:3

just sharing my thoughts

[milomate]

when does it end?

it feels like a level

i’ve already played a thousand times

and somehow i still lose

at the exact same spot.

i see it coming,

that slipping feeling,

that quiet “not again,”

but i can’t stop it.

and then i’m back there.

in that hole.

thinking too much,

feeling nothing

or everything at once.

people always say “it passes.”

but they never say when.

or how many times

you have to fall

before it’s true.

i scroll through my own life

like it isn’t mine,

and i keep wondering:

does it ever stop?

like really

does there come a moment

where it just gets… lighter?

because right now

it feels like i’m fighting

something that already knows

how to pull me back in.

and i just want to know

if i ever win.

-M

[milomate]

“I used to do”

i used to play guitar

fingers worn down

searching for chords

until the sound turned into noise

and i just left it there

i used to draw

pages filled

lines over lines

ideas moving faster than my hands

until one day

the pencil just stopped

i used to wake up early to run

same route

same thought

this time i’ll keep going

until one morning

i just didn’t go

i used to dance too

like it would lead somewhere

until it didn’t

i used to collect books

started them, marked them

folded pages

half-read lines

sentences i never finished thinking

i used to begin a lot of things

wrote lists

made plans

organized everything

until i somehow got lost in between

not because something was missing

but because something else

always got in the way

or maybe it was me

my own thoughts

standing in the middle of everything

getting in the way

again and again

i’m good at distracting myself

better than anything else

from the things i meant to do

and at the end of the day

what’s left are unfinished things

lying around

like they’re waiting

and i tell myself

i’ll pick them up tomorrow

but i still wonder

when that tomorrow

actually comes

[milomate]

Lost but Not Gone

I stand here

and suddenly realize

that I don’t know who I am.

As if I have no clear outline,

only versions of myself

that worked for other people.

My words don’t feel like mine.

My decisions don’t either.

Everything feels borrowed,

not truly meant.

I break things,

without wanting to.

Not because I don’t care,

but because I’m empty.

If I don’t know myself,

I can’t hold on to anything.

I don’t have my own opinion,

just whatever fits in the moment.

No real self,

just adaptation.

I’m here —

but somehow not as my own person.

And I don’t know

when I lost myself.

Whether it happened slowly

or all at once.

I only know

that it happened.

Somewhere between expectations

and trying

to please everyone.

But now something feels different.

Not good,

not easy,

but honest.

I don’t know yet

who I am

or how to get there.

But I know

I don’t want to keep living like this.

I want to find myself again.

Not to be better,

but to be real.

To live differently,

so things can work

and I can finally

be my own person.

[milomate]

The Devil couldn’t reach me

But his fingers left their marks.

He didn’t poison my food

with venom,

but with thoughts.

He turned hunger into a goal,

and being full into guilt.

He made love whisper,

but I couldn’t hear it.

He dipped tenderness in doubt,

until it burned

when it touched me.

He didn’t take me,

just slowed me down,

made me quieter,

suspicious of everything

that felt warm.

I’m still here,

but sometimes only in body.

I breathe,

yet he sits between my ribs,

laughing softly,

reminding me

that survival

doesn’t always mean victory.

-M

[milomate]

Quiet Was Safer

It was there before words existed.

It gave warmth – sometimes.

And a cold that sank into every pore.

It wasn’t a place, nor person – more a state of being.

Something that said, “You’re safe here,”

and in the same breath warned,

“Only as long as you behave the right way.”

You learned to make yourself small.

To soften your voice.

To fold your dreams

so they’d fit into expectations.

You never knew which face it would wear that day.

Whether it would whisper or scream.

Whether it would gently touch or tear you apart.

“I love you,” it said sometimes,

like sugar just before it chokes you.

“You’re the problem,” it said often,

as if that were the most natural thing in the world.

It never fully let go, but it never really held on.

Just close enough that you wouldn’t leave.

Just cold enough that you’d lose yourself.

And when you thought you’d figured it out,

it changed the rules.

It wasn’t cruel.

Not loud enough for others to notice.

Not harsh enough to justify escape.

Just confusing.

Eroding.

Undermining.

And so you started to control yourself –

before it could.

Thought maybe if you were perfect enough,

it might… what, exactly?

See you?

Hold you?

But it only ever saw what it wanted to see.

And you were never quite the right thing.

It called itself love.

But it was dependency.

It called itself care.

But it was control.

It called itself home.

But it was a maze.

And one day, you finally understood:

You were never safe.

Only quiet enough not to notice.

-M

[milomate]

Against My Body

A letter you don't want to hear.

I don't even know where to begin.

Maybe with the fact that I can't stand you anymore.

That you're not what you should be.

That you've let me down—again and again, getting worse.

I carry you around with me every day,

but you're not a companion.

You're a weight.

A constant resistance.

I wake up in the morning and feel you first.

Not the sun, not the new day, not hope.

You.

Your heaviness in my bones.

Your tiredness before anything has even begun.

You rob me of my strength before I've even gotten out of bed.

What kind of body are you if you can't even do that?

I look in the mirror and see you—

as if I were a guest in a strange house,

whose furnishings I despise.

Your skin is tight in places where it should be loose.

It hangs where it should be.

You bear the marks of shame, of time, of struggles,

but no sign of pride.

You are marked—not by life,

but by stagnation, by decay,

by the eternal "not enough."

I hate you for your inertia.

For the way you breathe,

as if even that had to be laborious.

I hate you for every pain

that runs through your limbs like a reminder:

"I'm yours. And you can't get rid of me."

I've cared for you, you know?

I've dieted,

exercised,

swallowed pills,

tried therapy,

said prayers.

I've ignored you,

denied you, hated you—

and still hoped

you'd change.

But you don't change.

You don't fight with me,

you fight against me.

Your skin burns with every touch,

not because it's sensitive,

but because I don't want to feel it.

Your shape,

your weight,

your proportions –

none of it feels like "mine."

You're a poorly tailored suit,

too tight, too crooked,

always in the wrong place.

And then your silence.

Your damn silence,

when I ask you: Why?

Why are you doing this to me?

Why can't you just function,

like other bodies do?

Why do you have to demand so much,

give so little,

and still be the only place I'll ever have?

I've stopped talking to you.

What's the point if you don't respond?

If you only react with symptoms,

with weakness, with pain,

with rejection?

You are not my home.

You are my exile.

And I hate you,

because I have to stay inside you,

even if you destroy me.

But the worst part is:

I know that you're just doing what you can.

That you're trying to survive –

just like me.

That this hatred might not be directed at you at all,

but at what we've been made into.

The shame.

The pressure.

The loneliness.

And yet.

Today I hate you.

Not secretly.

Not quietly.

But loudly, honestly,

until nothing is left.

-M

[milomate]

🕯 the quiet ache of the in-between

There’s a life that happens in between.

Not the highs we chase.

Not the lows that break us.

But the stretch of silence that no one ever talks about.

It’s waking up and not knowing why.

Not sad enough to scream.

Not happy enough to care.

Just… there.

It’s the smile you wear in a room full of people,

when your soul is sitting on the floor,

back turned,

not speaking.

It’s the space between texts.

Between the noise and the numb.

Between what you feel and what you show.

A life where nothing is wrong—

and yet, nothing feels right.

No one prepares you for the ache of almost.

For a life half-lit.

For days that blur together like rain on a window you stopped looking through.

You survive it in silence.

You learn to carry your own absence.

And sometimes,

that’s the hardest part—

being here,

but not really.

-M