daisy @bleedspink - Tumblr Blog

intro post!!

you can call me daisy

i’ve always been very unwell in the head!

i made this to use as a diary, in a way. also, to write poems and stuff. i’m not good at it, but i like it, so i do it.

if you ever want to message me, you can.

i dont have many dni’s, besides the usual like pedos, racists, trump supporters, homophobes, that kind of stuff.

- daisy

the more you see me

-

i’m afraid that the more you see me,

the less you will love me.

the more you know me,

the less you’ll want to kiss me.

you say you can handle my words,

my actions, my desperation,

my tears, my silence; everything.

i want to believe you.

i really do.

but you would be the first.

loving me is rotten work.

this is nothing like you’re used to.

i will exhaust you,

tire you, frighten you.

i will annoy you,

make you angry, make you upset—

and still beg you to stay.

situationship who doesn’t wanna commit got me a valentine’s day present

who has a gun

court jester

-

you and I both know

you are not mine.

I am entirely yours.

I contort myself for you—

bright colors,

loud tricks,

a grin stretched thin.

desperation is unbecoming,

but I wear it anyway.

a jester bowing too low

for a king who never asked for it.

when you laugh—

really laugh—

I would do it all again.

I live for that sound.

but when the room goes quiet

and you turn your attention elsewhere,

the bells on my costume

fall heavy.

I stand there,

paint cracking,

wondering

who I am

when you are not looking.

rusted strings

-

I listen to a frayed bow

drag across rusted strings.

the sound doesn’t bloom—

it claws its way out,

metal on metal,

a thin animal noise

that doesn’t know

how to be music anymore.

it keeps trying.

again.

each stroke

a small abrasion.

I wonder if that is how I sound

when I try to speak.

mouth open,

throat tightening,

the same plea

barking itself raw.

I shape the words carefully—

soften them,

sharpen them,

swallow them whole—

and still

they land wrong.

the bow keeps moving.

the strings scrape.

I do not change.

nothing changes.

while you dream

-

you twitch in your sleep— small, startled movements like your soul can’t quite settle. the night presses its palm to the window, and i press mine to you.

the room is heavy with your breath. each sigh drifts through me, soft and ruinous. i think the moon envies this closeness— how even in your dreaming, you find your way back to my side.

sometimes your fingers search the dark, as if remembering my name in a language older than sound. i let you find me there, in that flicker between waking and gone, and I stay— not to watch, but to love you quietly while the world forgets to turn.

even in decay

-

and when i finally sink into the soil, softening, splitting, surrendering, the worms will crawl into my ribs and find the last warm echo of you.

they will feed on what’s left of my longing, carrying it through dark tunnels, spending the rest of their small, brief lives searching every root and stone for a sweetness they will never taste again.

blood hymn

-

your skin sings under my fingers, every bruise a note, every cut a chorus.

we kiss in the ache, swallow each other whole, holy, filthy, burning.

I trace the outline of your ruin like a sacred scripture, and taste it as if it were worship.

pretty petals

-

some nights my spine melts into a tangle of wet roots, curling and uncurling like it can’t decide what creature it belongs to.

my ribs click open on their own— a startled cage, spilling petals that rot before they hit the ground.

the moon keeps tugging at me, rewriting my silhouette with every tug of its quiet hunger. i change shape too fast for my shadow to follow.

i try to graft myself back together, but the pieces twitch— feral, rain-soaked, forgetting they were ever one body.

still, at dawn, i gather the trembling parts, press them to my chest, and hope today they’ll agree to stay.

fragile truths

-

you say you’re not ready, voice trembling like a match almost striking. the idea overwhelms you, spills out of your eyes in quiet hesitation.

and yet— you press a kiss to my forehead, gentle as dawn. you tell me i’m beautiful like it’s a truth you wish you were brave enough to claim out loud.

i know the pain i’m planting in my own ribs, the ache that will bloom when you walk away. i know it, and still—

when you’re holding me, arms softening the world, murmuring that i’m worth something, worth more than i believe—

i choose you again, even if it breaks me.

even if you never stay.

litany of your teeth

-

you bite your fingernails again, slowly, like a prayer said wrong— each snap of keratin a bell tolling for something holy and gone.

your mouth is a cathedral of ruin, your teeth, small confessors. how I envy the mercy of your thumb, the soft surrender it’s granted nightly.

i would crawl into that ache if you let me— live beneath your tongue, be ground down to nothing by the worship of your boredom.

i want to be the taste you can’t name, the wound you tend without healing. unmake me in the dark, and call it love.

insane new blog theme i love it

TYYY i wanted something to match my favorite season :]

wideawake987-deactivated2026011

This body has failed me in ways that no one can,

turning the urgency of living into ordinary labor—

faulty lungs or rotten genetics

well, nobody

seems to notice.

I pull the arrow in defeat,

and I don't bleed. My heart is hollow,

biological language fighting for relevance

in a trial that might just be a simple conversation

with the doctor.

His brows furrow in confusion

and he taps the stethoscope,

I can't hear a thing. Of course you can't.

I'm here on borrowed time.

-borrowed time, 2025

not a poem

i cant remember a time where i felt truly loved by another human being. it’s an awful feeling. even my parents, to whom i am so sorry. they tried their best, but my childhood felt like i was in constant survival mode. i hardly remember anything from it, but what i remember is traumatizing. my sister. my beautiful sister. for years she wanted me dead. i think she was jealous, really. she saw an innocent child, and how she so desperately wanted that to be her. when i think of my childhood, i think of being chased with a knife. i think of watching my sister burn herself with a lighter. i think of the noose by the lake. i think of my brother screaming in my face. i think of classmates kicking me and calling me ugly, fat, stupid, worthless. i think of my first boyfriend, at 13 years old. he pleaded for me to go into the storage closet in our school with him, i think of him wishing i was sluttier, i think of him grabbing my face and telling me nobody else will love me like he does. i think of my classmate forcing my hand to wrap around him. i think of the girls who cut my hair, i think of the boys groping me, i think of the teachers turning away. i think of my grandmother bruising my wrist, calling me an idiot for thinking that boy liked me. i think of her speeding down the highway, wishing to kill us both. i think of second boyfriend, whom i dated for five years. he told me he loved me, but he did not like me. i was told i was exhausting to be around. frustrating, annoying, stressful, hardly worth it. every decision i made, he hated. i tried so hard to please him, but it was never enough. he kept a list, of everything he hated about me in his phone. i grew up loving him. i grew up being told that this was the best i could get. i did not deserve better, and i was lucky i didnt get worse.

even now, i’ve been on many dates, had a few hookups, and silly me, i thought they would last. momentary pleasure and nights of intimacy, do not equal real love. i’ll never learn my lesson, and i’ll keep falling for it again and again. the only person i can think that may actually love me for who i am is on the other side of the planet. and that’s just laughable. that’s my luck. it’s pathetic really. i’m close to giving up, i think. giving up on what, i dont really know. i’ve already tried killing myself 3 times before, and they didnt work. so what’s the point in trying again? i keep believing the more i grow up, the more time passes, it’ll get better. 21 years of that thinking, and nothing to show for it.

hunger

-

love is a wound i keep widening. i dig my fingers in, just to see if anyone will bleed with me.

i call it devotion. they call it too much.

every time, i let them crawl beneath my skin, leave their warmth like a stain. for a while, i almost feel alive— then they pull away, and i collapse around the absence.

their echoes rot inside me. their names fester under my tongue. i carry them like bruises that never bloom, only deepen.

even in their arms, i feel the leaving begin. a quiet unraveling, like a thread pulled loose from something that once held me together.

i keep asking to be seen, to be wanted, to be kept.

but love is a mirror that devours what it reflects. and i am the carcass it leaves behind.

paper-wounds

look at me

-

the world blurs at the edges—

one hand on the wheel,

the other tracing shadows on my thigh

all hum and heartbeat,

city lights streak past

like falling stars that will never land

you drove too fast,

i laughed too loud,

head out the window,

my hair a warning flag

for every bad choice.

freedom tasted like cheap vodka

and your fingers tangled in my hair.

beneath you— breathless—

my lips and fingers sparked,

blood humming electric.

every sensation too sharp to name,

yet you kept whispering,

“look at me.”

and i did

your eyes, deep and predatory,

pulling me in.

the rhythm of hips meeting together

your mouth claiming my neck

my nails digging into your back

like stakes in a dream i couldn’t wake from.

you told me i was perfect,

beautiful,

made for you.

hands digging into my hips

manipulating my motions

as if it belonged to you alone.

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