Ashes In My Mouth..

Not a cry for help. Not a healing arc. Just the mess in its purest form. This is where the screams don’t have to be poetic. Where I let it rot out loud. Where I don’t filter the blood, the bite, or the breakdown. Call it oversharing. I call it exorcism. This is not the recovery room. This is the wreckage. Welcome to the parts I survived enough to say out loud.

[begladthatimnotgod]

Ashes Don’t Forget

The fire took everything —

burned down my past, my trust, my light.

But the ashes?

They hold the truth.

Every scar, every silent scream, every broken promise.

Ashes don’t forget.

And neither do I.

So I carry them —

not as weight, but as wisdom.

Because surviving isn’t forgetting.

It’s owning every piece of the burn.

[begladthatimnotgod]

Smoke Signals

I’m sending out smoke signals—

hoping someone reads the sky.

But all I get back is static.

I’m not sure if it’s silence or distance.

Maybe both.

Maybe it’s time I learn to read my own signs.

[begladthatimnotgod]

Silent Offerings

I laid my pain on the altar—

hands open, raw, hoping for grace.

But the room stayed cold.

They took my silence as peace,

my quiet as consent.

So now I keep my offerings close,

sacred and unseen.

Because some wounds aren’t for sharing.

They’re for guarding.

[begladthatimnotgod]

Echo Chamber

I scream into empty rooms.

My words bounce back hollow.

They hear the noise, but not the meaning.

And I wonder—

when did my pain become background noise?

When did my soul stop demanding attention?

[begladthatimnotgod]

You Didn’t Mean It

You said sorry like a reflex.

Not a reckoning.

Like it was something to cross off your list.

Not something that cracked you open.

And I felt it.

I always feel it.

I didn’t want perfection—

just proof that you gave a damn.

But you didn’t mean it.

And that told me everything.

[begladthatimnotgod]

Held My Own Hair

I’ve comforted myself so many times,

I flinch when someone tries to hold me now.

I did the work.

I sat in the dark.

I held my own hair back while I cried.

That’s why I don’t call.

That’s why I don’t trust comfort.

I don’t believe in rescue anymore.

[begladthatimnotgod]

Aftercare

I broke in front of them and they just… watched.

No towel.

No softness.

No “are you okay?”

Just silence.

Or worse — curiosity.

People love the moment you fall apart.

But they never stay to help clean it up.

[begladthatimnotgod]

Unsent

I typed the message three times.

Deleted it four.

Not because I didn’t want you to care—

but because I knew you wouldn’t.

You taught me to talk to walls.

To fold my feelings in half.

To swallow everything whole.

So I said nothing.

Again.

And you call that strength.

I call it survival.

[begladthatimnotgod]

Private Bleed

I asked for help and they gave me silence.

Now I don’t ask.

Don’t wonder why I’m quiet.

I learned to bleed in private.

[begladthatimnotgod]

I’m not here to inspire you.

I’m here to survive myself.

And sometimes that means writing shit I wish I never had to live through in the first place.

This ain’t some soft-ass “healing journey.”

This is the aftermath.

The nights I stared at the wall and didn’t cry ‘cause crying felt like a luxury.

The betrayal that didn’t just break me — it turned me feral.

I stopped trying to be digestible.

This is where I drop the weight mid-sentence.

Where I let the rot have its say.

Where I don’t explain the blood in my mouth or the silence in my chest.

If you’re reading this, no you’re not too much.

You’re just leaking truth in a world that would rather you shut up and smile.

I’m not healing.

I’m not whole.

But I’m loud about it now.

Welcome to Ashes in My Mouth.