untitled

hi, i'm maybe

[maybeiammorethanthis]

hi, i'm maybe. m-a-y-b-e, faceless and anonymous. just for me and those stumbling upon whatever i'll make of this place

[purrrrplexed]

my journal entries sound like suicide letters

[fidelcostco]

the human brain is so cool, if you're tired and stressed enough, your brain will go, "don't worry, I got you" and shadows will start moving

[maybeiammorethanthis]

trust, despite it all

i bet on losing dogs, their trembling paws, their howls of regret, their eyes like burnt-out stars, still holding the light of a love they’ve never met. i know their pain, how every leash becomes a noose, how every hand extended bears the weight of wounds that never turned loose.

i've worn that collar too. bit the hands that tried to feed, snarled at soft voices, clawed at the chains of my need. i'm not a violent dog—i don’t know why i bite. maybe it’s the memory of cages or shadows that move in the night.

and yet, here i am, tail between my legs, offering trust like a gift wrapped in cracked glass. not because i believe you’ll be kind—not because i think you’ll stay—but because there’s something inside me that blooms when i choose to obey this silent call to love.

laika knows the cruelty of the void. sent aloft with promises of peace, she floated, cold and alone, but still gave the stars her final release. and so do i. though history repeats its teeth, though hearts are leashed to lies, i look at you, unworthy, and try.

for trust is not a bargain; it's a leap, a dare, a vow sworn to the quiet ache that someone, somewhere, will care. so take this hand—not because you’ve earned it, but because i choose to offer it to the universe, despite everything it’s burned.

source of the doodle: https://pin.it/1cz3X2afP

[maybeiammorethanthis]

the dirt under my nails

oh and that gap in my resume is when i was digging my own grave.

not metaphorically. i mean i was actively, methodically destroying myself. i was lying in the hole i’d dug and pulling the dirt over my own head, convinced this was easier than trying, than failing, than being seen.

the dirt under my nails? yeah. it won’t wash out.

although that’s actually from when i dug myself out again. from when i woke up one morning in the bottom of that grave and thought: wait. fuck this. and started clawing my way back up through six feet of my own giving up.

i suppose success and defeat can look the same in a mirror.

both leave you covered in dirt. both leave you exhausted, hands raw, nails broken. both require the same desperate kind of work. the digging, the fighting, the refusal to stay still.

the difference is just the direction you’re moving.

and some days i still can’t tell which way is up.

some days i wake up and i’m digging and i don’t know if i’m burying myself or excavating myself or if there’s even a difference anymore. some days the dirt under my nails feels like evidence of failure and proof of survival in the same breath.

you want to know what i was doing during that gap? i was learning how to die. and then, more importantly, i was learning how to refuse.

i was teaching myself that rock bottom has a floor. that you can hit it and it will hurt and you can lie there for a while, and then, if you’re stubborn enough, angry enough, spite filled enough, you can start digging in the other direction.

the dirt won’t wash out. i’ve tried. i’ve scrubbed my hands raw trying to get clean, trying to look like someone who never spent time in a grave of their own making.

but maybe that’s the point.

maybe the dirt is proof. not of how far i fell, but of how hard i fought to get back out. maybe it’s a scar, visible and permanent, a reminder that i have been to the bottom and i climbed out anyway.

success and defeat can look the same in a mirror. both are just a person, covered in dirt, still breathing.

and i’m still here.

dirty hands and all.

[maybeiammorethanthis]

invention

they should invent a way to save your mother.

they should invent a mother who wants to be saved.

they should invent a mother who reaches back when i reach for her, who doesn’t flinch when i say I love you, who lets me in instead of building walls out of all the ways i’ve failed her just by existing.

they should invent a mother who doesn’t make me feel like saving her is the same as drowning myself, who doesn’t turn my love into a life sentence, into proof that i was never enough, that i will never be enough, no matter how many ways i try to fix what’s broken.

they should invent a mother who sees me trying and doesn’t resent me for it.

they should invent a mother who doesn’t make me apologize for being born, who doesn’t look at me like i’m the problem she never asked to solve.

but they can’t invent that.

because you can’t invent someone into wanting to stay.

you can’t invent someone into loving you back the way you need them to.

i could invent a thousand ways to save her, but none of them will work if she’s already decided she doesn’t want saving—or worse, that she does,

just not by me.

not from me.

never from me.

[nevver]

It is quite believable though however not yet Saturday, Lukas Vasilikos

[rt0no]

[maybeiammorethanthis]

someday

someday someone is going to find a piece of me in you.

i know.

they’ll dig through the sweet parts, the parts you let them taste, and they’ll find something that doesn’t belong to them—something bruised and rotting, something that looks like love but smells like grief.

they aren’t going to like what they find.

i know.

they’ll pull me out of you like a wasp from a fig, like something that was never supposed to be there in the first place, and you’ll have to explain how i got inside, how you let me in, how you didn’t even notice i was destroying you from the inside out.

and maybe you’ll tell them i was sweet once. that i was necessary. that the fig cannot exist without the wasp, that some kinds of ruin are just the price of growing.

but they won’t care.

they’ll see the damage and call it my fault.

they’ll see the way i hollowed you out and they’ll forget that you opened yourself to me, that you made a home for me in the softest parts of yourself.

someday someone is going to find a piece of me in you, and they will not understand that i loved you the only way i knew how—by crawling inside and dying there.

i know.

i know.

[yellow-cat]

its gonna be ok you dumb piece of shit

[maybeiammorethanthis]

[maybeiammorethanthis]

[maybeiammorethanthis]

the architect of small hours

there’s someone who builds the space between 3am and 4am, the hour that doesn’t quite belong to night or morning, the pocket of time where the world forgets to watch you.

they work carefully, laying silence like floorboards, hanging shadows in just the right places, making sure the refrigerator hum sounds like company instead of loneliness.

they know who needs this hour. they know who’s awake not because they want to be but because sleep said not yet, not tonight.

so they build it gentle. they build it wide enough to pace in, soft enough to cry in, empty enough that your thoughts can echo and you can finally hear them clearly.

the architect of small hours never gets thanked. never gets seen. because by the time you notice the care they took—the way the darkness felt almost kind, the way the silence held you instead of crushing you—it’s already 4:01, and the world is starting again, and the hour is gone.

but they’ll build it again tomorrow. and the night after. and every night someone needs a space that exists outside of time, outside of expectation, outside of the person they have to be when the sun is watching.

they build it for you. the ones who can’t sleep. the ones who are thinking too much. the ones who are waiting for something to change, or something to end, or just for morning to finally arrive.

the architect of small hours knows you by name, even if you’ve never met.

they’re building your room right now, just in case you need it.

[maybeiammorethanthis]

bunnies huddled in a corner

[maybeiammorethanthis]

corner of a streetlight around the corner

[maybeiammorethanthis]

love is a virus

it's sneezing season.

stuffy noses, reddened cheeks and the smell of cough drops melting on people's tongues wafting through the air.

oh, how i love this weird feeling of connection with these sick strangers. as if to say "we are different, yet we share this. runny noses and heated skin, crumbled tissues in every pocket."

is this what they mean when then say that love is in the air? shared coughs and loud sneezes? reminding us of our shared vulnerability, our humanity?

to love means to share. the good, the bad, the virus? is love a virus? or is love what's left when the sinuses clear out and you get to take that first full breath again that floods your system with gratitude and relief like once the viruses conquered your body?

whatever love is, it's in the air. in each breath, each cough, each sneeze. you wipe my nose and i kiss your pale cheek and suddenly—

being full of viruses turns into being full of love.

[maybeiammorethanthis]

corners of the fish tank