shreya

poetry blog | all things literary

[nmolesofadrenaline]

[nmolesofadrenaline]

[memeuplift]

[nmolesofadrenaline]

[mrrstealurriotgrrrl]

abortion is valid and completely okay even if the mother wasn’t underage or wasn’t SA’d.

“The mother just doesn’t want the baby” that’s ok !

“The mother isn’t financially , mentally , and / or physically able to take care of a child” that’s ok !

“The father left and the mother doesn’t want to / can’t take care of the baby by herself as a single mother” that’s ok !

“The mother is addicted to something that will affect her child ,, therefore wants an abortion” that’s ok !

“fetus isn’t healthy ,, therefore abortion is necessary” that’s ok !

some people have got to understand that a woman doesn’t need to be violated to earn the rights to her own body. if you want to think of the children ,, think of the mother first. save the tree , not the apple.

[animentality]

[fahbee]

(source)

Bonus:

[singular-disease]

i like this one. I also like demanding to pro-lifers that organ donation after death should be mandatory

it’s fun to watch them get all twisted about how no one has a right to their body. it’s hard for them to make a case that an actual corpse has more rights than a living woman: both should have the option of saying no to literally anyone who requires their body parts to survive

but if you’re truly pro-life, you have to be pro-mandatory organ donation. Oh, you worry that there would be major problems in such a program, like doctors letting patients die to get their organs? Kind of like doctors letting patients die because they can’t give abortion care?

[nmolesofadrenaline]

[memeuplift]

[nmolesofadrenaline]

I look at myself in the mirror and feel like I’m standing in front of evidence.

Evidence of what I was supposed to become

Evidence of what I failed to be.

Evidence of what wasted potential looks like in real time

I see the seven-year-old who finished 300-page novels in a day, so much so that my Dad had to buy me a Kindle because of the increasing novel bills. I see the girl teachers paused for; rooted for: the one they spoke about in staff rooms with soft pride. “She’ll do great things.” “She’s the smartest kid in class.” They said it like it was a fact. Like gravity. Like thermodynamics.

And now I can’t walk fifty metres to college without my legs feeling filled with sand and my feet trembling like i’m in danger.My chest tightens like I’m climbing a mountain instead of crossing a road. The same brain that once devoured books now fogs over when I try to read an ECG. QT prolongation stares back at me like a language I’ve never learned. I reread the same line five times and retain nothing except the quiet confirmation that I’m not who I used to be. I reread the same line five times and retain nothing except realising that the “topper kid” has absolutely nothing left to root for.

I swallow fluvoxamine and buspirone with water that tastes metallic at 2 a.m. I hum to myself in the dark while twisting and tossing in bed so I don’t wake up choking on panic, so I don’t thrash, so I don’t scream. This is what “great things” turned into. They turned into blister packs and sedation and trying to trick my nervous system into resting. They turned into “5 things you can hear, smell and taste” and therapy sessions at 6.

Sometimes I imagine the little version of me watching. She thought she’d grow into someone sharp and luminous. She thought she’d be impressive. Instead she’s watching me sit on the edge of a bed in an apartment that is a testimony of me being unable to move, unable to start, unable to explain why everything feels like it weighs a hundred kilos. She doesn’t understand why getting out of bed feels like surgery without anaesthesia. She doesn’t understand why walking towards college feels like a 20 mile hike uphill. She doesn’t understand where and why and how everything went wrong.

I remember the seventh-grade report cards: Highly focused. Driven. Exceptional potential. Ability to do whatever she puts her mind into.

Now my thoughts scatter before they can land. I can’t focus long enough to follow a pathway, let alone build a future. The teachers who once looked at me with awe now look through me, or worse: at me; with that subtle tightening around the eyes. Despise is so evident that is burns my pupils as i look into their eyes. It makes me wonder what’s wrong with me? What changed? What did i miss? Where is the driven topper kid who could get whatever she puts her mind onto?

I keep thinking there must have been a moment;a fracture point - where something in me split. Before and after. Before the crying spells. Before the dissociation. Before the way my body feels like it’s resisting existence itself. Before being the stupidest kid in the class who needs to take clonazepam before stepping into the labs.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t just see wasted potential.

I see a ghost of someone who was promised a different ending.

[whendidmythoughtsgocrazy]

And if I'm meant to be alone, please take away my desire to be loved.

k.b. // unknown

[melanch-oholic]

!!!!!

[ripleysnightmare]

This

[nmolesofadrenaline]

[nmolesofadrenaline]

[nmolesofadrenaline]

[nmolesofadrenaline]

[nmolesofadrenaline]

[nmolesofadrenaline]

Everyone says they were the third friend - the one who walked behind when the sidewalk narrowed, the one who listened more than they spoke, the one who learned how to disappear politely. It feels universal, like a shared childhood memory. But maybe it isn't. It's selective.

These spaces are loud with that story because they're populated by the people who were ignored long enough to need art as proof of existence.

Maybe it only feels that way because these are the people who stayed with art. The ignored ones needed something to hold them when no one else did, needed language to name what was missing. Art became a place to rest, a way to be seen without interruption.

Those who were always chosen never had to look for themselves in words. They didn't need art to tell them they mattered. So they don't linger here the same way. What we call a collective experience might just be the quiet chorus of those who learned to survive by feeling deeply.