Mouthful of Mercy 🥀

🅒🅨🅝🅘🅒🅐🅛 🅘🅓🅔🅐🅛🅘🅢🅣 + 𝓐𝓬𝓬𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓵 𝓟𝓸𝓮𝓽 I Can write it better then you felt it

[mouthfulofmercy]

This is not a blog.

This is My heart pinned open,

If you came to watch me bleed, you will.

If you came to pray, you’ll find no god here.

| Neesha. 27. Mother. Aussie. |

just a mentally ill little philosopher

with pattern recognition

and access to the internet.

if i love you,

i’ll memorise your silence patterns too.

[oh-teen-posts]

[mouthfulofmercy]

Twenty eight.

It is strange to discover that I have lived long enough to become older than the woman I once imagined would have saved me 😳

The cruelest thing about childhood is not what happens to you, It is the belief that if u can survive it, someone else gets to live the rest of your life…

[mouthfulofmercy]

I have just scared myself by noticing that I am me.

What a stupid sentence. Yet for several minutes I have been unable to escape it.

I am me. This is my life. These are my hands. I have done all of this. I continue doing it. Tomorrow I will wake up inside the same person as though nothing about that is unfathomable.

Surely the woman who has done something every day for five years should know why she does it. Surely she should have formed some opinion of herself by now.

But I have none.

I do not even feel guilty in the correct way. Guilt would at least suggest surprise. I am not surprised. I know myself too well for surprise and not well enough for understanding.

People speak of choice as though a person makes one decision with one mind. But I have several minds. One wants peace. One wants oblivion. One wants energy. One wants punishment. One watches the others with disgust and calls that disgust wisdom. By evening, the loudest one wins, and afterward they all unite only to condemn me.

I thought writing this meant I was the one watching them.

Then I realised I do not know which one of us wrote it.

[mouthfulofmercy]

I think I started dying long before the hospitals. Long before the blood. Long before my body became something doctors touched carefully. I think it started the first time I saw that look on his face, that completely terrified look, like loving me had reached some biological level in him where losing me no longer resembled sadness but extinction. And I had never been looked at like that before. Not by family. Not by men. Not by anyone. People had wanted me before. Needed things from me. But him? He looked at me like his entire internal world had accidentally attached itself to my pulse. Like if I disappeared, something in him would begin rotting immediately. That kind of love enters broken girls like heroin. Straight to bloodstream. No filtration. No survival instinct left afterward. I became reckless with myself after that. Not outwardly at first. Quietly. Internally. I started treating my own wellbeing like something negotiable as long as he kept looking at me that way. Because every time he panicked over losing me, every abandoned part of me lit up so violently it drowned out everything else sometimes the love felt bigger than the damage. Not healthier. Not kinder. Bigger. Like standing too close to a burning building in winter and convincing yourself the heat means safety. And he loved me with this horrible sincerity that made everything worse. If he had been cold, it would’ve been simpler. If he had been cruel cleanly, maybe my nervous system could have rejected him properly. But he wasn’t. He was devastated. Every time. That’s what buried me. The way he’d hurt me and then look like a man watching his own hands betray him. The grief in him afterward was so real it contaminated my understanding of what was happening. Suddenly I wasn’t a girl being destroyed anymore, I was the only thing keeping a broken man emotionally alive. And once someone makes you feel that essential, you start volunteering pieces of yourself automatically. Take this too. Take the sleep. Take the sanity. Take the body. Take the money. Take the privacy. Take the fear. Take whatever keeps you here. I kept feeding him parts of myself thinking eventually he would become full enough to stop hurting me. He never did. The sickest part is I don’t even blame him the way I should. Because I saw the fear underneath him. I Saw it every single time. That terrible little-boy panic. That look in his eyes like abandonment was physically approaching the room. He loved me like somebody trying to stop a gunshot with bare hands. Violently. Desperately. Hopelessly. And I loved him enough that eventually I stopped caring whether I survived it. That’s the truth. Not that I didn’t know better. I did. I just thought being loved that intensely was worth the cost of being destroyed by it. Now years later I still feel him in me like nerve damage. Not memory. Damage. There are moments where I can physically feel what loving him did to my brain. Someone changes tone slightly and my chest caves in. Someone asks where I am and my body prepares itself before my thoughts do. Someone looks at me while I’m crying and I feel this unbearable shame crawl up my spine like I’m being investigated instead of comforted. He rewired me through repetition. Fear. Relief. Fear. Relief. Fear. Relief. Until my nervous system stopped understanding that love was supposed to arrive without terror attached to it. And still nobody will ever look at me with that much catastrophic need in their eyes again. Because normal love does not look like death approaching. Only ours did.

[vexheart]

Not every wound needs advice, some just need understanding

[mouthfulofmercy]

I love like a dog hit by cars too many times.

All shaking ribs.

All teeth.

Still crawling back.

My mind does not break quietly.

It floods.

It foams at the mouth.

It drags dead things back onto the kitchen floor

and asks people to look at them.

I have wanted to unzip my own skin

just to stop feeling trapped inside it.

Wanted to scream so hard

my childhood came back out.

Some nights I become

a lit match in human form.

All it takes is ONE lie

and suddenly I am burning

from the fucking bloodstream outward.

Love turns me biblical.

Plagues.

Floods.

Locusts chewing through logic.

I do not get “insecure.”

I become forensic.

A bloodhound.

A coroner leaning over tiny changes

like they’re bodies.

I can turn one strange silence

into a whole crime scene.

And the worst part is

my instincts are usually standing there

covered in someone else’s fingerprints.

I am not hard to love.

I am hard to lie to.

There’s a difference.

People meet me

and think I’m poetry

until they realise

I am actually exposed wiring.

Actually a mouth full of broken glass.

Actually the type of person

who will stare at the ceiling at 4am

feeling grief move through the body

like rats in the walls.

I do not have elegant emotions.

I have car-crash emotions.

Animal-trap emotions.

Teeth-grinding-until-my-head-hurts emotions.

Everything inside me

arrives oversized.

Even the tenderness.

Especially the tenderness.

[mouthfulofmercy]

Don't stand there reducing me to the aftermath like you were not standing in the middle of the fire with me.

I know i am hard to hold sometimes. I know there are parts of me that shake, parts that spiral parts that bleed onto people when i am trying desperately not to drown in myself. but i also know ....

i loved with everything i had.

with every ruined part.

every exhausted part.

every terrified fucking part.

and there is something deeply cruel about accepting love from somebody who is visibly fighting themselves just to stay alive, then later weaponising their damage against them like they hid it from you!!!!

i never hid the wreckage.

i handed it to people with both fucking hands and still said

here. i will love you properly anyway.

that should have been treated gently.

instead people take a woman already hanging off the edge of herself and punish her for trembling. punish her for reacting. punish her for not being able to carry pain silently enough to remain desirable.

>> i am over people consuming the softness in me while acting inconvenienced by the suffering attached to it <<

because despite everything, despite how badly life has mauled me,

despite every ugly coping mechanism, every breakdown, every night spent trying to survive my own head, i still gave people loyalty they did not fucking earn.

and if somebody can witness that level of devotion from a person already fighting this hard to stay standing and still make them feel unwanted, burdensome, embarrassing, difficult

then they never deserved access to the tenderness in me to begin with.

[mouthfulofmercy]

I feel abandoned by my own life.

Like I was born into the nervous system of a stray dog

Flinching at loud voices,

Starving for affection,

Still following the hands that hurt me.

I pour love from open wounds.

EVERYTHING in me is tired.

My body. My mind. My fucking soul.

I was taught to endure.

Nobody taught me how to be held.

AND IM FUCKING OVER IT. OVER EVERY MOTHERFUCKER SAYING THEY LOVE ME UNTIL MY PAIN STOPS BEING PRETTY AND STARTS BLEEDING ONTO THEM.

EVERYBODY WANTS MY HEART UNTIL THEY REALISE IT COMES ATTACHED TO A HUMAN BEING WHO IS EXHAUSTED… TRAUMATISED…. NEEDY…. PARANOID… EMOTIONAL…. BURNT THE FUCK OUT ….!!! …

I’m sick of shrinking myself so people can keep pretending they care about me without actually having to fucking care about me.

I risk so much for love, even my fucking life sometimes and for WHAT?!

So people can go turn around and risk everything i endured and put so much into, for some careless harmless choice like my pain is just collateral damage they expect me to survive again!!!!!!!

[luminote]

I don't know. I never know.

[luminote]

Please. What am I supposed to do with myself?

[inkcobwebs]

one day i'm just gonna pack up and leave. i won't even tell anyone where I'm going

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧˚

[mouthfulofmercy]

untitled after

I am six feet under you now.

not under the earth

under you.

under the last message you opened

and did not answer.

under the exact second you decided

my life could wait

until it stopped.

the dirt is quieter than you were.

that is the first mercy.

it does not pretend.

it does not read me

and look away.

I remember begging.

not beautifully.

not in metaphors.

I begged like an animal caught in its own leg trap,

chewing at itself,

trying to escape the machinery of its own mind.

I said I could not hold myself here.

I said please.

I said please in a way that stripped the skin off the word.

and you saw it.

you saw me reduced to nerve endings

and still chose the comfort

of your unbroken evening.

I died before I died.

that is the truth.

I died in the moment I understood

no one was coming.

the body follows later.

the body is just paperwork.

it was not sadness.

it was the humiliation.

the unbearable, skinless exposure

of needing to be saved

and being left there

like something already gone.

you will say you didn’t know.

but you did.

you will say you thought it would pass.

but I didn’t.

I live here now

in the space between your memory

and your refusal.

not haunting you.

no.

that would require you to look.

I exist instead

as the moment you failed to be human

still breathing

somewhere

under your life.

[mouthfulofmercy]

I can feel it crawling back.

Not sadness.

Not pain,

but me.

The real me.

The one who destroys everything the second it gets soft.

I’m not even crying anymore.

That should scare people.

It scares me.

Because it means I’ve made peace

with what I do when things stop hurting.

My kids still think I’m a hero.

That’s the part that kills me most.

I’m not.

I’m a ghost rehearsing motherhood,

clinging to the edge of sanity

like a child gripping the hem of a dress

that no longer fits.

If only they knew where my mind goes at night;

to corners with needles and fists,

and the sick comfort of being used,

because at least then I matter.

At least someone wants something from me.

Even if it’s just

the warmth between my legs

or the silence in my eyes.

[mouthfulofmercy]

I feel dirty being imagined

I hate knowing my body exists in someone else’s head

I want my skin to be unthinkable

I want to be boring to men

Inaccessible

Useless

The idea of being wanted

makes me want to vomit

not because I’m ashamed

because I’m alert.

I resent the confidence

with which men assume

their wanting is neutral

[feral-ballad]

Tishani Doshi, from A God at the Door; “Survival”

[mouthfulofmercy]

It hurts to be inside this body.

Not the skin or the bones

those are just the containers

but the me underneath.m

The thoughts that grind.

The memories that won’t stay buried.

The wanting that humiliates me

every time it rises in my throat

There is a heaviness that doesn’t belong to gravity,,

a weight only I can feel

dragging itself through my chest

like something wounded

too stubborn to die

and too exhausted to keep breathing.

The pain isn’t sharp.

It isn’t dramatic.

It’s a slow

Drip of everything Ive endured..maybe.

Or,, everything Ive carried,

everything Ive swallowed whole

because there was no room in the world

for me to place it down.

Being me feels like walking through fire

that no one else can see.

And then they ask why I’m sweating.

Why I look tired.

Why my hands shake

when nothing is happening.

Why my smile never reaches my eyes anymore.

There is a constant ache behind my ribs,

like a bruise pressed by a thumb that never leaves.

A pressure that comes from wanting

something no one has ever given freely

love that doesn’t punish

care that doesn’t cost blood

touch that doesn’t disappear

the moment I lean into it

There is shame woven through my longing

Not because wanting is wrong

but because the world treats it like it is.

Because every time I reach out,

my fingers close around nothing

Because I have bent myself

into every shape imaginable

just to be held for a moment

And still

the space beside me remains cold

The pain of being me

isn’t just the heartbreaks or the violence

It’s the way my body remembers every moment

It’s the way my mind replays every silence

as if it were a “verdict”

It the way I keep going

even when “going” feels like tearing.

It’s the exhaustion of being misunderstood,

of being seen but not known,

of being alive but not anchored to anything

that keeps me from drifting

Some days it feels like my soul

is peeling away from the inside

a thin film of self slipping loose

too tired to cling to the places

that used to feel like safety

The pain of being me

is that I feel everything.

Every loss.

Every absence.

Every hope that comes and dies

I don’t know how to be simple.

I don’t know how to be light.

I don’t know how to exist

without carrying the whole story of myself

in my lungs until breathing hurts.

If someone opened me up,

they wouldn’t find organs or blood

they find years of wanting,

layers of silence

the outline of who I could’ve been

if the world had been softer

if someone had stayed

If someone accepted me

This is the pain of being me:

awake inside a body that keeps going,

alive inside a life that keeps taking,

and still

stillk

hoping there is a place in the world

where I’m not too much

and not too little

Just… enough.