alias is mel

a poet (or whatever). instagram: @mel.modest

[melmodest]

I'm afraid of making mistakes overthinking every scenario that presents picturing bad consequences, and taking a turn into a foreign direction—what if something suddenly goes down the drain? I'm performing mathematical calculations to predict the outcome of every action extracting negative variables out of the equation.

I've become a coward, a scaredy-cat jumping in silence passing a mirror in sunlight and reminding myself that it is me—a bleak face fidgeting anxiously as if being examined under a microscope though there is no one looking and the examiner is none other than me.

I'm everyone's cheerleader. I love everyone. I love to be there to strip them of their pain—rain is more beautiful when it's shared, but I think what they say about me is a lie.

They say I'm born for good news and deserve the world to acknowledge my mess of a mind, have a pure soul that cares too much for the wellbeing of everyone—tend to their whims and play a martyr undermining my flame's screams.

They say I'm strong when I'm weak—my backbone is bent in half, not responding to my plea to tough up, change is scary, defined by scars, I'm not ready, I've had enough.

But I have to change.

I have to shed skin and wear new designs of rough texture and million fabrics sewn together to form a shaped somebody who's not ashamed of standing straight and proud and being out in the open showing off themselves.

I have to.

They say I'm born for good things.

Change is a good thing, right?

.

[melmodest]

Every man I meet doesn't want me.

They want my body, never me.

Every man wants to destroy me.

They want to own me.

They're possessive and obsessive,

lustful and aggressive.

They want to tame me like a dog

that runs to its master wagging its tail,

brings a ball in its mouth to their feet.

They want an obedient pet

begging for approval from its owner,

dying to be praised performing tricks.

They don't want to know me.

They don't want to know how it feels

to die each time they touch me,

sinking deeper into dread and despair

every time they press me to their chest

and say they like me with no witnesses,

whisper into my ear words that are sweet,

then leave in the morning when I'm asleep.

They want a dummy nicely dressed

to see the dummy turn into a mess.

They put hope into my hands,

but every time it wilts.

They don't want me.

Every man I meet is a liar,

my attempt to believe them is dire.

I lay in a bed quietly.

l let them to leave silently.

I clasp the blanket tighter

and keep my eyes closed.

Every time I let them fool me.

Every time I fool myself.

.

[melmodest]

I think you'd like this story: "Roads Are Blurred" by melmodest on Wattpad https://www.wattpad.com/story/402231094?utm_source=android&utm_medium=com.tumblr&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create&wp_uname=melmodest

A girl who identifies as a 'maybe'. Maybe, she is okay. Maybe, she is not. Maybe, it's both. She rides roller coaster rides and is still fig

my first collection of little notes I've been carrying close to the heart afraid of sharing these little fragments of myself with anyone. it's definitely not perfect, grammar weak and sometimes doesn't make sense, but it's honest and it's me.

please, give it a read if you have time. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ♥️

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[melmodest]

27

I’m 27 and I’m alive.

Bleached my hair for the thousandth time.

Got a new haircut

and too smug,

started believing I was made of luck.

I thought I’d learned my lessons,

but lessons are lessons –

they don’t wanna lessen from day to day

unlike what Lewis Carrol’s characters say.

I played with smoke

and tried new scars.

No confidence in tomorrow

or stable income.

Took a three-day trip

that didn’t want to exist,

but I fought hard,

everything turned out twisted.

Built plans and hopes,

but plans are meant to be broken

and hope’s been thinning too fast,

now it lays forgotten.

I’m a hospital regular –

donated too much blood

to discover what poisons my blood cells

and helped my loved one

to fight for their health.

My brain pulled another trick –

presented a gift

that I didn’t want to receive,

but have to live with now,

though these days my head is the most stable one.

I find it funny.

I stand on shaking legs

and sleep in sweat,

practice funny faces in the mirror

and sweet speeches.

I stand on my feet,

but not on the ground –

it’s got pulled out from under me,

can’t go back, ‘cause I lost the key.

And honestly, I’m tired of wondering

what I did wrong

for the world to hate me.

The world is a menace!

I love the world!

But I’m not strong.

I keep going and pretend to be.

.

happy birthday to me. 🎈

.

this year is breaking me to the tinest glass pieces – they glitter under the sun, but carry deadly sharpness that's very much capable of making you bleed once you step on this shiny pile of brokenness. I'm tired and annoyed, and angry, and I wanna cry and drown in these tearfalls, and hide from the outside world to pretend it's okay, everything is fine. maybe, I've been cursed? maybe, I'm not doing enough? maybe, I'm not enough? maybe, I don't deserve a happy ending? maybe. too many maybes and not enough answers – are answers on vacation? avoiding me? punishing me? answers are cruel. the world is a menace. I keep going.

.

29.10.2025

[melmodest]

The thing is I'm always angry.

An evil spirit owns my soul,

spreading venom into my veins,

contaminating my body

with a disease called blackness.

I am all about black colors,

no light left behind the curtains –

just thick dark walls and ditches,

just fogs, swamps and leeches.

I know no respite, there is no time

for whining – I ain't no baby.

I need to write another spite

and spit insults at everything

and everyone I see and meet, despite

everything and everyone be kind.

I sin and love to play the other side –

it makes more sense than this one slide.

I'm always angry, pissed or bothered.

I drink poison from the Holy Grail.

I'm always angry, ain't no frail.

.

[melmodest]

SACCHARINE

you see in me something that makes you stay,

that makes you promise you won't leave me.

you say you love me – it makes me anxious,

your eyes beg “trust me” – I beg for patience.

I’m a jittery mess jumping at a gust of wind,

I choke whenever I swallow a watermelon seed

afraid of the sweet fruit to root inside my belly,

cornering the rotten organs into a dark alley,

replacing the mold with saccharine tones.

I don’t take my medicine in small dose.

I’m an issue that I can’t deal with myself,

an addict after years of learning safe.

my mind is a rollercoaster with no brakes.

pins and needles is what it takes

to be with a mistake I claim to be,

but you smirk and see something in me

that makes you promise you won’t leave.

you whisper ‘I love you’ and I believe.

.

[melmodest]

It's been good three days in a row – quiet, drama free, boring, non-overthinker existence. It is good. Too so. It makes me wary. When it's good more than a day, I begin to worry – everything has a price tag, what will be the price this time. How much should I pay for the inspiration given by the art exhibition I paid a visit with a friend? How much does an unguarded smile to a story shared in a small cafe one evening cost? Shall I take a loan to pay off my owning cozy peace at home? Why is an unsizzling easy mind such an expensive bid at an auction? The absence of worries makes me more worried. I try, but I'm addicted to horror stories.

[melmodest]

She goes around the world with invisible grace of a royal pearl

She shines – iridescent celestial being, divine incarnate

She wears small gentle smile and featherlight tender touch

She stares with eyes so warm and kind they're blinding

She giggles and speaks little riddles, voice honey like

She is a fairy, a princess, a rainbow vision, she is mine

[melmodest]

Sometimes I wish I were an onion –

that would explain why I cause me cries.

Anytime.

Any day.

Whenever I feel or not like being a rain

or a wall of omnipresent flood.

If I were an onion,

I'd know the reason that irritates my eyes

is sulfuric acids –

they induce itching in the eyes more often

than I remember to smile.

If I were an onion,

I wouldn't worry,

because, at least, if I were an onion,

I'd have a scientific excuse

to be sad.

.

this is absurd, but i like it anyway. btw, red onions are my favorite.

[melmodest]

When I write, I bare my soul.

I tear it into million pieces

and form a puzzle to solve it later,

when I have a bone to face it,

when I have time to look in the mirror,

when I've run out of all the excuses,

when I'm standing totally naked.

I rip my chest open

and present you a pumping organ.

I don't know if a heart is a soul,

but red is a wonderful color for an ink.

It'll be a waste not to write with it.

.

another impromptu. I've never learned to listen to the heart.

[weltenwellen]

Joy Sullivan, “What Eve Knew”, Instructions for Traveling West

[sleepwxlk-deactivated20260202]

“The Good Still Finds Me”

I used to think healing meant feeling nothing—

no ache, no fear,

just clean slates and steady hands.

But healing, I’ve learned,

isn’t quiet.

It’s crying in the shower

and still showing up.

It’s being afraid

and doing it anyway.

It’s doubting yourself

and choosing to try again.

Sometimes,

it’s laughing so hard you forget

why you were hurting.

Other times,

it’s getting through the day

and calling that enough.

I still stumble.

I still carry the weight.

But life keeps showing up

in little ways—

a stranger’s kindness,

a song I forgot I loved,

sunlight that lands on me

like it meant to.

I used to search for signs

that things would fall apart.

Now I look for proof

that I’m still becoming.

And I find it—

in my softness,

in my strength,

in how I keep going

even when it’s hard.

No, I’m not fully healed.

But I’ve stopped calling myself broken.

The good still finds me.

And this time—

I let it stay.

- DK

[melmodest]

This.

[melmodest]

IF

if I'm to write a song about us it would be a dance, not some ballad to apply tears. I would sketch catchy rhymes, wrap them in pop-rock vibes, come up with tacky lyrics – so cliche you'd know the words before they're sung. I would shout loud how cool we are, give a concert and ask the crowd to cheer for us, celebrate this beautiful life together. if I'm to write a song about us it'd be alright, make everything right.

if I'm to shoot a movie about us, it would be a comedy, not a tragedy twisting one's mentality. I would come up with bad jokes, sprinkle it with bits of good jokes, the movie itself would be a joke. it'd be a movie to feel dumb, tragedies are outdated – too much negative vibrations to absorb from tragedies. I don't want us to be a tragedy, I want us to impose a good laugh. if I'm to shoot a movie about us, it'd be simple, nothing serious.

if I'm to write a story about us, it would be a collection of little variations of imagination of what could have been, but never took place, decipher elusiveness of the song, introduce cut scenes from the movie. it’d be a written netflix series, one season, limited edition, no subscription needed. each story would be too frank, direct and too genuine in its storytelling, an open ribcage on a show to put on a grand wow, earnest in-between the lines.

I can pretend I know how to sing. I can pretend I know how to shoot a movie. because I don’t, but it’s easy to brush it off, smile wide and say, “I lied earlier”.

I cannot pretend I don't know how to write. I’ve put together so many words, tormenting me at odd hours of day and night chasing me everywhere I go, like I’m obsessed with you. maybe, I am. maybe, I should’ve never.

I have a tin ear to compose a song.

I could never shoot us a movie.

I haven’t lied about the collection, though.

.

[melmodest]

The drawing by my friend that inspired these lines. Raw feelings. Another impromptu.

.

A satin man stares at me scrutinizingly.

He's pale with sunken cheeks

and eyes filled with sorrow.

He is gauzy like a ghost,

this somber unhappy Pierrot.

He's an unlive wire,

but his eyes are electric currents.

Agonizing.

He looks at me with so much lostness,

hopelessness,

joylessness –

they land like heavy stones on the shoulders,

make me sink to the very deep

which has no name,

though I know,

I know what's behind the veneer.

Unsaid and preserved,

and crashed too.

Electric currents keep expanding

reaching the exposed skin –

is it what burning alive feels like?

A satin man stands still.

A circuit of a live wire.

I scream.

.

The song that's been waiting for a face. It's got the face, I've got my lines.

[melmodest]

I wanna the sun shine brighter

than it already does

to blind my unseen eyes

to feel its light on my skin

to be led by the star so far

no door could be left ajar.

I wanna busk in the sun's warmth

gather little sparks

left on the surface by the sun's flame

orange hues and golden tint

teasing shades of a dream

lucid at core and unhinged

I choose to stay blind

chasing a sentiment with no guidance.

I wanna love the sun

sing songs to sunsets

dance teasingly in sunrises

breathe heavily in the scorching heat

run barefoot in the rain

when the candle in the sky is still lit.

I wanna be the sun's loyal apprentice

learn to walk the earth freely

liberate myself from the mundane

and ascend in the plethora of questions

find a way to be a beacon

on a raw dark palette of dulls

in the words of a grim writer

in the sheets of a somber musician.

I wanna embrace the sun

grab it with my hands

and hold it tight to my chest

I want to taste the beams on my tongue

even if just for a while

I want to glow together with a star

touch the universe from afar

and if I burn eventually

the only regret will be –

the sun will shine without me.

.

[melmodest]

home isn't a place,

because, damn, it's a space,

a whole universe we create

by our own hands

we fill it with love and feelings,

and little trinkets

of different meanings.

we meet people,

play give-and-take

and learn to let it be.

h o m e – four letters,

two vowels, two consonants,

half of a doubt, half of trust,

a pure equality

of present and past

putting the bricks of a future together

and wanting it last.

home is everything

you want it to be.

home is you.

.

[melmodest]

you know the phrase 'home isn't a place' makes more sense when being back in my hometown at my parents house, meeting my relatives – and I love them, I swear – but it demands so much of me that the longer I stay there, the more I feel like sinking and undermining all the progress made with my psychiatrist over the years growing new cracks that are threatening to get deeper if I don't do something, unfortunately or not that something is always leaving to home, to my home, a space I've created for myself, to people who are so undemanding, so easy to be around that it feels natural to speak my mind without thinking twice (not true, because my mental mind is a jerk loving to undermine the good things, but still), to a space that is safe, that makes me feel safe and more myself than my hometown ever have or could. it's not even about boundaries, because, u know, my family can mind their own business, mine is mine, I've learned the lesson, but being around them kinda wakes up uncertainty I have no name for. maybe I'm reminded of the pain I felt and didn't know what to do with it, maybe I'm reminded of who I was before, of a kid who knew they needed to leave, but didn't know the whys yet, maybe I've become too detached and less emotional that bonding with my family now is a hustle, maybe I'm simply afraid if I look back for too long I'll forget everything built and learned until now. maybe.

I've learned that home is not a place, because it's a damn space, a little universe we create by our hands filling it with love and feelings and people and little trinkets of different meanings, a state of mind. safe.

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