#analysisuntilache

[analysisuntilache]

Intensity vs. Intimacy;

I used to think

love was supposed to feel like fire alarms.

Like shaking hands and unread messages,

like wanting someone so badly

it carved hunger into my ribs.

I thought intimacy

was the same thing as intensity.

No one ever taught me the difference.

So I learned love

through almosts and chaos.

Through people who kissed like apologies

and left like they were proving something.

Through the kind of connection

that makes your nervous system light up

and call it fate.

Intensity is loud.

It says:

*need me.*

*prove it.*

*panic when I pull away.*

It mistakes uncertainty for depth,

confusion for chemistry,

survival for devotion.

Intensity feels like drowning

and calling it passion

because at least drowning

means you feel something.

And maybe that’s the cruel trick of it.

When you have only ever known intensity,

intimacy does not feel safe at first.

It feels exposed.

Because intensity keeps you busy.

Keeps you performing, chasing, fixing, yearning.

There is always noise to hide inside.

But intimacy?

Intimacy hands you stillness.

And in the stillness,

there you are.

No adrenaline to confuse for connection.

No chaos to outrun yourself with.

Just someone close enough

to notice the trembling parts

you usually keep hidden beneath urgency.

And that kind of closeness

can feel unbearable

when your body learned

that love arrives with tension.

So when someone is gentle,

you wait for the catch.

When someone stays,

you brace for leaving.

When someone offers calm,

your nervous system whispers:

*this cannot be real.*

Because intensity taught me

that love must be earned through suffering.

That if my heart is not racing,

if I am not anxious,

if I am not decoding every word,

then maybe I do not care enough.

But intimacy does not ask me to abandon myself

to keep someone close.

It does not feed on instability.

It does not need to hurt

to feel real.

And maybe that is the grief in it.

Realising how many times

I called dysregulation “love”

because chaos was familiar

and peace felt empty.

I am still learning

that calm is not the absence of depth.

That safety is not boredom.

That tenderness

does not always arrive with fireworks.

Maybe intimacy is not less powerful than intensity.

Maybe it is just quieter.

Steadier.

Less like a lightning strike

and more like learning

your body no longer has to flinch

when someone reaches for you.

Sometimes it arrives quietly,

sits beside you,

and does not make you beg

to be chosen.

M.D

[analysisuntilache]

The cruel nature of a break up;

I didn’t leave the first time or the second,

not even the sixth when escape pressed in my mind.

I thought I was the problem,

my needs too heavy, my wanting too much

so I shrank.

A person already small folded herself smaller still.

Each time I pictured leaving I saw the beauty first: the way he loves me, the way I love him, the promise of two people asking each other to change into someone they are not.

Everyone praised him in the beginning,

his gifts, his tenderness, how good we looked together.

But they did not see the fights, the tears, the quiet ways we missed each other’s needs.

Leaving doesn’t feel like freedom but failure.

I stayed because walking away from love takes strength, and I don’t know if I have it.

Yet staying feels like slow self-erasure.

This is survival dressed as hope,

wanting to change what should not be changed.

I am grieving the person I wanted to be for him.

I am grieving the family I built and am losing.

I want not to feel this way.

I want to know how to stop.

But for now I stand inside the ache, holding both the love and the ending at once.

M.D

[analysisuntilache]

A Father's Daughter;

TW; Implied abuse of a child

I think the hardest part about loving my father

is hating what he did to us at the same time.

Holding grief in one hand,

anger in the other,

and finding there is no clean way

to put either of them down.

The hardest part of knowing his past,

knowing the shape of his trauma,

is walking the thin line

between who he was

and who he could have been.

Wondering what kind of man

might have existed

if somebody had protected the little boy

before life taught him that love and violence

could live in the same room.

I think if I had met my father as a child,

I would have screamed at my grandparents

to open their eyes.

To see that family friend

was not kindness,

not safety,

but a serpent preying on young children,

poor children,

children desperate to be seen.

I would have begged someone

to stop what was happening

before it turned tenderness into survival,

before survival hardened into rage,

before children became adults

so twisted by pain

they no longer recognised themselves.

Because that is the cruel thing about trauma,

how it can swallow a person whole

until the child disappears beneath the damage,

and everyone left behind

only knows the wreckage.

And the frightening part of being my father’s daughter

is that I am more like him

than I would like to admit.

I carry pieces of him

in my anger,

my intensity,

the way fear can turn quickly into fight.

I hear echoes of him

in parts of myself

I try not to name.

So to hate him

becomes tangled.

Because where does hatred go

when you share blood,

when you share wounds,

when you can trace parts of your own reflection

back to the man who hurt you?

To hate him

can start to feel like hating myself.

And maybe that is the deepest cruelty of all.

That I loved a man

I could not always forgive,

mourn a man

I could not always understand,

and spend my life wondering

whether healing means

learning how to separate myself from him

or learning how to love the parts of me

that look like him

without becoming him.

M.D

[analysisuntilache]

A Living Euology: To Disappear in Plain Sight;

If you asked me who they were,

I would tell you they spent their life

looking beneath the surface of things.

They were the kind of person

who sat with broken stories

and searched for the wound beneath the wound,

the fear beneath the anger,

the child beneath the adult.

They carried other people's pain carefully,

as though every hurt entrusted to them

was something sacred.

They believed people made sense,

even when they were falling apart.

And perhaps they believed that

because they spent so much time

trying to make sense of themselves.

They were a collector of questions.

Questions about love.

Questions about belonging.

Questions about why some people

spend their whole lives

trying to earn the affection

they should have been given freely.

There was a father-shaped ache inside them.

Not just grief for the man who was,

but grief for the man who might have been.

They understood that love and anger

can share the same home,

that you can miss someone

and mourn what they took from you

at the exact same time.

As a child,

they dreamed everyone else was an alien

and they were the only human left.

Years later,

I think they were still trying to answer

the question hidden inside that dream:

Where do I belong?

Yet despite that loneliness,

they spent their life

helping others feel less alone.

Children.

Teenagers.

Adults carrying invisible scars.

They offered people something

they themselves had long searched for:

To be understood.

They loved stories.

Imagined themselves in magical worlds.

Witches and half-elves and heroes.

Not because they wanted to escape reality,

but because they never stopped imagining

what else a person could become.

They loved their dogs fiercely.

Their blankets found their way onto beds,

their names into conversations,

their wellbeing into daily worries.

Love, for them,

was often practical.

It looked like asking questions.

Checking details.

Remembering things.

Showing up.

They carried grief.

They carried hope.

They carried a thousand unfinished thoughts

about who they were

and who they might still become.

They were trying.

Trying to heal.

Trying to grow.

Trying to build a life

that felt honest.

Trying to make peace

with every version of themselves.

And if this poem

was all that remained,

I think the simplest truth would be this:

Here lived a person

who wanted others to feel seen,

because they knew exactly

what it felt like

to disappear in plain sight.

M.D

- my take on a recent trend.

[analysisuntilache]

Daddy issues;

Growing up yearning for your father to change teaches you a dangerous kind of patience. The kind that waits too long, forgives too much, and mistakes crumbs for care. You learn to shrink your needs because needing things only ever led to disappointment. You learn to celebrate almosts, maybes, and moments of tenderness that never lasted long enough to feel safe.

And somehow, without choosing it, you carry that training into every corner of your life.

You accept apologies without change. Effort without consistency. Love that asks you to understand everyone else's wounds while abandoning your own. Because somewhere deep inside, you were taught that your role was to endure, to hope harder, to be easier to love.

Growing up yearning for your father to change can lead you down pathways of accepting less than you deserve from everyone, because you were trained for survival in a world where your needs were negotiable.

The hardest lesson is realising that being accustomed to unmet needs does not make you low maintenance. It does not mean you need less. It only means you learned how to live hungry.

And hunger can look a lot like loyalty until you begin asking yourself what it might feel like to be loved without having to earn, chase, minimise, or wait for it.

M.D

[analysisuntilache]

Alien;

I remember as a kid

having this dream on repeat.

The whole world was aliens

everyone.

My family.

My friends.

The people at school.

The stranger at the shops.

All speaking a language

I could almost understand

but never quite.

And me?

I was the only human left.

The only one walking around

pretending I knew the rules

pretending I knew why everyone else

made connection look so effortless.

In the dream, nobody chased me.

Nobody pointed and yelled different.

It was quieter than that.

They just… knew each other.

They moved in sync,

laughed at the right moments,

understood things that were never explained.

And I remember this feeling

bigger than fear.

Recognition.

Because even in my dreams

I didn’t fit in.

Even asleep

my brain built worlds

where belonging was something

everyone else received naturally

like breathing,

like instinct,

like being handed a map

I never got.

I used to think the nightmare

was that everyone was aliens.

But maybe the nightmare

was being the only one

trying so hard to learn

how to be something

that came naturally to everybody else.

Looking around thinking,

What is it that you all know that I somehow missed?

And maybe that says something, doesn’t it?

That a child’s imagination

didn’t dream of monsters,

or falling,

or being chased through dark hallways.

No.

My recurring nightmare

was social exile dressed up as science fiction.

The terror wasn’t invasion.

It was disconnection.

It was sitting inside a world full of people

and feeling like I’d been printed

from a different blueprint entirely.

The strange part is

I still carry that dream sometimes.

In crowded rooms.

In conversations.

In moments where everyone else

seems to have downloaded instructions

I’m still searching for.

But now I wonder…

Maybe I was never the only human

in a world of aliens.

Is it just me?

Maybe there were others too,

standing quietly in the crowd,

looking around thinking,

Maybe we were never alone.

Just scattered.

Just fluent in hiding.

M.D

[analysisuntilache]

Heights;

I always say I’m afraid of heights,

because it’s easier than naming the fears I’ve built brick by brick in my mind.

Heights are simple.

Everyone understands the vertigo, the drop, the way your stomach lurches

when you look down and imagine the end.

But the truth is, I’m afraid of abandonment.

Of being left mid-sentence, mid-love, mid-becoming.

Afraid of the quiet that follows when someone decides

I am no longer something they want to hold.

I’m afraid of silence.

Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that asks questions I don’t know how to answer.

So I fill it.

With chatter, with questions stacked on questions,

with proof that I am interesting enough, warm enough, worth staying for.

I talk because I am trying to be tethered.

Because if I stop, I worry I’ll disappear.

And then there is the fear of falling.

Not from buildings or cliffs, but from people.

From trust.

From moments where I let myself lean,

believing someone will catch me,

only to realise too late that I’ve been bracing myself alone.

So I say I’m afraid of heights.

I let people picture ledges and ladders and open skies.

I don’t tell them that the real fear is the drop inside my chest,

the one that happens when love feels uncertain,

when silence stretches too long,

when I start to wonder if I am already falling

and no one has noticed yet.

M.D

[analysisuntilache]

A true meaning of irony;

Isn’t it ironic

that the girl who dreams in melancholy

is the one who helps others dream hope,

cupping their fears like fragile glass,

speaking gently so they don’t break.

Isn’t it ironic

that she knows the exact words to say

when someone else is drowning,

yet swallows her own grief

until it learns the shape of her lungs.

Isn’t it ironic

that she becomes a lighthouse in storms

she was never rescued from,

burning herself steady

so others can find their way home.

Isn’t it ironic

that she believes in futures for everyone else,

threads their tomorrows with light,

while her own dreams sit quietly in the dark,

waiting for permission to exist.

Isn’t it ironic

how the ones who carry the most sorrow

learn to be gentle first

as if pain teaches tenderness,

and love is the language learned too late for herself. M.D