The stars listened
while I confessed
that I feel like porcelain.
Pretty enough to keep,
too fragile to hold.
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YOU ARE THE REASON

Love Begins
Cosimo Galluzzi
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@fragilepoetry
The stars listened
while I confessed
that I feel like porcelain.
Pretty enough to keep,
too fragile to hold.
I want to say,
please notice I’m drowning,
but I also want
no one to worry,
so I become quiet
and call it coping.
They killed innocence
like it was something disposable.
Something small enough to crush
between careless hands,
something soft enough to leave trembling
without anyone asking
what survived after.
And nobody tells you this:
that sometimes the body grows up
while the soul stays kneeling
in the same ruined place.
So here I am,
an adult stitched together
with trembling thread,
carrying a child inside my ribs
who still startles at everything.
Still hoping.
Still waiting.
Still looking at every kindness
like a starving thing left out in winter,
wondering if this time
someone might finally stay.
Because innocence was not only taken.
It was interrupted.
A childhood cut open too early,
left unfinished,
left standing barefoot in the cold
trying to understand
why tenderness always arrived
with sharp edges.
And some nights
I swear I can feel her inside me,
that little version of myself,
small hands,
wide eyes,
a frightened little deer
abandoned in a forest too dark
for something so fragile.
All shaking legs and quiet fear.
The kind of scared
that never really leaves the body.
The kind that settles into your bones
and teaches you to apologize
for taking up space.
So I fold myself smaller.
Smaller.
Smaller.
Knees pressed to my chest
like maybe if I become tiny enough,
gentle enough,
easy enough to love,
someone will finally see me.
Will they?
If I curl into myself
until I almost disappear,
will someone kneel beside me
instead of walking past?
Will someone notice
that beneath this grown face
there is still a child
aching to be held softly?
Because God,
I still ache for something
I do not know how to name without grieving.
A father-shaped emptiness.
A wound with hands.
The unbearable hunger
of wanting someone older, safer, steadier
to look at me and say,
I see you.
You never had to earn softness.
Come here.
Because my own father
looked at absence
and somehow chose it.
And there is a grief in that
that feels ancient.
To wonder what was so wrong with me
before I even knew how to speak.
To spend years growing around rejection
like ivy around broken stone,
still asking questions
with no place to set them down:
Why wasn’t I enough to stay for?
Why did loving me feel optional?
And still,
despite everything,
there is a child inside me
who keeps reaching out tiny trembling hands
toward the shape of safety.
Who still wants to rest their head
against someone’s chest
without fear.
Who still wants gentleness
without punishment.
Who still wants to believe
that being vulnerable
does not mean being abandoned.
A scared little deer, really.
Breathing too fast.
Heart too loud.
Standing alone at the edge of the woods,
waiting for someone kind enough
to notice she is shivering,
kind enough to crouch down slowly,
hands open,
voice soft,
and say:
you do not have to make yourself smaller to be loved.
I see you now.
I have so much to say, yet nobody notices the galaxies collapsing behind my smile, the stars burning themselves into ash just to keep me warm enough to look okay. Sometimes I wonder how something can ache so loudly and still remain unheard.
-fragile
The evening settles softly on my satin dress,
warm wind carrying summer in a quiet tenderness.
My hair moves with the breeze, gentle as a sigh,
while the garden glows faintly beneath a fading sky.
There is something bittersweet in how the moment stays,
like happiness already drifting into yesterday.
And I sit so very still, afraid to breathe too deep,
hoping memory is kind enough this night to keep.
-fragile
𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥.
-𝘍𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦
I’m still a little kid
only my body has grown.
They taught me how to be quiet
before they taught me how to be safe.
Childhood slipped out through my fingers,
not stolen,
just… never given.
Now I keep trying to rebuild it
from scraps
a soft things a small joys,
The validation I seek.
But the truth sits heavy in my chest:
you can’t go back
to a place
you were never allowed to be.
-fragile
I am weather with no forecast.
Clear one second,
and then the sky tears open
like it was never meant to hold.
People step into me unprepared.
They think I am sunlight
soft, golden, easy to understand.
They don’t see
the storm pacing behind my ribs,
counting seconds,
waiting for a reason
that doesn’t have to make sense.
I don’t shift gradually.
I snap.
Love is a matchstick.
It flares
too bright, too fast
and I press it to everything
just to feel it burn.
But all I want is to be loved,
Adored,
Understood.
For a moment,
I am warmth,
I am light,
I am everything you ever needed.
And then I watch it
turn to smoke in my hands.
I don’t know how to hold things
without crushing them
or letting them slip through completely.
There is no middle setting.
Only extremes
fighting for space in the same chest.
I am a tide
that betrays its own shoreline.
I come close
closer than I should
memorizing every inch of you
like survival depends on it.
And then I pull back
so violently
it looks like I never cared at all.
But I did.
That’s the problem.
Everything matters
until it becomes unbearable,
and then nothing does
just to keep me breathing.
Inside,
there’s this hollow place
not empty,
just unfinished.
like something essential
was removed
and no one told me
what was supposed to be there.
So I fill it
with people,
with feelings,
with chaos loud enough
to drown out the question.
It never works.
It leaks.
It always leaks.
And I am left
with the aftermath
the silence after the storm,
where everything is still standing
but nothing feels real anymore.
I wish I could tell you
there’s a lesson in this,
some clean meaning
tucked between the damage.
There isn’t.
Just repetition.
Just survival dressed up
as personality.
Just me
learning how to exist
in a body that feels like
it could turn against itself
at any moment,
I want to give up
Rest and break the pattern,
But as long as I breathe,
The cycle will repeat
„bpd the violence of feeling everything”
We are made of stars,
but no one tells you
how much had to break
for us to exist.
Somewhere, something burned
until it couldn’t hold itself together,
until it split open
and gave everything away.
That is what lives in us.
Not just light..
but the memory of losing it.
Some days we shine,
and it feels effortless,
like the universe finally got it right.
Like it’s a blessing,
Other days,
the light disappears so quietly
it’s terrifying,
Suffocating,
like it was never ours to begin with.
We fold into the dark,
Empty, exhausted,
trying to remember
how to glow.
But even then,
even when it feels like
everything inside us has gone cold
we are still made
of something that once
lit up entire skies.
And maybe that’s the cruel,
Bittersweet truth,
we carry the remains of stars
that didn’t survive,
and still, somehow,
we are forced
to shine the brightest,
Which is strange because, stars never asked to be seen.
If I confess that I feel like an empty sky, will you still search for constellations in me?
-fragile
„Hold me in your arms like you’re scared I’m going to fall apart.”
~fragile
I buried my feelings so deep to survive that even I started mourning myself like someone who never made it out alive
~fragile
Late night message to stars
am so tired
of acting like my heart is a locked room
no one ever lived in.
Tired of nodding
while something inside me
is on its knees
screaming without a mouth.
I learned how to go still
the way prey does
right before the teeth sink in
if I don’t move,
if I don’t feel,
maybe it won’t hurt as much.
So I buried every ache alive.
Every almost-cry.
Every please don’t leave me like this.
I packed the dirt down with shaking hands
and called it strength.
But the truth is
I feel everything.
I feel it in my jaw when I smile too long.
In my throat when words claw their way up
and I shove them back down
like they don’t deserve air.
There are oceans inside me
I pretend are just empty space.
Waves hitting my ribs over and over
while I sit there calmly
saying,
“I don’t care.”
I care so much
it feels like standing bare-skinned in winter,
and I still choose the cold
because frostbite is quieter than fire.
I am not heartless.
I am heart-bruised.
Heart-bitten.
Heart-tired of beating against a cage
I built to keep it safe.
And some nights
I swear the saddest part is this
not that it hurts,
but that I’ve gotten so good
at pretending
no one would ever know
there was something alive in here
at all.
-fragile
Something in me shifted quietly, and now no matter how hard I reach back, my hands only touch the shape of who I used to be.
-fragile
We are like stars..born to burn bright in someone else’s sky, never realizing that our light was never meant to be permanent, only present for a moment..
~fragile
Disorganized heart
I am two instincts
fighting over the same heartbeat.
One of me begs:
Stay. Choose me. Don’t forget.
The other whispers:
Leave first. Don’t need. Don’t feel.
I check my phone like it’s oxygen
then throw it across the room in shame.
I crave reassurance
and resent you for giving it.
closeness sets off alarms.
distance confirms my fears.
I lean in until my chest aches
then disappear
to see if you’ll notice.
I want to be the safest place you know
without ever letting you inside.
So I love you in contradictions:
too much,
then not at all,
then aching in the silence I created.
I am anxious in the doorway,
avoidant in the room,
and lonely everywhere in between
~fragile
You lay your fragile heart bare to the cruelty of hope…and it shatters every time.
-fragile