"pfp is me!! xp"
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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
Category: Writing and Poetry
I was a locked door with no key, a quiet room in a burning house, learning to smile with my mouth but never my eyes. I didn't cry- I couldn't. Tears were a luxury I couldn't afford when I was too busy holding everyone else together. So I shut down. Shut in. Stayed small, stayed silent, stayed safe. Because I knew what happened when people saw too much. They either left or tried to fix me- and I di... » Continue Reading
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Category: Writing and Poetry
I came from California- sunburnt streets and broken glass lullabies, where the air buzzed with sirens and survival. Then they dropped me in Missouri, where the sky stretched too wide and the silence felt like judgement. I didn't belong in cornfields or church pews. I brought palm tree scars and earthquake hearts to a town that smiled too politely to ask what I'd been through. I wore my pain like n... » Continue Reading
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Category: Writing and Poetry
I don't follow rules- because rules never kept me safe. I don't bite my tongue- because silence nearly swallowed me whole. Call me rebellious like it's a curse, but this fire? It's my resurrection. I dye my hair like it's war paint. I slam doors like thunder. I kiss chaos on the mouth and dance with the parts of me they tried to shame. You call it acting out. I call it fighting back. I am not a tr... » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I was nine with rage in my fists, rage in my stomach, rage in my silence. Don't tell me to be grateful. Don't tell me "at least" I was safe. Where was safety when I was six rocking my baby brother back to sleep with cracked lips and a shaking voice? I wanted to scream into cabinets, break plates just to feel the crash, just to make noise loud enough to match what I felt inside. Everyone said "you'... » Continue Reading
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Category: Writing and Poetry
I wasn't a sister- I was a stand-in mother with shaky hands, burning pop-tarts and whispering lullabies with a voice too small to soothe the world. Mama vanished like smoke while I held babies in blankets and fear like a knife behind my ribs. I learned to pour cereal before I could spell my own name, changed diapers with cartoons playing in the background, praying she'd come back before we ran out... » Continue Reading
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