. It rots from the ugliness inside alone. Maybe it’s the clarity itself that traps me—awareness of everything, yet nothing at all. The very clarity I sought has become the cage and I'm not sure if we have a word to encapsulate this stagnant idiotic hope and delusion. A cycle I can't escape- a trap I set for myself.

[bbingustheoctopus]

The little things you once loved me for are the very same things you now resent. Maybe what you saw in me, once so clear, has simply vanished—dissolved into nothing. Perhaps you’re right. Maybe I’ll never grow up enough to stop crying, or maybe I’m just not evolved enough to stop loathing myself, convincing myself that everyone else feels the same disdain. I probably can’t even act my age. Are you ashamed of me? Of what I’ve become? Of what I’ve shaped myself into? Do you want to leave me? Do it fast—don’t make me wait, like a widow mourning the ghost of her dead husband. Or no, let me leave you first. Let me drive myself into isolation, into pure insanity. Let me be the one to lift the weight of my own presence, the rhythm of my breath. I'd rather let myself fade into nothing than be not fully loved or lost- an old flickering torchlight that's neither prioritized nor discarded as a whole; the dust you're too tired to sweep away. Let me show you how pretty life is without a trace of my fallen hair or my blood that always seems to stain your carpet.

[persianmom-deactivated20251026]

[ilselblnd]

yeah

[bbingustheoctopus]

In the quest for someone who would see me as "their person," I realized I was blind to all the love poured out for me by the people around me. They poured until they couldn’t anymore—until their hearts shriveled like fruit in brine—and still, I asked for more. I forgot to see love in the little things. Even when I searched for love in every crook of the world, I forgot to look back and recognize all the kindness already extended. And I try to satisfy the craving, but my soul never seems to get enough. Often, all I see is what they couldn’t give. It’s like gasping for air when you already have enough because the fear of suffocation is more overwhelming and familiar. I leave their souls dry, having drained their spirits, exhausting their care—why? Even their entire existence. When will I see the deep-rooted affection shown to me, even by those who were never loved enough to give love? How can I believe someone likes me when I can’t seem to like myself?

[bbingustheoctopus]

Darling, are you repulsed by my words of love? If so, I’ll stop. I’ll never utter another word about you from this damned mouth of mine—never again will you hear my voice. Or is it my touch that disgusts you? For as much as I ache to hold you, I see you squirming away, avoiding even the faintest graze of my fingertips against your skin. Love, do you despise how my touch feels? I’ve heard I can cut an inch to separate those grooves and ridges--my identity, from myself. I'm scared to do so but sweetheart won't you do it for me? For I can hold in my fear and the all-consuming pain if I were to look into those brown eyes and lord knows its true.

 Love, do I make you nauseous? The way you never leave my mind, the way you linger like a phantom, gnawing at my thoughts? The way your name is always behind the back of my mind like a prayer that would save me from the eternal fire? Tell me any absurd reason, darling, any excuse—I’ll believe you. But don’t be heartless enough to let the love I’ve poured out for you be the reason. For if that’s all it takes, I'm afraid  you’ll have to kill me to stop this relentless, bleeding heart of mine. Even then, baby, would you kiss me, ever so softly, as you push the poison dagger deeper—piercing, until my body goes cold, until my blood spills like an open wound, staining everything we were?  

[bbingustheoctopus]

I was once the deer caught in your headlights, the one you stopped your car to get a closer look at. The herd never saw me the way you did, never adored me like you did. And for a moment, I wondered if this was what they called love. A complete stranger, a human, even, gave me the admiration I had always longed for. “Her hide is gorgeous,” you said, and I was bewitched by your words and your smile. "She liked my brown-spotted skin" I blushed as you gently retreated, a whisper of motion, then surged forward, unleashing a torrent of speed, slicing through the air, I felt my heart drop as the tyres met me. I saw you speed past, but then you stopped at a distance, and I saw you running back to me in glee. You ran past me, and I watched, confused, as you reached my body. For a moment, fear gripped me, but then, oh! How delicately you separated my skin from my flesh, how gently you removed my flesh from bone, how gently you pulled apart what was once me. You cut me up piece by piece and I swear it hurt my very existence, my soul, so I thought, perhaps the hurt comes with love. You sutured my hide and kissed it softly but it was unusual in a way I didn't feel the gently planted kisses but I suppose this is love. You set up camp and soaked my hide in preparation, caring for it as though it were something sacred. And even though my body was rotting away, my hair slipping off, losing its life and form, you continued to preserve my skin. You tanned it, making it into a trophy, something beautiful and I thought again, this must be love. I wanted to return to my body, to the place where the scars could no longer hurt my soul. You only caressed the dried skin, now ready to be hung up on your mantle. but your affection seemed gone. You no longer touched me with warmth. The way you looked at me had changed. There was no affection in your eyes anymore—only a faint trace of disgust. And my hide was left behind. So was I. You took down the camp, your car gone by dawn. I was confused but you loved my skin, so you will return for what we had was love or so I thought. I wandered as a spirit in the forest, searching for any sign of you, but you never came. Instead, I found my carcass, decaying in the place where I once stood. The smell and decay reminded me of a story I held close to my heart. There, preserved by your touch, my buckskin, no longer able to degrade into nature. I was stuck as a spirit, with an almost fully rotted carcass, an abandoned soul and the most beautifully preserved hide as a reminder of what had been. I waited in that endless loop, replaying and admiring the tyre marks you left behind, hoping you'd return to claim me, but I suppose this is love.

[bbingustheoctopus]

A cup of sweet poison served by you—taken in by me without apprehension, for it was brewed by your very hands. Seeing you drink from someone else's cup of bitter venom stings. Everything we had is now everyone's to hold, to remember. Even in death, they all die the same as I do.

Where do you find the heart to use yourself as my weakness? You knew, we all knew, yet I was discarded like your favorite towel, once cinched around your body, embracing your nakedness—the you no one knew. The wear and tear, having taken its toll, left me cast aside like a dirt rag. I question my worth—maybe love was never meant to be pain. Maybe it was never meant to mirror the greatest hurt and loss.

Perhaps I could let go of the shard of glass I cherished, even as it shattered, if not for my stubbornness, my crippling fear of change, and mostly, the yearning—a familiar ache for love. The pain of staying the same for eternity seems less burdensome than the fear of losing you—forgetting the scent of your skin, your smile, the way my name sounds on your lips. And we can’t stay friends, because you are so... you.

And I’ll wait for you until the Pando succumbs to its impending doom, for it has never felt more right to love someone. My heart has never felt this weak, yet strangely free, for it is bound to you indefinitely. How can one be both the source of all pain and the greatest joy? How does one fill me with passivity, decay, and even more with exuberance?

You are the paradox that unravels within me.

[bbingustheoctopus]

she is like a poem I wish I wrote, a doubt I wish I thought and an answer I wish I said.

[bbingustheoctopus]

Starved— but the hunger for love seems more famishing; the insatiable hunger gnaws more than any hunger pang; a deeper ache that reverberates within my very core. At times, the jaws of despair bite too hard- there! Flesh separated from bone, I've lost a part of myself. But even still I wonder if the love could keep me fed; nurture my soul and my stomach filled. Some days, as I rise from the dinner table, lingering scents of a meal barely remembered, I find a glimmer of hope in the thought that perhaps, it just might. And it fleets in the air like a delicately whispered vow.