"pfp is me!! xp"
16, US
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https://blog.spacehey.com/bigchungusisabigchunkyboy
Category: Writing and Poetry
I made a YouTube account, a spacehey page- a place where I could exist without apology. Uploaded pieces of myself to a pixelated world because the real one was too sharp, too quiet, too full of ghosts. My profile song said things I couldn't. My bio told truths I hid at school. I edited photos, not to lie, but to build the version of me no one in real life had bothered to see. It wasn't just a phas... » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I used to carve the truth into my own arms. Wrote "hate" where love should have lived. Wrote "pain" where no one believed mine. Blades don't lie. They leave proof- that I felt something, anything, everything. I drew pictures too- because sometimes art is the only way to make sorrow visible. The sting was silence breaking. The blood was ink. My skin became a journal because no one ever read my eye... » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I did everything right. Church on Sundays, grades that made teachers smile, head down, hands clean. But inside, I was cracking. No motivation. No fire left. Just emotions I memorized to keep people from asking too many questions. I woke up heavy. Walked through days like fog. Smiled when I needed to. But the truth? I was fading. Slowly. Quietly. Behind honor rolls and hallelujahs. No one saw me dr... » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I went to church. Sat in pews with my hands folded, whispering prayers I wasn't sure reached anywhere, but hoping they did. I was a good student. Honor roll kid with tired eyes, acing tests with a brain that barely slept. No one knew the war I was in. They saw straight A's, not sleepless nights. They saw bowed heads, not bruised hearts. I memorized Bible verses and algebra like both might save me.... » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I am intelligent. Sharp like glass that's been shattered and remade. Not just book smart- sould smart. Pain smart. Smart in the ways you don't test for. I read rooms like novels. I decode silence like scripture. I spot lies in body language and hear the truth in what's not said. Don't mistake the rage, the scars, the diagnoses for lack of depth. I am layered- like literature. And yes, I know exact... » Continue Reading
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Category: Writing and Poetry
They gave my pain names. Labeled it like jars in a cabinet: major depressive disorder. Borderline personality disorder. Bipolar disorder. Three names to explain the fire, the floods, the silence, the screaming. But none of them said "she was abandoned. She raised babies at six. She trusted and was burned- again and again." They said "mood swings" but not "mourning." Said "unstable" but never "unlo... » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
After she left again, the silence screamed. And I couldn't carry it anymore. So I took the pills- not to die, but because I didn't know how else to make it stop. Tylenol, one by one, like each one could erase a memory, a disappointment, a scream I swallowed. Next thing I knew, white ceilings, a tube down my throat, nurses with eyes that looked through me. They pumped my stomach, but not my sorrow.... » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
She came back clean- and for three days, I believed in miracles. I memorized her laugh again, traced her sober smile like it was gospel. But then she vanished. No goodbye. No excuse. Just silence. And when I found out she was back on the streets, back on the needle, back to being a ghost wearing my mother's face. I hated myself for hoping. For opening my ribs just to have her rip the light out aga... » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
When my mom came to Missouri, sober- I felt something I hadn't felt in years: hope. She smiled like she meant it, hugged me like she remembered, and for a second I was just a kid again- not a caretaker, not a storm. She had been clean for a few months. And every day she stayed that way felt like a miracle I didn't dare name. I laughed for real. Let my guard down. Started picturing birthdays, schoo... » Continue Reading
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Category: Writing and Poetry
I was paranoid- not because I wanted to be, but because danger didn't knock, it just walked in. I watched shadows like clocks, counted seconds between raised voices, read faces like survival manuals. Trust was a risk I couldn't afford. Peace felt like bait. Even silence made me flinch- because calm always came right before the storm. I triple-checked locked doors, memorized exits, played out every... » Continue Reading
— 2 Kudos
Category: Writing and Poetry
I didn't trust adults- they were masks with promises that peeled off by morning. I learned young: smiles lie, "I'll be right back" doesn't mean they'll come back, and sometimes love hits harder than fists. So when teachers leaned in, when counselors softened their tone, I flinched. Every "we care about you" sounded like a setup. I trusted routines, not people. I trusted locked doors, not open arms... » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I threw tantrums like a four year old at nine- screaming, kicking, wild with everything I never got to release. They said I was too old to act like that. But I was too young to carry what I carried. No one noticed me falling apart at six. Too busy surviving. Too busy feeding babies and holding in screams. So when I was finally safe, my body remembered what my voice never got to say. I threw fists ... » Continue Reading
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