sunsetdreamsss

Here so I can let my split-self live

[decembrghost]

Ma!

I am breaking Ma! atom by atom, mentally, spiritually, catastrophically Yet, I continue, because, Ma, stopping feels like betrayal. Survival has become obligation, not choice. Endurance has become my religion, and devotion my quiet damnation. I crave erasure, the rare privilege of not having to be someone all the time, I want cessation, the absolution of non-being. But I remain here, eroding slowly, because Ma, disappointing you would hurt more than disappearing ever could, because loving you has taught me that even agony must learn discipline.

[omgitscass]

[decembrghost]

Daughter of the house

Tonight, the floor is cold, and the clothes are just debris. I am stripped bare, twenty-three, and wrung out from one week of surviving the people who made me. Thirty days left until graduation. Thirty days left of this small, solitary box where I am allowed to just leak, to sweat out the fever of everything I’ve been forced to swallow. Here, nobody watches me bleed. Here, there is no mother to pick apart my existence, no mother to defend the rest of the world while abandoning me in the crossfire. No father choking me with a panic he calls love. No sibling sitting in total, useless silence, completely untamed by the wreckage. The eldest daughter, they say, like a diagnosis. The one built to carry the architecture of the family, to absorb the shocks, to hold the weight. And it doesn't matter how flawless the performance is, how much of a perfectionist I play to them, I will always be the one who is too much. Too emotional. Too unstable. Too involved. A messy contrast to the youngest, the one with clean hands, held gentle With care!

[decembrghost]

You were a clock that was supposed to stop, a mechanism wound tight for a shorter spring. At seventeen, you stood at the edge of the script, ready for the curtain to fall, for the ink to run dry, but the sun rose on the eighteenth year, and the nineteenth, and the twentieth, like a series of uninvited guests demanding a room you hadn’t built. Now, at twenty-three, you wear a tired face that is less a portrait and more a palimpsest, scraped thin by the friction of a routine that feels like a cage of slow, grey glass. They call it "daily life," but to you, it is a siege. You are full of a substance that has no name, not the hollow ache of exhaustion, nor the soft glow of love, but a dark, wild pollen, a stubborn green pushing through the concrete of your obligations. Your "contumacious" heart is not a defect; it is the vital organ of your survival. It is the refusal to be sanded down by a world that wants you quiet and predictable. The "potious angles" of your truth, the sharp, intoxicating edges of who you really are, have been hiding in the shadows of the "supposed-to-be," sharpening themselves against the silence. What do you do with this rebellion? You do not try to tame it. You do not force it into the shape of a career or a comfortable, smiling morning. You let it be your compass. If your hands are tied by the threads of contemplation, then look at the knots, they are the only things that prove you are still here, still struggling, still refusing to be a ghost in your own skin. The truth is this: The person who wasn't supposed to see twenty-three is the only one who can truly see the world. Your life is not a mistake or a debt; it is a territory you were never meant to walk, which makes every step you take an act of holy trespassing. Wear the tired face. Nurture the rebellion. The world was never ready for you, either, and that is exactly why you are the only one who can change the way it breathes.

[decembrghost]

what we call need

I lie awake, counting comforts like quiet sins, thinking of privilege of what we call “need” and what we never question. In my bed, I unravel, crying over systems too vast to hold, over hands that hoard while others wander roads searching for a corner of night that won’t swallow them whole. They walk under the same sky, but theirs feels heavier as if darkness chooses where to fall. And I wonder are our problems real, or just louder? Is compassion something we perform, while cruelty slips through in quieter forms? We speak of care, yet measure worth in comfort. We condemn, yet consume the same broken lines. I am tired of these double standards, of the crooked streets I know too well the ones I walk pretending I understand. Still moving, still speaking, still trying not to be shaped by the very things I resist. And somewhere between guilt and silence, I keep asking what does it mean to truly see?

[decembrghost]

child of grief.

They say God sees intentions, but I was judged by my actions in the life I breathed into.

A villain, a moth, a child, mouth full of froth, held, hugged, twisted, turned into words.

In eyes. In houses meant to save,

pushes, pulls, kicks, grabs in places meant to hide.

Intentions, words, actions, knowledge, none mattered, all did.

Hurt, healed, cut, cured, and still, I will always be the child of grief.

[decembrghost]

do u use twitter?

not very active

[decembrghost]

this selfish need to have you around

They exist in a tongue so foreign to you these songs I hum to keep from hiding. I fear you won’t ever know all of me, won’t see the way the fairy lights turn on simply because you are around. It is a melancholic tune I play. It doesn’t haunt you the same while you are busy saying you hate it all, the life, the living, the sea you find so familiar. But it is not wrong to me. It is my favorite saying, myself in quietude. It feels like fights with my mother, like old films, this selfish need to have you around even when you say you’re done. I won’t ever teach it to you, this feeling that dissolves my heart when the lines of the earth begin to blur. I would stop the earth from spinning for you, hold even the bitterness you carry, if only you’d promise to see yourself adorned with roses. You are an abandoned sea I won’t ever forget, and I am still here, waiting for you to see yourself the way I do.

[decembrghost]

Cynicism is an art

I have memorized the geometry of shadows cast by a stack of unread giants, waiting for a spine to crack and bleed a gospel I can actually use. But the ink is dry. The paper, just dead wood mottled with the ego of men long buried. Cynicism is an art, and I am its naive expert, practicing the habit of preempting the bruise, sharpening my tongue into a scalpel to peel back my own chest and laugh at the wet, thumping mess of it. “Look,” I tell the dark, “how pathetic to want." "How embarrassing to be made of glass in a room full of stones.” Craving the honest as winter something to strip the skin and leave the bone, because truth is softer than I admit, a suffocating thing. I am a failure of a cynic because I still have the nerve to be haunted. I am a poet only because I don’t know how to bleed without checking the light, to see if the red looks pretty on the floor.

[decembrghost]

Hey there, little love, Take a look at me. The world is waking in strokes of grey While I gather pieces of our day. Toothpaste and coffee, The scratch of matchsticks, Blue matchsticks, specifically. I’ll make you your coffee, With a bean or two, A little sweet Just like you, To soften the bitterness, That sharp edge of your pretty face When the light hits just right And you smile. I know that coffee breath. The perfume of my being. I move closer to your side; It’s 6:30 a.m. The lines of your lips Will trace mine Until I’m certain you are real. I’ve done so much for the day, And the sun is still wearing its stillness. Hey there, little love, Let me fall to my knees. Reaching for the toothpaste, Green and salty, Just like the sea, Just like the depth You’ve reached in me. I lean in a little. That coffee breath again, The sweetest bitter love I’ve ever tasted.

[decembrghost]

Swallowing

I am not angry. I tell the dirt, I tell the air. I am not angry. But mother, where does a child put this much grief? Where does it go when it has nowhere to stay? I’ll let things feed on me. I’ll let the grief eat until it is full and I am empty. I’ll burn my hands, I’ll char the skin until the nerves go quiet, so you don’t have to hold them. I’ll burn my hands so you never feel the weight of what I carry, so you don’t feel the burden too. I’m not an angry person. If I cannot lay this grief at your feet, I will hide it in the marrow. I’ll make art from my guts, I’ll pull the red strings out and call them ribbons. I’ll make art from my guts, shaping flowers from the parts of me that ache, and my blood will colour it. My blood will colour it until the garden looks kind. I’ll swallow the rocks. I’ll take the stones of every unanswered prayer. I’ll swallow all the hard rocks and learn to speak around the weight in my throat. Where is she meant to set it down? If I cannot set it down, I will carry it until I break. Trust me, I’m not angry. I have no room left for rage; I am full of stones. Trust me, I’m not angry. I’ll lose my soul if it’s the only thing left to give. I’ll lose my soul if it’s my all that you desire. I’m not angry. I’m not angry. Not anymore.

[decembrghost]

damn this law gonna kill the poet in me

[eymurn]

Oh! The intimacy of adopting each other’s vocabulary.

[decembrghost]

Oh! the violence of unlearning it!

[decembrghost]

parasite's debt

You traded my kindness for a scalpel, Cutting away at the "no" until it bled. You invited yourself into my temple And left rot in the rafters instead. I was the fool who played the martyr, Guarding a cage that you chose to inhabit. You pushed and you pulled and you pressed even harder, Taking my peace like a thief of habit. You want to talk about being lonely? Look at the scorched earth you’ve left in your wake. You aren’t a victim, you’re the hunter only, Counting the pieces of me you could take. Well, look at the ghost you have made of yourself, And look at the wreckage you call a connection. killing the part of me under subjection. You can rot in the silence of everyone leaving. I won't be the one to hold open the door. Keep your excuses, your lies, and your grieving I don't belong to your mess anymore.

[decembrghost]

the vertigo of golden hour

The sun is a gold-leafed guillotine, And I have built this palace of glass With bleeding hands and a laugh like a riot. I am shivering, from the Weight Of a sky, finally blue. the heart rub itself against the very Cage that promises to keep it safe I'm jovial and it's my curse Polished the rust into a mirror, Now I am terrified of the reflection. keeping the wounds un-stitched, feeding salt to the gashes Because if I heal, I am Empty. and If the scar turns Amaranthine, At least I have a map of where the ghost walked.

[decembrghost]

this violent act, a slow arrangement, methodical carving away of your own wild edges you are small enough to fit into a shape you were never desired by. trying to dress the corpse. he’s a void. the shears to the seams until it screams. better to stand naked and freezing than to be buried alive in a bargain your dignity for

[decembrghost]

sitting against your face like a cold blade, this fabric of convenience, this shroud of almost. you bought it because the cost was low, forgetting that the cheapest things always demand payment in bone. The theory of him was a sterile room, all white walls and "it makes sense." But "potential" is just a polite word for a ghost, and you you are tired of haunting your own life trying to possess a shadow that refuses to bleed.