The Madness, The Magic, The Darkness

"In the midnight hours I think of alternate dimensions in which I am free. 20 something y/o made for cosmic forces and to escape the light.

[in-the-midnight-hours]

I just realized the easiest way to search all my poetry. Is literally search #spilledpoetry, #spilledthoughts, and #spilledwords it’s the common one for everything I write lol.

[oversorted]

[somewordsarebiggerthanothers]

[unreadable]

[fallencalliope]

Finding myself holding onto pieces,

Glimpses of what I believe is still possible for me,

That better days are yet to come,

But I need to heal these open wounds,

They are taking their time to overcome,

All of this pain has been caused,

Making it hard to find a little bit of room to breathe,

As I seek the veracity in this hope,

That I will finally wake up feeling fearless...

©️fallencalliope

[unseenmonstermuse]

I like people who communicate their intentions clearly. It saves everyone time.

[eman-emm]

[lady-eloquent]

"There is always something you can do with the mad that you feel."

A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood (2019)

[vanillaplanifolia]

“You’re so fucking cute, oh god, you don’t deserve this at all… I really should stop” increasingly guilt-ridden while showing no intent to stop whatsoever no matter how desperately you beg for it to end

[fruitviking]

Can we stop with the character development. Where's my beach episode.

[pup-purgatory]

[daily-spooky]

[in-the-midnight-hours]

There is a woman

who has forgotten

where her own bones end

and everyone else’s burdens begin.

She is forever

combing battlefields

for pieces of people

they abandoned

when survival demanded they run.

A fractured rib.

A trembling prayer.

A heart still beating

beneath enough rubble

to call it a grave.

She gathers them all.

Stitches flesh with borrowed thread.

Breathes life

into lungs

that had already surrendered.

Then slips quietly away

before anyone remembers

to ask

who stitched her closed.

She has become

an altar

where broken things

are left to resurrect themselves.

No one asks

what the sacrifice costs.

She speaks

like winter.

Not because she delights

in frost,

but because she learned long ago

that truth

does not bloom

inside gardens

watered by pretty lies.

She will place your reflection

into your own hands

whether you curse her

or thank her.

She has carved infection

from too many souls

to mistake pain

for cruelty.

Still-

they call her difficult.

Cold.

A bitch.

A villain.

As though honesty

has always been

the sharper blade.

She lets them.

Names have never frightened women

who survived monsters.

They believe

her spine

was forged from iron.

So they lean.

And lean.

And lean.

Until they mistake

her silence

for endless strength.

No one remembers

iron

rusts.

Not beneath the rain.

Beneath neglect.

It blooms

slowly.

Quietly.

Eating itself alive

from the marrow outward

while the surface

still gleams enough

to convince the world

it will never break.

There are entire kingdoms

collapsing inside her ribs,

and she still apologizes

for taking up space.

Some nights

she becomes

the little girl again.

The one

who learned too young

that being needed

was safer

than being loved.

The one

who mistook usefulness

for tenderness.

Who built herself

into a fortress

because no one

ever came

to build a home.

She still wonders

what it must feel like

to unravel without first asking permission.

To be held

without someone mistaking it

for weakness.

To hear,

“Rest now.

The war is not yours tonight.”

Instead,

she kisses her own bruises,

straightens her crooked crown,

gathers another handful

of broken stars, and pretends the rust is only dust.

If you ever meet her, do not praise

the iron.

Ask instead

who taught her

she had to become metal

to deserve surviving.

Then stay long enough

to love

the girl still buried beneath it.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— octobersfilm on substack (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[keytomind]

🖤☝🏼 be you…

[pup-purgatory]

via

[paper-wounds]

[thisandthatandeverythinginbtween]

This.

[letmebethecure]

Hidden worlds

Castle moats

of feelings

and desire

I have discovered

that my observations

are far

less important

Than the things

you want

me to know