Poetry from bulletins

i write, i spill thoughts, i post little poems, little confessions, little disasters.
this post will be updated often—sometimes gently, sometimes messily, always honestly.
stay if you want. scroll if you need. i’ll probably be overthinking somewhere in the background.

UNTITLED

my mind is a kitchen table covered in stickers,

tomatoes with faces, bread that smiles back.

everything is too bright to be sad properly,

so i glitter instead.

jam drips like feelings i refuse to explain,

strawberries gossip in the corners of my mouth.

i collect tiny joys—

a pancake sun, a rice-roll moon,

a bunny made of butter.

nothing here is serious.

everything here matters.

i live between cute and unhinged,

where food has feelings

and my heart is a lunchbox

packed too full to close.

if you love me,

love me like a collage—

messy, sweet, overlapping,

held together with tape and hope

and a lot of color. 

UNTITLED

They arrive like dust on afternoon light,

those old and lost memories—

not whole, not willing,

but drifting in the quiet corners of the mind.

A laugh without a face,

a street that ends before its name returns,

the smell of rain on something

I once called home.

They hover, fragile as breath on glass,

then fade when I reach for them.

Time has edited the past without mercy,

cut scenes mid-sentence,

left only the background music

of feelings I can’t place anymore.

Joy without context.

Grief without a cause.

Some memories sleep beneath years of living,

buried under habits, obligations, noise.

Others are simply gone—

not stolen, not destroyed,

just released,

like letters never sent,

or names no longer needed.

Yet in the losing, something remains:

a softness, a knowing ache,

proof that I was there,

that I loved, that I changed.

Even forgotten moments leave fingerprints

on who I’ve become.

And sometimes, in the stillness,

one returns—

faint but stubborn—

to remind me that nothing truly lived

is ever completely lost.

midnight confessions

i have 17 tabs open
and none of them matter
but i keep clicking anyway.

my cat is staring at me like
i am the failure of the century
and maybe she’s right.

coffee is cold now
but it was warm enough
to make me feel alive
for three minutes
before existential dread came back
and sat next to me.

i typed “hello” in my dms
then deleted it
because words feel heavier
than i am allowed to carry.

i think about people
i don’t know
and wish they were in the room
just to laugh at my terrible jokes
or tell me something true
so i could copy it
and claim it as mine.

the ceiling looks different tonight.
maybe it’s me.
maybe it’s the world.
probably both.

and here i am,
writing nonsense into the void
and hoping that maybe
someone somewhere
feels less alone reading it.

whisper to the moon

the moon hangs there,
too quiet, too pale,
like it knows secrets
i’m not ready to tell.

i stare at her from my window,
hands wrapped around a mug
that is definitely too hot
and think about all the nights
i’ve been awake
while the world sleeps.

does she ever get lonely, i wonder,
just floating there
watching us stumble
through our small, messy lives?

sometimes i imagine
i could tell her everything
if only she would lean closer
and listen
without judging
or blinking too fast.

but she doesn’t.
she just glows,
steady and impossible,
and i keep writing
tiny, useless poems
about her anyway.