Freaky Frankenstein

she/her | bisexual |23| INTJ, 5w6 | Capricorn | Ravenclaw | a mind like a labyrinth, a heart full of shadows | finding comfort in chaos and stories darker than my thoughts

[weltenwellen]

To Be Alive Gregory Orr

[weltenwellen]

Danez Smith, Don't Call Us Dead

[vexheart]

[mournfulroses]

Ernest Hemingway, from a letter to Marlene Dietrich featured in The Selected Letters of Ernest Hemingway

[pineapple-penguin-paper]

One more thing goes wrong and I'll drop the pen to pick something sharper.

Maybe then, my blood will whisper what my silence never dared to scream.

[pineapple-penguin-paper]

I don't trust gentle hands,

they feel like knives wrapped in the softest silk

A lullaby right before the slaughter.

I've lived on hunger long enough,

I have learnt my lesson

Not to mistake it for a feast.

Love—

A foreign concept,

A trembling thing,

However, whereever

It stands at my doorstep,

soft-knuckled,

offering warmth I never ordered,

whispering kindness

like it’s not a loaded gun.

But I’ve seen soft things rot,

seen velvet kindness curl

into the fangs of a snake..

Fool me once, you'll never get me twice.

So don’t ask me to believe in "nice."

Nice is a mask,

a slow, sweet poison

with an aftertaste of regret.

I only know the language of loss,

the sharp-edged dialect of abandonment.

Care too much, I might just get scared.

Hold me too gently,

and I might just break

[pineapple-penguin-paper]

Sleep is a battlefield—

a graveyard where shadows linger long after the sun surrenders.

I don’t rest; I crash, I collapse, I crumble.

Drowning my mind in the dim glow of a screen,

scrolling through mindless noise until my brain numbs enough to shut off.

A coward’s escape,

a desperate act of self-sabotage to keep the ghosts at bay.

I’m too afraid to let my mind wander,

too weak to face the darkness lurking behind closed eyes.

Dawn mocks me as I finally drift into unconsciousness,

but even then, I am not free.

I am hunted in my sleep.

I wake each day with a filth no water can cleanse,

a sickness festering beneath my skin.

I remember nothing, yet I know too much.

I know exactly what my treacherous mind was up to,

dragging me back to old horrors,

forcing me to feel their hands all over again.

Their touch is a parasite burrowed deep,

a poison that seeps into my marrow, nesting in the dark.

They branded me,

and no matter how far I run,

their fingerprints are still burned into my bones.

This is the cruelest torment—

trapped within my own skin,

each heartbeat a grim reminder of decay.

Horrified by the labyrinth of my mind,

where thoughts twist into grotesque shapes,

and memories carve jagged scars,

haunted by echoes that refuse to die.

A relentless assault—

nerves frayed, sanity unraveling,

conspiring in silent agony,

leaving me repulsed by the essence of who I am.

[thememedaddy]

[pineapple-penguin-paper]

I’ve always been told that sharing my story would help me heal. That talking about it would somehow set me free. But what if there is no story? No clear memory to lay out, no beginning, middle, or end—just flashes, blackouts where memories should be, just a dreadful feeling. Just a body that locks up before your mind can even register why. No one tells you what to do when you flinch at a hug from someone you trust or when touch feels less like comfort and more like trespassing.

A hand on my arm, and suddenly my skin feels too tight. A certain smell, and my vision tunnels. A familiar tone of voice, and I’m somewhere else entirely—frozen, numb, shivering, gone. Not screaming. Not fighting. Just… vanishing. And yet, every time I flinch, every time I pull away, every time I don’t have an explanation for why I feel like I’m falling through ice, I’m met with, "Why aren’t you over it yet?"—as if trauma has an expiration date.

Then I stumbled upon this line in The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk:

"The act of telling the story doesn’t necessarily alter the automatic physical and hormonal responses of bodies that remain hypervigilant, prepared to be assaulted or violated at any time."

And it hit me like a punch to the gut. Because trauma isn’t just a bad memory—it’s a glitch in the system, a short circuit in the body’s wiring. It doesn’t care that I don’t remember the details. It lives in my bones, in the way my hands shake when someone stands too close, in the way I disappear inside myself at the wrong kind of touch. People act like healing is a motivational montage, like I can just journal my way out of flinching at sudden noises or feeling like a crime scene in my own skin. But some ghosts don’t care if you name them. Some wounds don’t close just because you’ve acknowledged they exist. they just scab over and split open again.

And honestly? If I had a dollar for every time someone told me to just let it go, I’d have enough money to disappear into the woods, where at least the trees don’t ask why I still flinch at shadows.

[pineapple-penguin-paper]

Destroy me, damn me, let my blood stain the parchment—immortalize me in your verses. Make me your muse, for I am not meant to be loved. I am meant to inspire.

[mournfulroses]

Megan Nolan, from her novel titled "Acts of Desperation," originally published in March 2021

[sandersstudies]

Every time a small child starts crying or having a tantrum in my vicinity and I catch the parents glancing at me I’ve started saying “me when…”.

Friend kept trying to tell his crying kindergartener to calm down and relax and the kid growled “I AM relaxed” while visibly tensing every muscle in his body and I was like “oh that’s me at work every day” and we had a chuckle.

Parents look to other adults like “shit are they mad? Do they think my kid is acting like a demon?” And this response is my attempt to say “no. I think your kid is just acting like a human being.”

I WISH I could fling myself on the ground and cry because I experienced a minor inconvenience.

[daily-spooky]

Artwork by Ana Ciorcila Acdodtt

[metamorphesque]

— Natalie Diaz, Manhattan Is a Lenape Word

[quotefeeling]

“I still catch myself feeling sad about things that don’t matter anymore.”

— Kurt Vonnegut

[pineapple-penguin-paper]

I still catch myself feeling guilty about people that don't matter anymore.

[transmortifried]

no context november. figure it out.

[pineapple-penguin-paper]

A little late to post this, but the feelings are on point

[weltenwellen]

Warsan Shire, from “Assimilation”, Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head

[pineapple-penguin-paper]

Border line suicidal, with tense curiosity