mymidnightletters. @my-midnight-letters - Tumblr Blog

You would hate me if you heard my thoughts.

The confessions of someone who judges like God and hides like Satan.

Do you want to know the truth? The exact thought that keeps me paralyzed in my own life.

I think I am a bad person cosplaying as a good one, maybe the only person I’ve manipulated is myself. Unable to disprove whether thoughts and actions can truly be separated. And if I were judged solely on my thoughts instead of my actions, where would I be placed?

Because the thing is, I will seldom say my harsh thoughts aloud, I will never ring my judgments in your ear, and rarely will I choose to chastise a person even when wronged. In my mind, there are only ever two possibilities: either believing that you’ve misunderstood me or that I’ve misunderstood you. Either option allows me to believe in second chances and never burning a bridge that you may need to cross in the future.

However, if you judged me solely on my thoughts, you would probably find me quite vicious, and chances are you would find me in a lake of fire surrounded by the ashes of those said bridges.

Sadly, I don’t seem to possess as soft a mind as my words. From the moment you walked into the room, I have analyzed you. Body language, the speed and tone in which you speak, the way you fidget when you assume no one notices, or even how your walk changes depending on your mood. Chances are, I’ve noticed, formed opinions, and you still don’t even know my name.

In my mind, you have been tried, judged, and executed, all while I smile and ask you about your biggest dreams in life.

Yet, who am I to be the judge of others? Perhaps that is why I doubt every judgment that floods my mind.

You will appear to me as a devil, in my mind I will condemn you as one, and yet I will still speak to you as a god and treat you as a blessing, because who am I to pass that judgment?

So does it make me kind to not act on my judgments, or does it make me unkind that I once treated villains as heroes, allowing them to continue years of torment against my soul?

Perhaps it simply makes me foolish, being so distrustful of my own intuition, because I hold an arbitrary belief that those who have been miscast themselves must offer others a greater understanding.

Maybe kindergarten taught me too early, “if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all,” and my young, naive heart took it as gospel.

But I can’t help but think back to all the times I saw someone for who they were and thought, “Who am I to cast judgment?”, and how many times they proved me right.

My mind was always the thorns, but my words always became petals, and others never offered rain.

made by the sun, claimed by the moon.

For those who belong to the night but were raised on the ideals of the morning light.

I wish I had been the kind of writer who spoke of delicate flowers and sunlit oceans; the kind of girl who could describe beauty without it sounding like grief. A writer who could talk about the way a bird sings and fills the spring air while children laugh in the distance. I wish I knew how to write about smiles and golden eyes without it sounding like an eulogy for a dead lover.

For a girl who was born on a Sunday in the summer of 1999, I don’t seem to carry the spirit of the sun within me. I possess the warm skin, the chocolate eyes, and the beautiful sunset-kissed red hair, but I was also born in the quiet late hours of the night to a woman who had only become a woman the year prior and a man who had just become a man only two months prior.

The morning was never my friend; the light was too loud, too unforgiving. I learned early that I came alive at night, when no one needed anything from me. No one to perform for or talk to or exist for.

My first friend was the moon. It always listened while I cried beneath it. It followed me home on quiet car rides, and sometimes found me again in the morning, faint and lingering on my early walks to school.

I was never the child you could hold lightly, and they were never old enough to carry me. Forced to grow up quickly alongside them, and understanding the burdens I was supposed to be oblivious to.

I was always the sensitive one in a family full of stoic stone figures, so the night became my paradise because no one could tell me to stop crying when they were all asleep.

My childhood apartment had a small sloped roof right outside the bathroom window, and by the early age of 8 I learned how to disappear. To lock the bathroom door, turn on the shower to hide the sound of the window creaking open, and to slip out onto that roof, confessing all my wrongdoings to the only one I trust: the moon.

I was never afraid of the darker things in life; I found comfort in understanding them. They were almost predictable in patterns, yet still a mystery, unable to be fully comprehended. It was like a never-ending puzzle; the more I understood, the deeper I needed to go.

I never felt accepted by the people who spoke the language of the light. They took everything at face value. Never searching, never questioning. There was no labyrinth for them to navigate. Everything was simply… given.

Their eyes didn’t hold the same tiredness as mine, and their world wasn’t swallowing them whole.

When I wrote of flowers, I wrote of their decay. Their petals thinning like my grandmother’s hands, curling into the same dark wine she painted onto her nails.

When I wrote of birds, I wrote of them as omens, because it was the crows, silent in the trees, that came before my cousin died too young.

When I wrote about the sun, I wrote about how my abuser was always seen as the “bright one” in our relationship, but I always felt the darkness of my wounds should have been enough to eclipse that.

When I wrote of love, I wrote of imbalance and how it survives on two hearts, and dies when only one is beating for both.

So I may have been the girl born on a Sunday in the summer of 1999, but it was always the moon that claimed me.

#aesthetic #writing #poetry #writeblr #writers and poets #writers on tumblr #creative writing #poem #writerscommunity #late night post #identity #original poem #original poetry #poets on tumblr #3am thoughts #writer stuff #dark poetry #Spotify

my-midnight-letters

Hope died on a random Thursday

For when the rose colored glasses come off and you see things as they truly are in the moment you may have needed it the most and wanted it the least.

Hope has a funny way of dying.

Because it’s never all at once, it’s not explosive or as volatile as heartbreak. Heartbreak is agony and almost violent in the way it rejects the intensity of your pain. When hope dies, you don’t feel it in your chest, and the tears don’t carry the same weight. It’s not a rupture in your system or a collapse of your mind. It’s hollow.. empty…

It sneaks up on you on a random Thursday night, when your emotions get replaced with clarity, and the heaviness that once sat on your chest begins to lift. But the tricky part is that the release of pressure isn’t peaceful at first.

Honestly, I would say that the death of hope is similar to the feeling you first get when someone has been sitting on your lap for too long and they finally get up. You don’t feel relief at first; you just feel the absence of the pressure that was once there.

If anything, I would say that pressure just migrates to your gut, and the constant buzz of hope finally fades, and then the room becomes quiet, too quiet for comfort and too fragile to introduce any new sound.

You see, I have always been the one to hold on for longer than I should, not wanting to count anyone out and offering an understanding that many don’t typically earn. But I’ve been the one who was misunderstood and misrepresented before, the one who got better just as soon as everyone gave up on me and never got the praise or love for my changes- if anything, they go completely unnoticed, and I stay frozen in the perception theyve created for me off mistakes I didn’t fully understand or behaviors I was still learning and healing from. So I carry on to hope longer than I should because I wished someone would’ve held out hope for me.

So, as you can imagine, when my hope finally died for us on that random Thursday night, I was shocked when tears did not follow. Shocked to see I wasn’t kneeling on the floor pleading with the universe to make sense of this anymore. Shocked to see that all that happened was a quiet funeral in my mind, dedicated to the story of us.

Hope doesn’t die with emotions; it dies with clarity. When the final veil of illusion has lifted, the spotlight shines directly onto what was underneath. When there is no more room to lie to yourself. No more space for new validations or excuses. No more shadows to hide in and blame ignorance. Everything is illuminated and visible, and you can no longer romanticize the situation that is present in front of you.

Hope doesn’t allow you to remain seated for the wrong show; it forces your feet to exit whether you want it to or not. Because the mind will always know first, while the heart catches up, and it is your mind that controls the movement of your feet.

You could ask me every day if I wanted to let you go, and every day I would say no.

But if you asked me if it was worth letting you go, I would say yes. Because hope was the anesthetic for the pain I didn’t realize I was carrying, and when it finally went away, I realized how much damage was caused by letting hope run my life.

Hope is great, but self-trust is better, and sometimes hope can dismantle that trust when it begins to overshadow it. It becomes delusion instead of motivation, and sadly, you were my biggest delusion.

So if you were to ask me what hurt more, the death of hope or the heartbreak you gave me… I would say the heartbreak hurt my spirits, but the death of hope hurt my soul, for I have always believed that our souls were two halves of the same fire.

But fire doesn’t leave you stranded in the dark alone; it exposes what was really there all along, and I see clearly now… that my fire was the only one truly ignited.