willowspirals

Nothing is for certain

[spiralsofocd]

The Mask

I understand the purpose they speak of— how it settles in them, like it belongs.

But in me, it never stays.

I am a character— written into lives that are not my own.

It hurts. God, it’s beautiful— to almost belong.

It hurts.

This mask— it doesn’t hide me, it erases me.

And I feel too much, see too clear, know—deep in my bones— what is right, what is wrong…

and still, I am alone.

[spiralsofocd]

Runaway

Runaway

Lately, all I want is to be nothing— not broken, not whole—just nothing becoming. No wanting to want, no needing a need, just silence where all of the noise used to breed.

Runaway from obligations dressed up as choice, from compulsions that mimic the sound of my voice, from “should” and “must” that burrow and stay, turning my thoughts into debts I must pay.

Responsibility roots itself deep in my bones, grows branches of burden I carry alone, every breath feels counted, collected, and due— like living’s a contract I never agreed to.

So I pace in my head, every exit the same, every door leads me back to the source of the flame, I twist, I resist, I retreat, I replay— but the hunter and hunted don’t Runaway.

I want out of this mind, this loop, this decree… but tell me—what distance is far enough from me?

[spiralsofocd]

Where Velvet Fades

What is it to be real? Is it how soft my velvet is? Or how long I stay lovely For the hands that hold me close? What is real?

I watch the others, Wishing for what I do not have, For I am plain, Nothing rare or extraordinary. Yet still, I long For something honest, Something real.

What is it to be real? To be held day in and day out, To be carried through morning dew And beneath the late-night stars. To be loved through every adventure— Is that what makes one real?

After so much time, After endless days of loving others, I began to fade. My beauty softened, My seams grew worn, Yet my patience and understanding only deepened.

And somewhere along the way, I realized I had always been real to them.

So perhaps becoming real Was never about what I saw in myself, But what love was willing to leave behind.

[spiralsofocd]

Rage

Rage

I feel it in my bones— like marrow splitting under pressure. My skin burns hot, flushed with warning. My hands tremble, not with fear— but anticipation.

My core begins to vibrate, a fault line waking beneath flesh. A quiet before collapse.

This anger. This rage. This fire— it does not ask. It takes.

All-consuming. Holy in its ruin.

Unleashing the beast I kept starved in chains.

She rises— not born, but summoned. Not gentle, but necessary.

Justice sharpened into bone and teeth.

The straighter she stands, the more the world bends away. Power pooling in her spine like a storm learning its name.

Rage has opened the cage. And I am no longer the keeper.

The tremors worsen— small earthquakes under skin, fracturing what remains of restraint.

She is still growing. Still becoming catastrophe.

And when she strikes, it is not chaos— it is correction.

Each impact lands like verdict: jaw cracked under truth, egos splintering like glass under heel, silence forced down the throats of men who mistook dominance for divinity.

She smiles while it happens. Not joy— recognition.

As if she remembers every hand that ever tried to shrink her, every voice that called her less and meant it as law.

A succubus of reckoning, but she does not consume innocence— she devours entitlement.

She feeds on the rot of power abused, on systems built to silence, on hands that took without asking and called it fate.

Relentless. Immovable. Unforgiving.

She drags them down— not into hell, but into truth.

And it is worse.

She stands guard over the voiceless, a blade between them and history. A shield made of fury.

Fierce enough to end cycles. Brutal enough to break inheritance.

No apology offered. No softness required. No second glance spared for those who built their world on harm.

Rage is not destruction.

It is correction.

It is woman remembering her own strength and refusing to be small again.

Visceral. Final. Uncontainable.

[spiralsofocd]

Tomorrow, the same

Tomorrow, the same

I’m tired of being broken, of carrying words unspoken. I’m tired of being sad, of missing what I never had.

I’m tired of this pain— a never-ending, cold, hard rain that soaks my bones, seeps through my skin, and settles quietly within.

It never stops. It never fades.

It carves its home inside my veins. I’m tired of feeling trapped inside my head, of fighting thoughts that wish me dead.

I’m tired of silence screaming loud, of feeling lost within a crowd. I’m tired of pretending I’m okay— of surviving just to face another day.

I’m so damn tired of never feeling whole, of dragging this weight that lives inside my soul— and knowing tomorrow will feel the same.

Tomorrow, the same

[spiralsofocd]

Wants

Wants

How does one want?

It sounds so soft— so simple— like breathing, like something the body does without permission.

A birthright, they say.

A quiet knowing that blooms within.

Yet I sit here, empty-handed, never knowing what I want, what I’m allowed to desire.

Because I wasn’t.

I was shaped by no— guided by absence, taught in careful, cutting ways what not to be.

Scolded into silence, punished into stillness, set apart until I learned the lesson:

Don’t be selfish. Think of others.

Think only of your needs— anything more is indulgence, is excess, is wrong.

So I learned to fold myself smaller, to walk the line like it was the only path that would keep me whole.

Be better. Be good. Be anything but too much—

or be nothing at all.

And now— now I turn back, hands trembling,

wondering how to unlearn a language carved into bone, stitched into skin like scars that never asked to heal.

My heart still beats to a rhythm I don’t believe in, yet it pulses— loud, alive, convincing.

So I trace those old lines, over and over, careful not to take up space, careful not to become a burden.

To give, and give, and give—

and never want.

But even that is a lie I know too well.

Because buried beneath it all, quiet but unyielding,

there is this—

I want.

I want without apology, without fear, without the weight of guilt pressing its thumb against my throat.

I want to be allowed to want.

[spiralsofocd]

Laundry still Needs to be done

Sometimes I want to sleep so deep I don’t wake up.

Not in a tragic way— just… quietly.

Because every day is the same, and I am still here.

Life feels like an endless emotional endurance, with brief, inconvenient interruptions of happiness.

I’m tired.

Tired of pain— physical, emotional, mental—

as if the body and mind never learned to tell the difference.

It is all the same, in the end: pain.

And here I am, constantly considering whether to wave the white flag.

Surrender. Give in. Run. Disappear. Become less.

But the laundry still needs to be done.

And that feels like an answer I didn’t ask for.

So I stay.

Tired— but here.

[spiralsofocd]

Silence

Silence

Silence is a strange creature. Sometimes it roars— so loud it deafens the soul.

Other times it falls so still that every thought echoes through hollow chambers of the mind.

Seek it, and it becomes peace. Stay too long, and it becomes a prison.

Yet I return to it willingly. In the stillness I feel the quiet hand of Hesychia, goddess of hush and breath between storms. Others fear her temple of quiet, but I kneel there gladly.

For my mind is a battlefield of doubt, and even Angerona, keeper of sealed lips and hidden pain, cannot always silence the war within.

So I dream of a perfect solitude— a silence deep enough to cradle the mind.

Yet it remains a mirage on the horizon, because the loudest thing in existence is a mind that refuses to rest.

[spiralsofocd]

One always learns one's mystery at the price of one's innocence.

-Robertson Davies

[spiralsofocd]

I Miss you

I Miss You

I write your name five times a day, Then erase the words I meant to say— Something foolish, something small, Just needing you to hear it all.

My person. Not by touch or heat, But by the way our minds would meet. I knew your fear, you knew my ache, The parts we hid, the parts that break.

The one I thought would always stay, Who saw my worst and looked away— Not in disgust, but like you knew Exactly what I’d been through too.

Until one day you weren’t still here, No last long talk, no final tear. No “this is hard,” no “this is why,” Just absence where your voice lived by.

So now I sit with open hands, Holding pieces of old plans. Loneliness that eats me slow— I’ve lost before, but not this low.

Other endings taught me pain, This one taught me what remains: Unsent thoughts I cannot give, A missing place where you still live.

Now every word I try to share Just proves that you are not still there. So much of me still talks to you— With no one left to answer to.

[spiralsofocd]

Ghost

Ghost

I always stated I was invisible. Always on the sidelines, watching and observing. Never really being seen— a spectator or spectre, viewing to tell the tales, to know the truth.

But never able to leave this maze of a house, where I can go anywhere, anytime I please, but never leave.

As I am always to be here, observing— watching others, helping others, only to be left once I’ve done my part for them.

As I fade into the background, where they can’t see, I am left feeling ghosted, which is ironic for someone who is invisible, always alone, never seen.

[spiralsofocd]

It Wears My Voice

It Wears My Voice

How long do you let yourself become the silent treatment?

They say, give them time to process.

So I wait. And wait. And wait.

And the longer I wait, the tighter the spiral knots around my ribs.

I want to give them space and time— space and time— but space becomes distance and time becomes proof.

They are better without you.

They don’t miss me. They don’t need me.

Of course they don’t.

I am toxic. I am the problem.

You always are.

Every close friend I hurt. Always the same. Evidence. Pattern. Sentence.

Look at the trail you leave behind. Look at the wreckage and call it coincidence.

I am too much.

You were always too much.

I know it’s not intentional, which only cuts deeper— because it means you don’t truly see me either.

They see enough. They just don’t stay.

My already open wound tears wider, splits again, measured now in irreparable damage.

Good. Now it matches the inside.

My demons were right.

I have always been right.

I’m crazy. I’m always wrong. I’m the problem.

I chased her away. I ruin everything.

I’m selfish. I’m a narcissist. I am a bad person.

Say it correctly. You are the problem.

He is only with me out of obligation.

Pity is the only thing you earn.

No support. No respect.

Why would you deserve either?

Only tolerance. Only endurance.

They are waiting for you to disappear.

All because I don’t deserve it.

The voice doesn’t scream. It repeats.

And repeats. And repeats.

Until it sounds like truth.

Until it sounds like me.

[crmsnmth]

Cold As ICE

They call it enforcement stamp it in blue ink and steel doors three letters heavy as boots on concrete I C E

You freeze families into paperwork turn lullabies into court dates make children memorize fear before they learn multiplication

You speak in numbers cases, quotas, and removals as if a life can be filed away and still keep its heartbeat

Your vans swallow mornings your raids steal breakfast your silence after screams echoes louder than any siren

Borders become excuses laws become shields and mercy is always “pending review”

You say your just doing you’re job but history is crowded with people who said the same fucking thing always while looking away

Anger burns because love was there first love for our neighbors for languages mixed at dinner tables for hands that built this country and are told they don’t belong in it

ICE you are not cold because you are strong you are cold because you forgot that people are not the problem and cages are not justice

I guess I’ll just have to be blunt like the clubs you beat them with forward and straight to the point

Fuck ICE and fuck this Nazi regime

[spiralsofocd]

Inside the Advice

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

I’m the biggest fake, A mirror cracked down the center I have all this knowledge Ruled by logic A lighthouse with no shore But when the table is turned, I have no self-control, A compass spinning in saltwater

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

After so many years Searching for the answers Searching for whys For whens For where Digging through hours like graves Collecting information like a bookworm devours a library, Eating pages instead of peace

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

I can recite to help others, To advise, to heal others I demand they see, they change, they love themselves, accept themselves See themselves through my rose-colored glasses, Tinted like stained glass in a burning church Always finding their silver lining, Polishing clouds while standing in the storm Always pushing themselves forward

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

I can see my own demons, call them by their names, Tag them like animals behind glass I recognize between them all Based off the claws reaching for my control, Scratching at the door of my ribs I push down my own voice of what to do, Bury the instructions under my tongue How to stop the vicious cycle

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

But yet I am unable to stop them; I allow them to bring my past up— Once defeated experiences Rise like drowned ghosts That just multiply as a mirror showing the truth, A hallway of reflections with no exit

Hypocrite Hypocrite Hypocrite

[spiralsofocd]

Tilt-a-Whirl

I am so tired of feeling vertigo within my mind. It’s not that the world is spinning— my mind is on a tilted whirling tilt. I keep trying to walk out of the circle to find my way, but I can’t see. I can’t walk. I can’t crawl. I can barely form words. With every step, the sicker I feel. The dizzier I get. The blurrier my vision goes.

I just want off this FUCKING ride.

[spiralsofocd]

Broken Record

Broken Record

Every day it’s the same refrain. The tonearm drops like measured pain. The stylus cuts yesterday’s track, drives the past into the black of the black.

I change the record. It plays me back. Different label, same attack. Over and over, round it goes, a question in a broken pose.

Same questions: How are you doing? Are you going back to work? When will you be better? Why are you like this—you weren’t always hurt. What will happen if you don’t? What will happen if you stop? What do you think you’re teaching your children while you rot?

Questions I can’t say aloud, because words make walls from doubt.

Questions I answer every day to the same mouths, a different face.

Questions that grind me small and thin for not fitting the shape they’re in.

Questions that split me, less than whole, because no one sees the sinkhole soul.

Questions that eat until I’m through, until their voice becomes mine too—

What do you all think of me?

[spiralsofocd]

🖤 “Some things don’t bloom. They crystallize. I waited for spring. Ice chose me instead—and called it beautiful.”