It's not me. None of it.

A girl with too many words and too much time. Talk to me.

[n-ehpamoi]

My poems.

Tell me how they make you feel. Ask me about them.

[n-ehpamoi]

One word topic for a poem idea: Trench

There is a scar in the gray.

I peer from its edge for signs of life amongst the haze of the cruelty of battle --

ignore the stench of hate and fighting and anguish and myself --

I know that I must not fear the path ahead, for if I stay here, the trench itself will surely deepen and swallow me whole --

the only way out is through.

The enemy ahead will keep me in with all their might, and the allies behind will push me through, not matter how I kick, and scream, and, every last one, is me.

Both the worse and then better versions of myself,

pushing and pulling endless in a constant struggle for my faintly beating heart --

There is a spiral scar cut deep into my gray, and,

the only way through, to who I want to be,

is cutting through the me that keeps this soul from being free --

V. Rue, 2025.

[deathgasmic]

i always feel a little like a begging dog but i will not elaborate on that

[n-ehpamoi]

If any of you are still active, would any of you send me one word topics for poem ideas? It doesn't have to be super obscure -- for instance one of my favorite poems was based off the word "end."

Anyways. The writers block is killing me, send help

[n-ehpamoi]

Closed eyes meet me not

with dark,

but images of you --

every detail of your face

and strand of hair plotted

clear, like a map there

on the inside of

my eyelids.

And my dreams come

full of you,

moments familiar

but not quite real,

ones felt and shared

a million times over,

but not yet reality,

moments passed but

slightly different than truth,

and futures yet to pass

that may or may not come --

I meet you on shores that

do not exist but could be real,

and see a life i want

but do not have.

I can hear you

when you are not there,

every pattern in your speech

and tune in your laughter,

how you breathe

when you sleep

and how your heart thumps

softly in your chest,

and,

I smile.

It all makes me smile.

There is bliss in knowing

I am hopeless in the face

of you.

That I can't escape you,

and that, even if one day

it hurts me,

enclosed in thoughts of you,

I couldn't ever regret

how thoroughly you've been

carved straight into

my heart.

[n-ehpamoi]

You get what you want

but not quite in the way

you felt you needed,

and are left unfulfilled

as a lifetime of waiting

has seemingly come

to its end,

your hands clutching firm

to what you've begged

the godless heavens for,

endlessly.

You cry as you begin

to realize

that having it within reach

and truly knowing its breadth

are two entirely different

things,

and wonder to yourself

if you were meant to have,

at all,

or if you are capable of even

appreciating

what you hold.

Its right there, you idiot.

But it still feels so out

of reach.

Internally,

you wail for more.

I wail,

for more.

"Greed."

V. Rue, 2026.

[n-ehpamoi]

I was in love with you, and you were in love with me,

is what I said to myself when sat in the thoughts of what we used to be --

but, that memory room is as cold and empty now as it always was.

Just because it felt warm, then, doesn't mean I was ever truly warmed by a hearth of our love, and,

just because I was cozy doesn't change the fact that I was always kept on the floor, like an unwanted dog.

I was in love with the thought that you and I loved each other.

and you were in love with the thought that you could learn to love your own reflection.

I tell myself we tried our best.

But did we?

Tell myself that things drift apart.

Without knowing if they were ever truly together,

because,

you were always just a vessel for all the love I thought no one would ever want,

and I was always just a girl who you thought looked enough like you that you could learn to appreciate yourself, through me.

I was in love with the thought of some connection,

and you just wanted to finally love yourself --

but you would hate what you wanted, because you would only see yourself,

and what you got, you grew to hate, because I was not the image of you that you wanted to love --

and when I looked hard at my own reflection, my delusion fell apart,

realizing we'd never seen each other, ever, at all.

If only I'd seen me sooner.

If only you could ever look past you --

"Looking past each other," or, "I didn't see you, and you couldn't see yourself, in me." V. Rue, 2026.

[letmebethecure]

Lips to lips

And mind to mind

It doesn’t matter

If we connect

Perfectly

It only matters

That we want to

[n-ehpamoi]

An aimless thought gains flight and flutters away on a gentle breeze, like dust in the wind --

but a thought had over and over becomes a memory, and,

real or imagined, that dust becomes sediment full of sentiment, a coarse and sorrowful sand, of sorts, that no longer lays listlessly on the skin, but sinks now into the cracks between where the heart meets muscle, and the muscle meets flesh, worming its way into the joints and the gears that move me --

I ruminate until the body mimics the mind,

my heart's fast thoughts shuttering me down to the slowest of possible drags,

before I claw my way back to a numb and even pace --

V. Rue, 2026.

[n-ehpamoi]

If there is an

"after you,"

then I am certain

the rest of this

will be gone alone,

and I am alright with that --

before,

"alone"

was a truth I'd accepted

with a calm, resolute

resignation,

as if it were a truth that

I could not help,

and would always be --

but,

if there is an "after you,"

my new "alone" wouldn't be

a thing to be unhelped,

simply rather the fact that

I don't know that anyone

could see me,

or love me,

like you,

and after knowing your

incredible being,

I rightly don't believe

that anyone else

could ever compare.

How could I ever

want anyone

but you?

[agnes-nielsens]

they call me the information withholder for reasons i won't get into

[n-ehpamoi]

Her mother said

"I know you hate your father,

but..."

and she was confused,

because,

when it came to her father,

she didn't feel anything.

And when her step-dad

would make her feel pride,

only to intentionally

tear his praise away,

she didn't feel anything.

and when that same man

would hit her in public,

so she wouldn't just

feel the pain of his meaty,

calloused hands,

but the weight of the eyes

of strangers who would not

stop him,

she didn't feel anything.

She smoked and she drank,

fucked and fought and

did so much of it high,

but,

she didn't feel anything.

And she found someone,

surprisingly, eventually,

and she felt trust,

and felt safe,

and secure.

And it was good.

And it was love,

maybe,

for a while.

But it wasn't love.

Because

she didn't feel

anything,

and,

who could love a shell?

But that thing inside.

That wicked little shadow

in the perfect shape

of her body, spitting venom

and hissing eternally

against her skin

from the inside --

her perfect

disconnected copy,

eating at her more

ravenously

than any one else

ever could have,

and she didn't

feel

anything.

until all she could feel

was everything --

because she had always felt

too much,

never realizing that numb

isn't the same

as nothing.

If only anyone had ever tried

to hold her.

If only she had ever had the

space to be heard.

Why would no one do as little

as lend her a hand?

No one wants a girl

who looks like she

has never felt anything.

[n-ehpamoi]

Beginnings,

do they have to be?

If I hide away

in the liminal space

of my heart,

and let nothing begin,

then I will be safe in a world

where love never ends,

but also in a life

where love never exists --

so, if it must begin, then,

when?

Or, has it already?

Or, had this feeling

always existed?

As if some part of me

has always known

some part of you?

Because, just like

that liminal space,

within me,

something about you feels

like a place I have never been

but almost seem to recognize

every last bit of --

Like a voice I know

only from distant echos,

finally heard clearly,

or a figure I've only glimpsed

in passing reflections,

stood firm in front of me

for the first time,

like something always there,

but only now

within reach --

maybe I like that idea

because, if it was always

there, I could pretend

that without a start,

there would be nothing

to finish --

because if we have begun,

here, there, then,

or maybe even now,

tomorrow,

in a month,

or perhaps even in years,

then surely

there will be an end --

I will not hide from love,

but that doesn't mean

I've made my peace

with loss to come --

I'll love until I can no more,

but,

do there really have to be,

ends?

V. Rue 2026.

[n-ehpamoi]

Men are dogs,

I've heard them say --

but a dog would love me

like I put the sun

in its sky,

even on my worst days.

When a dog wants to play,

it's like I'm one of its own --

just another friend

to jump and run and pull

with.

Even when a dog is mean,

I know it's afraid,

or has been hurt, before,

or has something

that it needs

to pretect --

A man would love me

for only as long

as i am what he thinks

he wants.

A man plays with me

like I am a toy,

and discards me

when he's worn me out,

or has lost interest.

A man is mean simply

for the joy of being cruel,

or because,

heaven forbid,

I give him not

whatever it is he

feels he is owed --

Men are (not) dogs.

I can trust one of the two

when I look them

in the eyes,

and i find the other so often

has learned, well enough,

how to pretend to care --

I never have to question

the love of a dog.

Men are not dogs,

and they are not filled

with enough majesty

to be called even wolves

in the skin of man --

They are men, and, to me,

that often enough

is reason to be weary,

on its own.

"Thank god I love women."

V. Rue, 2026.

[n-ehpamoi]

And if you find yourself

wanting,

it's something I want to give;

almost all this time,

it's been beating for you,

so,

abscond with my telltale

heart,

keep it safe,

and keep it close,

and know that I will

never doubt its safety

in your gentle caress --

keep it near, darling,

and listen soft,

to its doki doki rhythms

and pitter-patter songs,

while it whispers all my

loving words,

to you --

It's Yours.

V. Rue, 2026.

[n-ehpamoi]

I mean, obviously,

parts of me

still hurt --

you've seen it,

certainly, in the ways

my pain sometimes

gets in the way,

even in good times,

but,

even still,

something's changed --

draft after draft after draft,

its just,

you --

no longer wailing,

or lamenting,

or full of the ailing,

filled with the pains of life

that used to haunt me,

but just,

you --

over and over,

love,

and you,

and love,

for you,

love, love, L O V E,

....love,

love.

"My heart is so full;

thank you,

Love."

V. Rue, 2026.

[n-ehpamoi]

We are not

hal/ves

waiting to be made

whole.

To seek completion

by the presence of

another

is to lose sight

of everything that

makes you.

To try and become

one

really means

losing parts of me,

and losing parts of you,

until nothing remains

of the beings

that once were,

and,

I do not think

that that is love.

And gods,

do I love you.

So I do not want

to lose myself in you,

because then I would

no longer be what you

came to love,

and,

I do not want you

to get lost in me,

because then the one

I've fallen for

would be no more.

I want not to be a

part of you,

but to be,

with you.

Not grow into you,

but alongside you --

want our branches

reaching in tandem

for the sun,

but never keeping

each other from the light.

For our roots to be tangled,

but never overtaking,

supporting,

but never starving

each other out --

Because, you are not

the other half

to my own,

for you and I are not

pieces

yet to find our fit.

I want together,

with you,

but not to be lost,

in you,

want just to get lost

and find our way,

together,

always making our way,

side by side --

V. Rue, 2026.