written in the margins of broken nights

for all of the words I can't say out loud

[ink-stained-regrets]

An Experiment in Returning

“You’ve changed a lot recently.” I guess I needed to hear it  before I could finally look in the mirror. No,  I don’t recognize the person staring back at me. We don’t have the same eyes. Thats how I always know  I’m looking at someone new. Eyes. The window to the soul  I’ve been saying that since I’m 16. They reveal the truest version of whatever that rests within. These eyes are broken. Not the same broken I saw a few month ago. Those resembled a shattered mirror  something that you could never put back together again. These are different. Still cracked, but they have a light that reflects in the sun. A light that may have never existed before. They see the world differently now. There is a peace within them I never knew was missing. Maybe now the first look I see  on others faces won’t be one of sympathy. The cracks will never disappear,  But isn’t that the beauty of scars? They remind you of what you survived. Proof that healing happened after all. I used to fear these walls. Etched in the corneas. I never meant to build them trapping myself within rooms that never existed. Was I even in the house anymore? Backrooms and subbasements. Those walls are to be removed eventually. Slowly. Carefully. It will take more time than I’d like to admit. Whichever version built them did not intend for them to be permanent. These eyes froze over in the winter. They took the longest, but they too developed frostbite.  They were supposed to thaw in the spring. It was unseasonably cold…  too much rain, too many floods. By the time summer rolled around,  There was no one left inside  to remind me to blink. Still,  The Sun remembered me before I remembered myself. Will I ever be her again?  No. But this new version in the mirror  has eyes I can get used to. They are full of something I can’t place yet. Maybe you can? I hugged those old versions of me who were still lingering in the forest. I told them what they’ve been waiting to hear,  that they were once loved. Whether they believe me or not is not is something I can control. That choice belongs to them. So you may not recognize these new eyes.  But oh boy… they are seeing you clearly for the first time.

[ink-stained-regrets]

leave the pain you can't solve with the folks you let down

[ink-stained-regrets]

walked into a haunted House and got angry at the Ghosts

[ink-stained-regrets]

The Archives - vol. 1

[recovered voice memo from July, 2017] [Voice 1 - The House] [Voice 2 - The Ghost]

[Voice 1]:

"I ask myself time and time again... when I'm talking and no one else is there... who do I hope is listening?

Is it the stars? Is it the moon? Is it the clouds? Is it the wind?

Who do I hope is on the other side?

I know when I say things out loud and I'm alone... the restless souls above, the ghosts who still linger, and the demons lurking under can all hear me. They're all listening or rather eavesdropping.

Are the words I'm sharing when there's no one there still considered a secret when they're said out loud?

Earlier today I sat in a car, alone, and for some reason I started to speak... about my day, about how I was feeling. And now as I sit back here... I feel the need to explain how where I'm sitting means to me... what the crickets I hear mean, what this house symbolizes... what where I'm headed could mean. I feel like they might be the first to understand... right?

But who am I even trying to explain this to? If no one's there listening why is it so important?

Who am I hoping is listening? On this night, right now, who do I imagine being next to me listening?

I mean clearly I already know the answer... but if that person was to ever hear any of this... or read what I write one day... would it all be okay? Who's to say they aren't already listening... could that even be possible? Could two people be connected like that when they're apart?

Do they also hope I'm listening? Do they also wish it was me eavesdropping and not the restless souls, the ghosts, and the demons? That I was the moon and the stars?

I can safely say I haven't felt alone since that night... but do they listen like I do? Do they notice... Do they realize what they've already said out loud? I'm not sure anyone has ever listened to them before. I get it though... I have never been heard, so...

Maybe that's why I say so much when I'm alone. Why I write things down to never be shared. Maybe I'm scared of being heard... even though... well, maybe... could they have heard me already?

Honestly, no definitely not. Being heard would probably change everything so I'll just continue to listen.

And honestly thats okay... better even... I don't feel anyway about it.. I'm just... existing in this moment.. it's just that--"

[footsteps approach]

"Wait, what?? Hello??"

[Door opens]

[Voice 2]:

[unintelligible]

[Voice 1]:

"Oh, hey! I didn't realize you were coming."

[Voice 2]:

"Dude where else would I be?"

[end of audio.]

... I'm not sure I was ever supposed to find this again, but I did. Like a haunted mirror reflecting the thin vale of past and present.

[surrendersweatshirt]

you said something along the lines of birthdays feel like counting cracks in the ceiling.. proof something is giving way

so i won’t count the years

just this: you’re still here

a quarter through isn’t collapse.. just the part where walls groan but don’t fall

(i checked. they don’t.)

“hope” out loud the other day, remember?

felt wrong. too bright.

but it stayed lit

so keep it.

even if it burns low

even if it scares you

[

]

still in the margins

still listening

[ink-stained-regrets]

what is the point of a distraction when nothing seems to distract from the one thought that plagues my mind? that one thought seems to have woven itself into the very fabric of my being and everything else that surrounds me...

[ink-stained-regrets]

Stuck Between Chapters

The clock strikes midnight. A new month begins, carrying in whispers of change. Who's to say the new year begins in January's frozen air? What if it starts on the day we are reminded of when my existence began? Twenty-two days until the next chapter. A quarter of my life will have already been lived. Have I done enough living to qualify for this age? There were moments where I never thought I'd live to see the day. To be fair, there is still time for the hands of fate to strike. Not that I'm wishing for that plot-twist but tomorrow is never promised. Chapter 24 is still being written. Five hundred twenty-eight grains of sand are left to drift through the hour glass. I'm not sure I'm ready for it to be empty. What will the universe leave on the cutting room floor? Do I get a say? Am I allowed to take with me what was never mine to keep? Am I not the author of my own story? I had hopes for spring hopes of sun and rain, hopes of flowers blooming within myself. But the prettiest flowers have thorns. They will all be singing, the same song that has been dedicated to me twenty-four times before. My mind will be running through that familiar forest where the trees are permanently dressed in orange. Most people don't plan their birthday wishes. Especially when the moon still has plenty of phases to go through before that night arrives. But I already know what I will wish for as the smoke dances around the blown out candles. Do you?

[ink-stained-regrets]

Without Instructions

I'm not good when I don't have control. I'm used to having all the answers, to solving problems as the arise. and yet I sit here totally clueless. Can you be at peace but terrified at the same time? I feel like I forgot how to speak, how to function under the pretense of normalcy. How can one truly act normal while feeling like ever action is being observed? Eyes that I've never seen follow me wherever I go. I have always trusted natural instinct. Yet, in this moment My instincts are screaming while I do the opposite. Who knew the smallest hint of communication could feel like an internal war? I have always been the one to know how to defuse the bomb. Red foes with red. Blue goes with blue. Now, I stand in the kitchen, watching the numbers count down, and every wire is the same color. I don't want to be the reason it explodes. I never ask for help. Some admire that. Others wait in the wings, certain I will eventually crumble. Consider this my S.O.S. I can see it within reach. Closer than it's been in months, while also being impossibly far. How do I do this? Teach me. How am I now the student? At least I still have this... A place where I can tell you what I need without saying anything at all.

[ink-stained-regrets]

Ghosts in Constellations

One of the night's greatest gifts is the stars that kiss the sky each uniquely their own. Some shining so bright you can't help but stare; others flicker faintly, but still have a story to tell. Even the brightest stars can go missing for a night. Though they are lost in the twilight it does not mean they won't be found again. There was one particular star missing from her sky for quite some time. She knew it was still there she could feel it in the midnight breeze. The fear that it had burned too bright, burned itself out, took hold of her sense. The truth was simpler it had dimmed itself to the edge of disappearing, Needing the help of the moon to bring back its glow. For centuries, the world has used the stars as guides mostly towards the next destination. Who's to say a destination must be a place? Could it be another soul? The two ghosts never forgot where the house was. They had never left. But the house was known to rearrange the rooms, let stairs lead to nowhere, Locking one out while keeping the other in. Still, every night they would look at the same stars through their separate windows, each knowing the other was looking too. And the stars did what they do best they lead them through the dark corridors, through the hidden passageways, until they found each other again, Two ghosts now haunting the same hallway. That night, when they looked out the same window, bathing in the moonlight, she realized the star had returned to her sky.

[ink-stained-regrets]

Grief Without a Funeral

They say there are five stages of grief: Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. I always thought grief followed the death of a person. I was naive to believe it couldn't sneak up on you. Death and loss go hand in hand. The Grim Reaper doesn't have to greet you for the cycle to begin. I look back and see the signs. Did I refuse to see them before? Or were my eyes so clouded with grief that it blended into the shade of gray that took over the world? Denial was presented as belief in the world I thought I knew, the words I heard, the trust I would never let go of. Anger was a quiet rage, a fire that grew inside of me. I burned those close to me. Thought I could set the streets ablaze. It came and went. Sometimes I wish I could still pour the embers from my finger tips. Maybe then they would have never frozen over. Bargaining is the easiest to see. You just need to know where to look. You can only hide so much between the margins of broken nights and dust you haven't moped away yet. Depression is something I can't explain. Can the stages happen simultaneously? Could that be why the storm won't weather? The true leash that tethers me to m spot. Today I present you acceptance, which I have renamed numbness. Acceptance means peace... that you are okay with what has happened. I am not okay. I am not sure when I will be. I just have nothing left to give. I can sit and wait. But what am I waiting for exactly? I could repeat the cycle over again if I so choose. What will that get me? It won't get me what I need. It hasn't thus far. I once wrote about doing the same thing with the same result, wondering how long it would take to go insane. I no longer want to live in a state of psychosis. So numbness is what I choose. Detachment. The saddest tragedy in my story, I believe A beautiful disaster. I have more words, but are they even worth saying?

[ink-stained-regrets]

Floating Isn't the Same as Living

The thunder cracked so loud it shook the house. The rain bolted down on the roof. I couldn't hear the crackle of candle light that illuminated the powerless place. It was the only thing I had to see besides the lightning strikes that came every so often. The house can withstand the storm. I know it can. The foundation has cracks. The beams are deteriorating. But the storm won't wash it away. I panic as I race through the halls. Hello? Can anyone hear me? Please? I know I am alone but the psychosis has set in. Knocking on every door I see, illusions of shadows that aren't there, footsteps that are just my own. I find the dark corner and brace for the worst. I rock back and forth, trying to get my limbs to stop trembling. I don't want it to end like this. I created this storm. I am the reason this oasis of silence is about to sail down the river. Will no one come save me? Will no one brave this hurricane of chaos that has spiraled into a natural disaster? Is it because it's my own creation? Have I really convinced them this is the weather I can live in every day of my life? But I saved them. I was never asked to. I just knew how. What about me? Don't they know how to save me? I was the one putting everything back together. Do they not see how the heavens have opened up, trying to swallow me whole? I am so tired. Tired of trying to float. Don't I deserve a lifeboat... just once? Is it so wrong to want to be saved from yourself? Saved from the storm? Waving through the window will do nothing. The water is higher than I expected. I'll try not to drown. But I know the water will rise regardless.

[ink-stained-regrets]

Frostbite

It’s snowing again. Do you know what happens  when you stand still in the snow for too long? You get frostbite.

I enjoyed my time here,  watching the flurries dance, letting the angels guide me.  But when I looked at my fingers, they had turned that same shade of blue.

I closed my eyes, to just enjoy the cold wind against my cheeks.  It was only for a moment. Then I realized  I was alone again. 

I don’t blame the snow  like I should have never blamed the rain.  There is no one to blame. 

When you hold snow in your hands  and forget to treat it gently,  it melts turning back into the water  that can still bring hope. 

Jack Frost may have melted my walls,  but he’s also notoriously mischievous.  You can’t be surprised when he leaves  to help someone else  see the glory of the snow. 

Just another placeholder  in the grander scheme of someone else life. My destiny.  My fate.  I choose to accept it this time,  not daring to ask for more.

I stand back in the hallway,  between the two doors  both now shut, but not locked.  Will the wind crack one open again?

I’ll wait for spring,  where the flowers will bloom within myself,  Not for anyone to pick,  but to attract the sun  and bring the light back  to my eyes. 

The spring brings in the rain as well. Who knows  maybe I’ll learn  to dance again.

[ink-stained-regrets]

Peace Was Accidental

I miss comfort or being comforted  in a way I don’t only hear,  but feel.

Feel so deep my bone hum, my soul sighs, my heart almost stops in a way that feels like peace.

When the day felt like it would never end, I knew I could rely on this comfort  to find me  even when it didn’t know  I needed it.

Now I sit alone, staring at the wall, willing my body  to find at least enough within itself to breathe.

When did I forget how to do this myself?

Days feel like chaos. My thoughts make no sense. Everything inside is just screaming. It never ends almost like my being is enraged by simply existing. When did I become this?

I realize now comfort is a luxury.

You may ask  why I can’t fin this comfort anywhere else. I didn’t know it existed. It came so naturally  that it didn’t feel like comfort it felt like another day.

I think it foes hand in hand  with this constant feeling of being alone. Are you allowed to feel lonely surrounded by people? Maybe, I suppose.

These people don’t understand not on the molecular level,  not like I want them to.

Another luxury I seem to have been greedy with.

I have never felt peace a day in my life. I didn’t realize I had until now, when I can never seem to feel it again.

Thats not true. I might. I just don’t want to have to ask for it, like I’ve never had to  before.

[ink-stained-regrets]

I Found Her Where She Lost Herself

I’m not supposed to be here. I know the rules. I know what can happen if I’m seen. But I just need to know.

I need to know she turns out okay. That I turn out okay.

This world is all I know this home I live in, this memory. Her memory.

There has to be a reason I was left here, that she left me here. Maybe it’s so she can come back to it.

Though she never has.

The forest is vast. Does she not know I still live here? That there’s a version of herself who lingers?

I wait by the path, trying to blend into the night. Well no. I am out in the open.

I can’t explain why, but the moon feels like its watching me.  The air feels heavier… colder. The trees look conflicting, jagged. 

But every night she walks right past. I think she only comes here when she’s sleepwalking.

Should I make myself known tonight?

Before I finish my thought, she spots me. This is it the chance I’ve been hoping for.

Given I’ve spent all my life in this forest, my eyes have adapted. I see her more clearly than she can see me, and my stomach turns as she comes closer.

Melancholy washes over me. Why is she looking at me like that? Why does she look so devastated? Why is there no light in her eyes?

We stand there in silence. We don’t have to say anything. Her presence is suffocating enough. It speaks volumes.

We stand there for what feels like hours. No. No—this isn’t what I turn into. This isn’t what happens to us.

She makes a move, cracking a branch. That snaps me out of my trance. I run faster than I ever have.

That isn’t her. That’s a lie sent to get me to trick me, to trap me.

I have to get back to my memory before she gets me.

She looked sorry for me. Why would she be sorry for me?

She gets caught up in the woods as I make my way up the steps, into my enclosure I know so well. I close my eyes and will her away.

When I turn back around, she is gone back to the forest and wherever she came from.

But that can’t be me. It can’t be. It can’t be.

Part two (Originally written 10/05/25)

[ink-stained-regrets]

I Lost Her Where I Lost Myself

The path in front of me was dark. The only light guiding my way was the moon. The air was frozen by the howling wind.

The forest surrounding me is barren. The trees look more like abstract shapes, twisting in conflicting directions.

Whatever leaves still linger on the branches are hanging on by the smallest of threads.

Me and the leaves have that in common.

I can’t see the way I suppose I came from. I can’t remember how I got here. I must be sleepwalking through life again.

My mind lingers while my legs move forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot her. I think she was trying to blend into the night.

She looks like me from a long time ago. She's so young, I think. She has an innocence that radiates around her. It feels familiar, yet completely foreign at the same time.

Can there be versions of myself that still linger in this forest?

Straying from the path, I get closer to the girl. A feeling of melancholy washes over me. She feels forgotten, as if it was I who left her out here to rot.

I lock eyes with myself. I don’t say anything; I don’t have to. The light in her eyes is still there though it's beginning to dim. Soon, They will mirror what I know mine look like now.

We stand there for a while, suffocating in the angst stuck in our lungs.

I reach out to her. I know what she craves. I was once her.

Please, I beg in my mind, just let me try to fix this before you turn into me. Maybe the timeline you still live in can be healed.

The branch under my foot snaps as I raise my arms. The bolter in her takes over, and she’s gone faster than I ever remember being.

I follow her for as long as I can, the night blurring all the obstacles in my way. I smash into trees, twist my ankles on rocks, cut up and bloody, until I see what she ran to.

My legs forget how to move. She ran back to a place I haven’t had the courage to remember.

I see the memory she’s trapped in. It’s her home. It’s all she knows.

She’s forgotten I was following her as she runs up the steps.

I can’t save her, I realize. I couldn’t save myself back then. No matter how I choose to rewrite it in my mind, nothing I do now will change her fate.

I don’t want to leave her here, but there’s no other way.

I’m so sorry.

(Originally written on 9/20/2025)

[ink-stained-regrets]

Well everything is gone

i guess that’s fair

my honesty is scary but i don’t take it back

do what you have to do to process

i wish you wouldn’t take yours back but if it burns to dust what could you do

i’ll leave it be for now

i still have a playlist to listen to

soon might still exists

and so i’ll wait

i’m good at waiting

I miss my best friend too

[ink-stained-regrets]

Withdrawal Symptoms

I sat up at my desk last night. My fingers couldn’t stop typing. Words. Metaphors. Poured out of me in a familiar way I haven’t felt in a while. I kept editing them, even though I couldn’t stop my fingers. No matter what I did, they never said what I wanted them to. Trying to get what felt like this groundbreaking, soul-shattering point across but maybe it’s me who doesn’t have the right language yet. Reading it back this morning, it made no sense. Equating you to my vices, as if you were the vice itself. How the smell of nicotine brings me back to you gold boxes and all. How the burn of alcohol repeats your name, even when I beg it to stop. How in these places you would never be in, I’m still looking for those brown eyes, the last pair that made me feel seen. I see what I was going for, but it felt like I was stretching the lines thin to try and convey the weight this all makes me feel. When in reality, I sat up last night hoping for more of your words that if I typed for long enough, something else would cross my screen, leaving my ideas obsolete. Is that my new vice? Is that what I’ll crave from now on? Glimpses into a life I’ve been begging for a taste of since I was cut off? Forcing words out of myself to hope for more from you? I’ve been strung out on memories that can no longer fill the void in my chest I’ve felt since the season changed, without your permission. A forty-eight-hour bender of rereading, revisiting, reliving. It’s funny you bring up your birthday. In my head, that’s the day this life ended a new timeline formed. My letter the final chapter of a book I didn’t know I had reached the end of. That was the first time I was angry. Or was it devastation? I meant everything I said in that letter. I could have written a whole new one right there about how it felt walking up that driveway, leaving the last pieces of me on the steps, realizing that would be the last time. I stood there for a second, just staring at the window that led to a place I once felt safe. I don’t remember when the tears started, but I turned back around when I could no longer see. I almost took my letter back when I retreated from the house. I didn’t think I wanted you to read all the truth I had left. That’s what I need you to know. Maybe that’s what I should be writing typing out the letters I never sent, letting the raw emotion stand for itself on the page.