Spilled thoughts: two sassy girls against the world

Probably talking about F1 or music right now

[spilledthoughts6317]

I don’t know how to explain that it’s not about wanting to die, it’s about wanting things to stop hurting.

like a room that never turns off its lights buzzing, humming, too loud even in silence and my skin is just where the noise lands.

people think it’s an ending I’m looking for but it’s more like a pause button on a life that keeps spilling over its edges.

I am not asking for nothing I am asking for less of everything at once for my thoughts to stop arriving like alarms for my chest to stop feeling like it forgot how to be still.

I carry days that feel too sharp to hold and I keep them anyway because I don’t know where else to put them.

and if I could translate it properly I would say: I don’t want to disappear I just want the hurt to leave the room first so I can finally breathe in it again.

[hudconera]

this is like a renaissance painting

[luna-azzurra]

The specific humiliation of sharing your writing with someone and then watching them read it in front of you in real time. they pause. why did they pause. that was a bad pause. now they're nodding but what does the nod mean. now they look up and say "wow" and you need to know IMMEDIATELY what kind of wow that was. there are at least six different wows and only one of them is good and you have aged fourteen years waiting to find out which one.

[spilledthoughts6317]

I can’t do this anymore.

I wake already half gone, as if the night never ended and only changed shape inside my chest.

Morning arrives like something too heavy for a body still learning how to exist.

It takes me fifteen minutes to leave my bed, not from tiredness— but from the way panic wraps itself around me before I’ve even opened my eyes.

I cry while I get ready.

The mirror doesn’t reflect me, only everything I am not.

I hate what I see. I hate what I am. I feel useless, fragile, already fading at the edges.

I break.

And still I return to the vanity like nothing happened.

I wipe away the mascara that betrayed my tears. I cover what I cannot fix. I brush my hair into something passable.

Enough. Just enough to look like I belong among people.

I step outside and the ground feels uncertain, as if even it hesitates beneath me.

Among voices, among faces, I am convinced I am unwanted. So I become the first to reject myself.

They would be better without me.

I check my grades, my worth reduced to numbers and silence. I search every glance for proof that I am wrong to exist here.

A panic attack unfolds quietly inside me, invisible, disciplined, practiced— a storm that learns how to stay hidden.

I survive it anyway.

I come home.

I cry into the quiet of my room until even the walls feel exhausted.

I stare at the ceiling like it might confess something kinder.

I shower. I brush my teeth. I perform the rituals of continuation as if they are enough to mean I am still here.

At night, I talk to my girlfriend.

She hears my words but not the collapse behind them. So I become careful. Careful enough to sound okay.

I tell her goodnight.

And I try—truly try— to silence what my mind keeps repeating.

But silence never stays.

When the world goes dark, everything inside me speaks louder.

I cry myself to sleep as if sleep is something I have to earn.

And I hate how familiar this survival feels.

[spilledthoughts6317]

I want to rot.

Curl up in the corner of my room

And start decomposing.

I want the smell to linger

Make people uncomfortable when they pass

Scared to approach me

Scared to start rotting too.

When the apple falls too far from the tree

Nobody thinks of looking for it

Soon it takes on a sickly brown hue

Its flesh is spoiled

There's nothing we can do about it.

And who cares,

The scent will pass

The corner will be cleaned

The bugs will die

The bones will be buried.

[spilledthoughts6317]

If I kill myself, will I go to Heaven?

I ask the ceiling at three in the morning, when the dark feels heavier than my bones and my prayers sound more like apologies than words.

Will You meet me there, beyond the last heartbeat, beyond the silence, beyond everything I could not carry?

Or will You ask me why I left before the story was finished?

I do not ask because I hate You. I ask because sometimes the world is so loud and I am so tired.

They tell me You are merciful. They tell me You are love. They tell me no wound is deeper than Your hands can reach.

So I wonder—

if I stood at the gates with all my fears tangled around my ankles, with every mistake stitched into my skin, would You still know my name?

Would You still call me child?

And somewhere, beneath the ache, beneath the question, beneath the fear of being forgotten,

I think I hear an answer.

Not a thunderclap. Not a verdict.

Just a whisper:

Stay.

Not because your suffering is small. Not because your tears do not matter.

Stay because the story is not over. Stay because love is still looking for you. Stay because I have not stopped looking for you either.

And for tonight, that whisper is enough to keep asking, to keep praying, to keep breathing until morning.

[someoneishereithink]

my room is clean now

i don’t sleep on the floor anymore

my mother smiles as she comes in, telling me she’s so glad i’m better

i repeat ‘your room is a reflection of your mind’ as i slide each book in line with the others on my shelf, as i drape another blanket over the blood splatter on the bed

the ants don’t join me as i shake at night anymore, i wonder if they miss me

i wonder if they would let me tell them that i miss them, that i miss the way i would slam my door and sink downdowndown onto the floor when i got home for another godforsaken night, ready to relish in the filth i would surround myself with.

tell the ants soon i want to have to sleep on the floor again.

[pprincessposts]

I tell myself I hate you because it’s easier than admitting how much damage you left behind. I hate the way your words linger long after you’re gone, the way they crawl into my mind and turn every quiet moment into a battlefield. I hate how loving you felt like constantly trying to survive something. How every conversation became a test, every disagreement a punishment, every mistake a reason for me to doubt myself.

I hate the version of me that existed around you. The one who cried too much, overthought everything, and spent sleepless nights replaying conversations, searching for what I could have done differently. You brought out reactions in me that I barely recognize now, anger that burned through my chest, desperation that made me abandon my pride, sadness so heavy it felt stitched into my skin.

And maybe that’s what I hate most. Not you, but the way your toxicity became a mirror I was forced to stare into. The way I became someone I never wanted to be just to keep up with the chaos you created. You taught me how exhausting it is to love someone who wounds you and then blames you for bleeding.

Yet even now, beneath all this resentment, there is grief. Because part of me still mourns the person I thought you were. The person I searched for beneath the cruelty, beneath the manipulation, beneath all the ways you made me question my own reality. I hate you for what you did, but I hate even more that for so long, I convinced myself it was love.

[spilledthoughts6317]

Can you hold my hand until I'm me again?

Just for a little while.

Until my voice stops shaking.

Until my breathing remembers how to come easy.

Until every small mistake stops feeling like the end of the world.

Can you hold my hand while the panic convinces me that the sky is falling?

Yesterday, I felt it coming.

The way sailors must see a storm long before the rain arrives.

I had ten minutes, maybe less.

Ten minutes before my thoughts stopped sounding like mine.

Ten minutes before the world became too loud, too bright, too much.

So I texted you.

Not because I wanted saving.

Not because I thought there was a solution.

I only wanted to warn you.

To tell you that if I disappeared for a few hours,

it wasn't because I left.

It was because I wasn't me anymore.

But you answered anyway.

With ideas.

With plans.

With worry.

With so much love that for a second I almost wished love could stop a storm.

It couldn't.

The storm came anyway.

And afterward, my hands wouldn't stop trembling.

The room spun.

My vision blurred.

Even lifting a glass of water felt impossible.

And somewhere between the shaking and the exhaustion,

I fell asleep.

When I woke up,

there were six messages waiting.

Six reminders that while I was lost inside myself,

you had stayed.

You didn't hold my hand until the storm passed.

You held it through the storm.

Through the silence.

Through the hours when I couldn't answer.

And when I finally came back,

you were still there.

So maybe that's what love is.

Not fixing me.

Not saving me.

Not teaching the rain how not to fall.

Just sitting beside the empty chair

and waiting

until I'm me again.

[spilledthoughts6317]

yes, I taught myself how to do my own hair.

yes, I taught myself how to braid it, watching strangers on a screen pause, rewind, pause again.

yes, I taught myself how to do my makeup.

not because I wanted to be pretty, but because every girl seemed to know something I didn't.

yes, I've always painted my nails by myself.

left hand first, then the impossible right, learning that growing up sometimes means making a mess and pretending you meant to.

yes, I taught myself how to shave.

yes, I learned basic hygiene.

yes, I conditioned my roots until at least thirteen because nobody ever told me conditioner wasn't supposed to go there.

nobody told me a lot of things.

yes, I kept quiet about boys and girls.

about crushes.

about heartbreak.

about the things that make people laugh when they tell their mothers.

yes, I learned friendships on my own.

how to tell when someone was lying.

how to tell when someone was leaving.

how to tell when I should leave first.

yes, I taught myself how to be a girl.

piece by piece.

mistake by mistake.

internet search by internet search.

and yes,

I have a mother.

she was there.

in photographs, at birthdays, in the next room.

which somehow makes it harder to explain.

because absence is easy to name.

but what do you call someone who was close enough to touch and still felt miles away?

so yes,

I get jealous.

when someone says "my mum is my best friend."

when they tell stories that begin with "I asked my mum..."

as if asking was natural.

as if answers were guaranteed.

as if there was never a reason to learn it all alone.

and maybe that's unfair.

maybe she did her best.

maybe I did too.

but sometimes I look at girls who grew up with a mother and realize

I grew up with one too.

that's the part that hurts.

[spilledthoughts6317]

“conversation that never happened”

I open the chat close it open it again

“hey—”

no. too weak. too casual. like I’m not falling apart properly.

you’re fine, stop embarrassing yourself

I delete it.

“are you there?”

I imagine you replying instantly I imagine you caring instantly I imagine it fixing something instantly

but imagination is not help.

I start again.

“I think I need help”

my thumb hovers over send like it’s deciding whether I deserve to take up space

you don’t need help, you need to stop being like this

I don’t send it.

“it’s getting bad again”

too dramatic too attention-seeking too everything I’m scared I actually am

they’ll get tired of you they already are

I swallow it back down.

“can we talk?”

simple. safe. normal.

about what? don’t say it out loud if you name it, it becomes real

you appear in my head again, finally replying:

“what’s wrong?” “why didn’t you say anything sooner?” “I would’ve been there.”

and I rehearse my answer like it matters now:

because I didn’t want to be a problem because I didn’t know how to be honest without disappearing because I thought I could handle it alone again

you can’t handle it alone

the thought doesn’t sound like mine anymore it sounds like it’s sitting inside me talking over me deciding for me

I type “nothing” then delete it then type it again

and the chat stays unopened like a door I keep standing in front of without ever knocking

[spilledthoughts6317]

I want to be as caring, as soft, as quietly strong as Gabrielle, who loves like it’s the most natural thing in the world and makes it look easy even when it isn’t.

I want to be as cute as Violette, in the way she exists without trying, like sunlight doesn’t question if it’s allowed to shine.

I want to be as strong as my dad, not the kind that shouts it, but the kind that carries everything anyway and keeps going.

I want to be as hard-working as my grandfather, steady hands, steady life, building days like they matter because they do.

I want to be as genuine as my grandmother, no pretending, no masks, just truth in its simplest form and warmth that doesn’t ask for anything back.

I want to be as easy to be around as Ava, like breathing without noticing, like comfort that doesn’t need explanation just presence.

And maybe that’s what I’m learning— that I don’t have to become one perfect thing, just a little more of the people who make it feel like home to be myself.

[spilledthoughts6317]

I will stay through all of it

Not much

Just a quiet presence

Who will hold your hand when all is dull

Do not turn around

When I gaze at you proudly

I'd like to keep it a secret

You wouldn't see what I see

The glimmer in your eyes

The sound of your voice

Which I adore with all my soul

I hope to be enough

At least a flicker in the dark

Until you realize

That you are the sun

And I am only the moon,

Admiring you from afar.

[makingmeblue]

LET SHANE BE PISSED AT HAYDEN!!!

that man was careless, he knew the risk Ilya and Shane were taking, he knew they were in his house, he knew he was in a room with windows, he was a fucking idiot. Shane is allowed to be really, really, really pissed, I don't care.

[ryan-sometimes]

Paramore was right. Hard times

[spilledthoughts6317]

What if I am never getting better, just learning new ways to look almost fine while everything underneath stays the same.

What if I am heavy in rooms without meaning to be, a presence that tilts the air wrong, that makes people adjust their tone without knowing why.

What if I drain things slowly— not in one clear moment, but in the way repetition wears wood smooth until nothing holds shape anymore.

What if “good person” was only ever a thing I tried to perform correctly, and I’ve been failing the test without anyone saying it out loud.

What if I am not unlovable, just something that love passes through and comes out a little more tired.

What if everyone stays for a while because leaving takes longer than noticing, and one day it won’t.

What if the worst part isn’t even being bad— it’s not knowing, not being able to tell where I end and the damage begins.

And what if it doesn’t change.

[spilledthoughts6317]

it itches.

every time I move, my skin reminds me of something I already know.

I told myself last time was the last time, but that sentence has worn thin from being used too often.

I didn't tell anyone. not because I'm hiding— because it has become routine, because I already know the questions, and I don't have the answers.

tomorrow's shower will punish me for tonight. I knew that when I did it.

I asked for the sting. I asked for the ache. I asked for something loud enough to interrupt the silence.

and for a moment, it worked.

for a moment, I felt something.

but now it's just me again, lying awake beside a promise I never really believed.