#soft pain

[prettyprincesse80]

They broke apart like it meant nothing. But the way they looked at each other after?

That said everything

This ruined me actually.

They never stopped choosing each other, even when they stopped saying it out loud.

[nonefrancesca]

La luna conosce l’amore stanco degli esseri umani,

sa cosa vuol dire sentirsi incompleti

e continuare a cambiare forma

pur di non scomparire del tutto.

Ci somiglia quando si spezza piano,

quando resta a metà

e finge di stare bene,

quando brilla anche se le manca qualcosa.

Lei sa che la malinconia

non è assenza di luce,

ma luce che ha imparato a soffrire in silenzio.

Ogni sua fase è una nostalgia,

un ritorno che fa male,

un modo delicato di dirci

che l’amore non è essere pieni,

ma restare

anche quando ci sentiamo meno.

E forse per questo la guardiamo così tanto:

perché nella sua distanza gentile

ci promette che spezzarsi

non significa smettere di amare,

ma solo imparare

un altro modo di brillare.

[ickywritespoetry]

I am autistic.

I see warmth from a distance.

I suffer from a subtle separation.

I hate it.

I do not want to be alone.

This is not some coping mechanism.

This is not some hoping mechanism.

This is a subtle schism between myself and others.

It hurts.

I spend a lot of time dissecting human interaction.

I can interact better then.

I cannot spend much time having it myself.

It is repelled by my self.

There is no disdain in distance.

There is quiet and unremarkable pain.

You can never see it.

You can never feel it.

It is still there.

There is a cold weightless stillness.

There is some connection there.

There is a longing for more.

This is not caused by distance.

This is not caused by fear.

It existed since my childhood.

It existed for as long as I could.

It hurts.

-Icky

[bynadezda]

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦

Where every word is dressed in lace and longing. Where shadows speak louder than daylight ever dared. You may undress your shame here. Slowly. Delicately.

𝐀 𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐢𝐧 | 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐈𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱

S*ft Porn Sadness

Where Lust Lives After Love Dies

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐁𝐲𝐍𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐳𝐝𝐚

A sanctuary for soft moans and darker truths. Poetic short stories written in velvet shadows for those who ache with elegance and love with hunger.

𝐌𝐲 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐝.

You’ve found your way into a quiet corner of the internet where longing lingers, lust aches, and every sentence tastes like secrets.

𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐈 𝐚𝐦.

I’m Nadezda. A storyteller of dark desires, blurred lines, and the kind of love that bruises beautifully.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭.

This blog is a home for my original dark romance short stories sensual, introspective, and emotionally unflinching. Here, the poetry is sacred. And pleasure walks hand in hand with pain.

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲. 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝. 𝐒𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐥𝐲.

And if the words ruin you a little— good.

[viraliven]

[prettylittleskyars]

Too Late

You know what's strange?

I've never been someone’s first choice.

Never the one they opened the door for.

I was always just outside—so close I could hear the laughter,

feel the warmth through the cracks.

But not close enough to be let in.

I always arrive late.

Too late for love.

Too late for space in their heart.

By the time I get there,

someone else has already unpacked their memories,

left their scent in the sheets,

written their name on the walls.

And me?

I just stand there,

holding all this love

with nowhere to put it.

Maybe if I looked like her.

Smiled like her.

Maybe if I reminded them of something familiar,

something already loved—

they would have made space for me.

But I’m not her.

And because of that,

no matter how softly I knock,

the door stays shut.

Every time,

I get to their heart

just a little too late.

And they never wait for me.

Vishakha Kallani

[the-rainy-corner]

[nonefrancesca]

We are all just stars with human names,

borrowed flesh, borrowed time,

trying to remember the shape of the sky

while learning how to breathe on earth.

We burn in silence,

slow and faithful,

loving too much, hoping too hard,

turning longing into light.

Every goodbye consumes us,

every dream costs a little more flame,

and still we keep shining—

not because it’s easy,

but because it’s the only way

we know how to exist.

Some nights we look up

and feel homesick for something

we can’t name,

for a place where loving doesn’t hurt

and light doesn’t have to destroy itself.

Maybe we’re not lost.

Maybe burning is the journey.

Maybe the sky is not a place above us,

but the moment we dare

to feel everything

and still choose to shine.