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frankenstein

oh darling you were created to be beautiful, trust the mind of your creator, life is something small enough to be held in the hands of a being who is curious until it isn't; there are fourteen bones in the face and none of yours are aligned right and your speech comes out slurred and there's something like beauty behind skin too pale and dead to be loved in and lived in again, there's something like the intent for life that you can see behind your eyes. seek comfort in the plans that were held for you. you cannot follow them any longer. you were made to be something beautiful. you are something else entirely.

#another poem about frankenstein #poems about identity #poems about being trans #emopoetry #poetry #poem

#art #literature #poetry #gothicpoetry #emopoetry #mentalhealth #selfcare #recovery

gunshots make me cry,

and i don’t know the reason for it,

but the sound of gunfire must hit something deep inside my heart.

gunshots make me cry,

and i thought i wasn’t scared of death,

that i’d say, “welcome,” when it came,

but maybe i’m more scared of death than i first realized.

gunshots make me cry,

and nothing else does anymore,

except when i’m depressed or anxious

and so i wonder which the thought of someone shooting up my school counts as.

gunshots make me cry,

and it’s not an emotional reaction,

because i’m sobbing before i have a chance to process what i’ve heard.

gunshots make me cry—

but i guess there’s nothing to do about that.

(this poem isn’t good, but i needed to somehow convey the knee-jerk reaction that i have to the sound of guns firing. i just,,, start crying,,, and i have zero doubt that that has something to do with the constant threat and the horrible reality of school shootings and gun violence that i’ve grown up with.)

#gen z #gen z culture #school shootings #poem #poetry #emopoetry #guns

"The Weight of All My Pauses"

I paused the music, but my thoughts kept screaming. Dishes in the sink, ghosts in my chest. I meant to clean, but sat down instead, and the silence said more than any checklist could. They call it a break— but it's just me arguing with my brain about what deserves my energy. I am stretched between grief I can't name and guilt I can't shake. How do you explain you’re not angry—just tired? Not bitter—just breaking? I want to love loud, but everything feels loud. Even kindness. Even air. So I shut the door, lower my voice, and raise a boundary. It doesn’t mean I don’t care. It means I finally do.

sometimes being strong means choosing quiet over conflict. sometimes love sounds like “i need space.” this one’s for the overstimulated, the overextended, and the ones learning to say “no” without guilt. 🖤