Trangry

Angry | Broken | Trans *this page could be triggering*

[trangry]

The Night I Remembered

I finally understand why that song always found the softest part of me, why it pressed its thumb into a bruise I didn’t know I still carried.

Tonight, when the sky forgot its stars and fell silent, the darkness shifted, and suddenly I was back there, in that heavy, hopeless dark where the river inside my head ran too fast, too deep, too loud, and somehow too quiet.

I remember the way the chaos hummed, like static behind my eyes, like chains dragging through water, like something clawing at the back of my brain asking to be let in or let out I could never tell which.

And the song God, the song it wasn’t about love at all.

It was about the night I met the version of myself I almost didn’t come back from.

The night I learned how easy it is to lose everything and still keep breathing, and how the quiet of that place felt like a slow poison I hated myself for loving. Now I hear it differently. Not as longing, but as warning. Not as romance, but as remembrance.

A quiet, ethereal ache that says: I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you. And I realise it wasn’t someone else I was grieving. It was me. The me I lost. The me I survived. The me I’m still trying to carry out of the Mystic one slow step at a time.

A me I’ve been trying to outrun for most of my life. And maybe I’ll always need to keep running, but tonight I can’t pretend it’s anyone but me I’m fleeing.

[trangry]

Zac,

the biggest lie I ever told myself

was that I didn’t miss you.

I said I was fine.

I said I was surviving.

I said I could live without you

like it was something a person could just decide

and then somehow make true.

But the truth is ruin.

It’s the kind of ache that eats through the walls you build,

slow and patient,

until one day you realise there’s nothing left holding you up.

Your absence didn’t fade —

it hollowed me out.

It turned the nights into something sharp,

something that scraped at the inside of my ribs

until I couldn’t tell the difference

between missing you

and bleeding for you.

I told myself I was whole without you,

but that was a fantasy I clung to

because the alternative was admitting

that losing you broke something in me

that never healed.

I miss you in ways that feel feral.

I miss the way your presence steadied me

without you even knowing you were doing it.

I miss the way you looked at me

like you recognised every fracture

and didn’t turn away.

And God, Zac —

I miss the stupid things too.

The way you’d shove your toes in my nose

just to annoy me,

just to make me laugh,

just because you could.

I would give anything

to have that kind of ordinary back.

I miss the life we had,

and the life we were supposed to have,

and the version of myself

that only existed when you were beside me.

And I’ve spent months pretending

that I wasn’t waiting for you,

that I wasn’t listening for you,

that I wasn’t hoping your system

would reach for mine again.

But the truth is this:

I want you home.

Not in some soft, romantic way —

in the way a drowning person wants air.

The lie that I didn’t miss you

was the only thing keeping me from collapsing.

But I’m done pretending.

I’m done being brave.

I miss you.

I always did.

And the part of me that shattered when you left

never stopped calling your name.

[trangry]

Daddy misses you

I miss the way you used to fold into me,

small and certain,

like you knew exactly where you belonged.

I miss the way my hands

knew what to do with you

how to steady you,

how to guide you,

how to quiet the storm in your mind.

That part of me never died.

He just went silent

when the ground between us cracked.

But lately,

when you soften,

when you seek me,

when you let yourself need me

even for a moment

I feel him rise again.

And God, it hurts.

Because I want to be that for you.

I want to be the one you trust,

the one you lean into,

the one who holds you steady

when the world tilts.

But I can’t be Daddy

to a heart that disappears.

I can’t anchor someone

who keeps slipping beneath the surface.

Still

I miss him.

I miss me.

I miss us.

[trangry]

Hay there, Zac,

I’ve been replaying all the nights we used to talk,

how you’d brush me with your toes

just to set my heartbeat off,

and I swear, in those small moments,

you were home without a door.

Hay there, Zac,

I know the world got heavy, cracked us open on the floor,

but when you look at me these days

I see the boy I knew before,

and it hits me like a memory

I’m still learning to adore.

And I’m not asking for the past,

I’m not trying to rewind,

but there’s a softness in your voice

that keeps tugging at my mind.

Chorus

So hay there, Zac,

I’m still here, I’m still steady,

holding space for something new

if you ever feel ready.

We don’t have to rush the healing,

we don’t have to name the feeling,

just meet me where the light comes back.

Hay there, Zac.

Hay there, Zac,

I miss the way we fit like we were written in the seams,

how you’d laugh into my shoulder

like you trusted me to dream,

and I’d swear the world was gentle

when you curled your hands in mine.

Hay there, Zac,

I know we’re walking careful now,

but that’s alright with me —

I’d rather build it slow and honest

than pretend we’re who we used to be.

If there’s a future in your heartbeat,

you can lay it next to mine.

I’m not asking for a promise,

just a truth we both can hold,

something quiet, something real,

something brave instead of bold.

Chorus

So hay there, Zac,

I’m still here, I’m still steady,

holding space for something new

if you ever feel ready.

We don’t have to rush the healing,

we don’t have to name the feeling,

just meet me where the light comes back.

Hay there, Zac.

Bridge

And maybe we’re just learning

how to breathe in the same room,

how to let the past be past

without shutting out the bloom.

If you ever want to try,

I’ll be right here — not behind —

walking with you, step for step,

through the pieces we’ll refine.

Hay there, Zac,

I’m still here, I’m still steady,

and the door is open softly

if your heart says you’re ready.

No pretending, no denying,

just the truth we’re both still trying —

meet me where the light comes back.

Hay there, Zac.

[trangry]

The Custodes Sanguinis

In the last winter of the old world, when kings devour their own crowns and the Church drowns in its own shadow, a child of the First Blood shall rise.

Born of the line they tried to bury, carried through fire by a fallen knight, she shall walk unseen between the realms of sword and spirit, of earth and heaven.

Her enemies will know her by the trembling of their thrones. Her allies will know her by the truth in her eyes. But she will know herself only by the weight of the world that hunts her.

Guard her, you who remain. Guard her with silence, with steel, with sacrifice. For if she falls, the world falls with her.

And when the moon bleeds over the broken temple, and the river runs backward with the sins of men, the One‑Eyed Watcher shall stand at her side, and the old gods and the new shall bow to her name.

For she is Eve, last branch of the living root, and through her the world will be remade—in light or in ruin.

[trangry]

Letter Written Between Heartbeats

My beloved,

Today I miss you a lot.

Not because you are gone, you still move through my days like a familiar constellation, but because I miss the way you once looked at me, as though I were something luminous.

I miss your smile, the one that curled like a secret meant only for me.

I miss your ridiculous toes nudging at my ribs and nose, your puppy‑hearted mischief, the way we fit together like a glove, easy as breath, ancient as dusk settling over a quiet field.

There was a comfort in us that felt older than our bodies, as if some small god recognised us and sighed in relief.

And now, every moment we share I hold with reverence, savouring it with every fibre of my being as though each second were a blessing placed gently in my hands.

There is a part of us that feels like glass, clear, trembling, precious. I hold it carefully not out of fear, but because it matters.

Because once it shattered, and the memory of those shards still glitters in my chest.

Yet here we stand, steady‑handed, letting the light pass through the fracture as if it were a doorway.

My deepest wish is simple and enormous:

that we heal what cracked between us. A fracture not born of cruelty, but shaped by life’s strange tides and choices thrust upon us by others.

If the fates are kind, let this be the place where we are remade, not a return, but a rebirth.

[trangry]

🌤️ Winter Sun 🌤

When I say you are my sun,

I don’t mean the mid‑summer blaze—

all heat and hurry,

all sharp shadows and burning edges.

I mean the winter sun.

The one that rises slowly,

gold spilling like a promise

across frost‑bitten ground.

The kind of light that doesn’t demand,

doesn’t scorch,

doesn’t chase anything away—

just rests on my skin

as if to say I’m here.

A warmth you lean into

without flinching.

A glow that finds you

after long nights

and longer seasons.

When I say you are my sun,

I mean the quiet kind—

the one that teaches me

how to thaw

without fear of burning.

[crushing-quotes]

“Missing you comes in waves. Tonight I’m drowning.”

[coral]

I still remember the very moment I fell in love with you.

[trangry]

[trangry]

At the Edge of the Forgotten Road

I’ll wait at the edge of the forgotten road,

where the old gods left their footprints

pressed into the earth like cooling embers,

and the air still hums with the memory

of their passing.

Here, the boundary stones are cracked

but not broken,

and the shadows of vanished travelers

move like slow constellations

across the dust.

The trees lean inward,

their branches braided with secrets—

names of heroes who rose,

names of monsters who fell,

names no mortal tongue remembers.

I stand where the world thins,

where the veil is a trembling thread,

where the wind carries messages

from realms that do not map themselves

onto any mortal sky.

If you return,

you will find me crowned in dusk-light,

a sentinel between ages,

holding the last spark

of a prophecy half-spoken.

Until then,

I’ll wait at the edge of the forgotten road,

where time circles like a hawk,

and destiny walks barefoot

through the dust.

[trangry]

I miss you in the quiet hours,

when the night thins to a whisper

and the dark feels ancient,

as if the world remembers

every love that ever broke

and hums them back to me.

I miss you from my bed—

the hollow beside me is a shoreline

left behind by a vanished god,

salt-scored, wind-bitten,

still carved by the shape

of what once lay there.

I miss you from my life

even though you still move through it,

a star I can see

but can no longer summon,

a constellation that once guided me

through storms and centuries.

We used to fit like legend—

two names spoken together

in the same breath

by storytellers who swore

we had been bound

long before our bodies ever met.

Love came to us like a rite,

like a destiny unfolding.

But even destinies fracture.

Even myths drown.

Once our souls sang—

a hymn older than breath.

Now I strain to hear

even a single thread of it,

a whisper, a remnant,

anything that proves

the song wasn’t a dream.

But the silence answers first.

And I never meant to be a burden,

never meant to be the anchor

dragging at your neck—

not a sailor’s tool,

not a simple weight,

but an artifact of the deep,

forged in the first storms

when the oceans were young.

A relic older than language,

etched with runes of fear and longing,

heavy with the gravity

of forgotten kingdoms.

The kind of anchor

that drags whole epics under,

that can pull a hero

past the last light of the surface

into the cold, crushing dark

where stories end.

I didn’t want to be

the myth you had to sever

to save your own name.

But tonight, in the loud dark,

I miss you with the ache

of something eternal—

a tide that refuses to recede,

a prophecy half-fulfilled,

a love that still echoes

through the deep places

where even gods

hold their breath.

[trangry]

Just let me rot.

[lunamonchtuna]

— Haruki Murakami, from Norwegian Wood (via lunamonchtuna)

[traumasurvivors]

Some days the trauma doesn’t shout. It whispers. It’s not a flashback or a panic attack. It’s the heavy pause before you answer a text. The way your shoulders are already tense before anything goes wrong. The voice that asks, “Are you sure it’s safe to be calm?”

That’s trauma too. And surviving those quiet days counts just as much.

[trangry]

The Disappearance of Andy

At some point,

I stopped being Andy.

Not with a bang,

but a quiet costume change—

a smile stitched on with trembling hands,

a voice rehearsed for rooms

that never asked who I was.

I became the character:

Functioning,

flawless,

folded into the script.

Outside, I moved like clockwork.

Inside, I unraveled—

a threadbare myth

trying to remember its own name.

Confusion curled in my chest

like smoke from a forgotten fire.

I laughed on cue,

but the echo never reached me.

I was falling—

not dramatically,

just slowly enough

that no one noticed.

But somewhere beneath the mask,

Andy still hums.

A skink in the underbrush,

a whisper in the pantry,

a ritual waiting to be remembered.

I reclaim myself in small ways:

a piece of furniture carefully chosen,

a playlist that only I understand,

moments of silent reflection,

blessed by mascots at dawn.

Each act a stitch,

each stitch a spell.

BUT never let go of your string.

Even when it frays,

even when it tangles in grief,

I hold it.

I hold it like breath,

like myth,

like the last true name

I haven’t spoken yet.

No matter how long it takes,

I’ll follow its pull

back to the place

where we both begin again.

[trangry]

Shards of Me

When did I stop being me?

Was it when my heart shattered

and betrayal stabbed like a dagger—

not once, but with the rhythm of forgetting?

Did I vanish in the echo of silence,

when names I trusted turned to ash,

and the mirror whispered

a stranger’s grief in my own voice?

I remember the fracture—

not loud, but sacred,

like a ritual undone,

like a guardian stripped of their sigil.

I wore loyalty like armor,

but it rusted in the rain of lies.

I stitched myself with threads of myth,

but even myths bleed when abandoned.

Still, somewhere beneath the wreckage,

a wolf howled—not broken,

just changed.

Not gone, but reborn in shadow.

So I ask again:

When did I stop being me?

Perhaps I never did.

Perhaps I became something deeper—

a keeper of scars,

a poet of ruins,

a soul who dares to rise

with dagger still lodged,

but eyes wide open.