memoirs of ink-stained wounds

memoirs of ink-stained wounds 4d

🐙

Are you a judge, why do you keep objecting me?
I am not a clown, but I am a laughingstock
I am not a mistake, but you saw me as a failure
Well is for fetching a pail of water, not for pushing me down to drown
Snakes are crawling, how come, you are also walking
Coins have two sides, so are humans too, but you are one sided.
What is wrong with my eyes, why do they have subtitles, the same goes with my face.
My eyes, they side eye or roll
My lips, they twitch and glitch then smirk
My face went from normal to poker
My eyebrows are raised, but I prefer to walk away.

memoirs of ink-stained wounds 4d

jdgmnt

I’m asking for help.
I’m reaching out my hand—
because I’m falling, and I’m falling fast.
I’ve been swallowed by the depths of sadness,
of exhaustion,
of loneliness.

But instead of being helped,
I was mocked.
Instead of being comforted,
I was insulted.
Instead of hearing, “I’m here for you,”
all I heard was,
"That’s your fault. You’re weak."

Instead of wiping my tears,
they laughed at me.
And now,
I’ve become the joke—
the laughingstock.

Like my pain was a punchline
and my breakdown was entertainment.
They didn't see a cry for help,
they saw a stage.

I want to rise above it.
I want to breathe again.
But every time I try to climb,
someone pulls me back down.

I get yelled at—
as if I have no right to be tired,
as if I have no right to be sad,
as if I have no right to simply ask for help.

They think I choose strength.
But the truth is,
strength is the only mask I have left
when I have no other choice
but to hold myself together.

I don’t want to give up.
But what do you do when every cry for help
is answered with ridicule?

How do you keep fighting
when the very people you expected to support you
are the first to strangle you with their words?

I used to be afraid of the dark — but not anymore,
because the darkness around me and the darkness I feel inside have become the same.

Instead of being saved, I was pushed off the edge.
Instead of being helped to stand, I was mocked even more.
Their words speak of kindness, but their actions betray cruelty.

They preach fairness, yet they have favorites. For them,
love overflows — but only for some.
For me, it's always just the bare minimum

I’m tired.
Tired of explaining myself.
Tired of pretending I’m strong
just so they won’t call me “attention-seeking.”

I’m not asking for grand kindness.
I’m not asking for all the answers—
all I wanted was a little understanding.

Just once,
help me stand
before you judge me.

memoirs of ink-stained wounds 4d

🙄🙄🙄

They called me the “angry daughter.”
But I was also the daughter who had to wipe her own tears
and keep going like everything was just fine.
I was the daughter who never talked much about what I was going through,
because I didn’t want to bother anyone
or make people worry about me.

I stayed quiet.
Held all my feelings inside
just so no one could see how much I was really struggling.
I was the daughter who had to stay strong—
the one who had to figure everything out on her own
until I forgot how to ask for help.

I had to become my own support.
My own comfort.
Because I felt like no one else could really understand me.
And no one really cared enough to try.

I was the daughter they expected to be the strong one all the time,
so I played that part perfectly.
Even when all I wanted was for someone to hold me for a little while,
to tell me I didn’t always have to pretend.
That I didn’t always have to carry the weight of the world just to be loved.

I wonder how different it would’ve been
if someone had just told me
that I didn’t have to face it all alone.
Maybe then I wouldn’t have felt so empty,
trying to figure out everything on my own.

They called me dramatic
when I finally broke down—
but they forgot that even the strongest bridges collapse
when they carry too much for too long.

They called me rebellious
when all I ever wanted was to be heard
without being dismissed.
To be seen without being judged.

And now...
I’m learning how to walk away.

That kind of walking away
that isn’t about running or revenge,
but about choosing peace
after years of swallowing chaos.
It’s the kind of walking away
where I finally say:

Enough is enough.

Enough for the times I felt neglected.
Enough for the moments I shrank myself
just to be acceptable.
You only saw me when I was useful.
When I served, when I smiled, when I stayed silent.

But when I failed—
I became your scapegoat.
You blamed me,
not for the action,
but for who you decided I was because of it.
You turned one mistake
into my entire identity.

You didn’t give me space to grow.
You gave me a cage.
And now, I’ve found the key.

I am walking away.
Not because I hate you,
but because I’ve finally learned to love myself
more than your approval.

This is not betrayal.
This is survival.
This is healing.
This is me
reclaiming my voice,
my peace,
and everything I was forced to bury
just to belong.

And maybe—just maybe—
if you ever wonder why I stayed away,
it’s because being close to you
meant losing myself.

Not anymore.

memoirs of ink-stained wounds Aug 3

Untitled

You think you know me?

You only know the version of me I let you see.

To some, I’m kind—gentle even. Someone who listens, who understands, who holds space.
To others, I’m cold. Distant. Maybe even cruel. And maybe I am. Depends on what part of me you’ve earned—or what part I had to become to survive you.

Some say I’m talented. They see sparks, passion, something that moves.
But most? They don’t see anything.
To them, I’m just noise. Background. Disposable.

I can be the warmth in the room or the one who snuffs out the light.
I don’t always choose—sometimes I just shift.

To a few, I’m artistic. Strange, but intriguing. They say I’m original. Unfiltered. A little chaotic in a beautiful way.
To others, I’m just “trying too hard.” Pretentious. A performance waiting to fail.

Some call me creative. A mind that breathes in color and bleeds it into form.
But there are also eyes—watching me like predators.
Picking apart my work. Measuring me with crooked rulers.
Waiting for the day I collapse under the weight of it all.

There are people proud of me. Quietly so. They don’t always say it, but I feel it.
And then there are those who mock me.
Turn my struggles into punchlines.
Celebrate my silence.
Wait for me to trip—just so they can say, “I knew it.”

Some are rooting for my downfall.
Not because I wronged them—
but because my rise threatens something in them they refuse to confront.

Still… there are the rare few who wait with hope.
They’re not loud. They don’t demand my attention.
But they’re there—watching with patience, believing in the version of me even I haven’t met yet.
Waiting for me to grow into myself. To rise.

And maybe that’s enough.

Because I’m not here to prove myself to everyone.
I’m not a performance. I’m not your projection.
I’m not a failure for not being who you expected.
I am a storm. A contradiction. A work in progress.

So whether you cheer for me, mock me, love me, hate me,
Whether you’re waiting for me to fly or to fall—
At least you’re watching.

And I’ll keep becoming.

memoirs of ink-stained wounds Aug 1

I fear God— not the beast

A commenter once said,
"You were trained to fear God.
I was born to question Him.
Is a god worth serving if fear is the leash?"

And I paused.

For in their words was fire—
a defiance cloaked in thought,
a challenge hurled at the heavens
as if thunder owed them silence.

But listen.
Let me speak—not in wrath, but reverence.
For I was not trained like a whipped dog,
nor brainwashed by blind tradition.
I was not taught to fear like prey,
but to tremble before the Holy One in awe.

Because I know fear—
but not the kind the Devil feeds on.
Not the trembling that empowers
the Deceiver,
the Accuser of the Brethren,
the Dragon,
Lucifer, the son of the morning,
the Serpent of Old,
the Tempter,
the Enemy,
Beelzebub, lord of the flies,
Belial, the worthless one,
Abaddon, the destroyer,
Apollyon, his Greek name,
the god of this age,
the prince of the power of the air,
the ruler of this world,
the father of lies,
Satan, the adversary,
Leviathan, the twisting serpent,
the angel of the bottomless pit,
Mammon, the god of greed,
the Lawless One,
the Man of Sin,
the Son of Perdition.
So many names—because he is a master of masks.

He thrives on your fear,
feeds on confusion,
mimics the light,
perverts truth.
But I was not born of him.
I was not shaped by his chaos.

No. I was born to fear the Lord.
The I AM.
The Ancient of Days,
The Alpha and Omega,
The Righteous Judge,
The Lion and the Lamb.

And my fear?
It is not slavery.
It is surrender.

It is not the leash of a tyrant—
It is the reverence due to Majesty.
For even Christ, in Gethsemane,
trembled.
He wept.
He asked, "Let this cup pass from me..."
And yet—He drank it.
Not because He was leashed by fear—
but because He was led by love.

You ask me if God is worth serving
if fear is the price.
But I ask you:
Is the storm not worthy of awe?
Is the ocean not sacred because it can drown?
Is the sun less holy because it burns?

I fear God—yes.
Because He could break me,
but chooses to build me.
Because He could condemn me,
but chose the cross instead.
Because He sees the abyss in me—
and still reaches in.

So no—
I was not trained like a beast.
I was born to kneel.
I was born to worship.
I was born to fear—but not like you think.

You see fear as a chain.
I see it as a compass.
You see questioning as freedom.
But even questions can serve the wrong master.

Your words were poetic.
But poetry can be a dagger
or a prayer.

And I,
by the mercy of the One I fear,
choose the prayer.

memoirs of ink-stained wounds Aug 1

so why am I happy?

“So, Why Am I Happy?”— A monologue of distance, survival, and self-love.

You ask why I’m happy?

Funny how the question only comes now—
now that I’ve stopped explaining myself,
now that I’ve stopped showing up for people
who never noticed I was crumbling.

I’m happy not because life suddenly became kind,
but because I walked away from the rot I once called “home.”
I forgave them—not for their sake, never for them.
But for me.
To unshackle my wrists from the rusted chains
they wrapped in apologies.

I repainted my ruins.
I rebuilt my walls with bare hands and blistered hope.
I whispered into the wind
and let it carry my pain where it could no longer echo back.

I was there.
Every time.
When they were bleeding,
I tore parts of myself just to patch them up.

But when I was the one unraveling?
Silence.
They spared me reasons.
Not support. Not love.
Just cold, neat, well-explained reasons.

They laughed at the sacrifices I never mentioned,
mocked my distance when I finally drew a line.
No one asked,
“What happened to her?”
No.
They only asked,
“Why did she stop serving us?”

They made me feel guilty for healing,
for reclaiming the space they once drained.
They confused my boundaries for betrayal,
my silence for arrogance,
my peace for punishment.

But here's the truth:
I gave my best to people who were never meant to stay.
I became the rescuer, the bandage, the therapist,
until I was the one bleeding out on the floor.
And when I stopped showing up,
they called me bitter.
They never asked why I changed—
they just judged the version of me that finally chose herself.

So yes, I walk away now—
but not with regret.
I carry lessons,
not leftover pain.

They burned the bridges?
Good.
I grew wings.

They kept talking,
but I stopped explaining.
Because silence, for me,
became the sharpest, cleanest form of goodbye.

I used to scream.
Now I just leave.

I used to explain my worth.
Now I live it—loud in spirit,
quiet in execution.

I dream again.
Not caged, not pitied.
Not waiting to be rescued.
I’m my own sanctuary now.

They said I was “too much”?
No.
They were just not enough.

They called me cold?
I call it calm.
They called me selfish?
I call it survival.

They don’t get to pity me anymore.
They don’t get to tell my story.
Because I wrote it in fire.
And I walk with it inked into every step I take.

I no longer carry the weight of pleasing people who left me empty.
I stopped bleeding for those who wouldn’t offer me a bandage.
And now that I’m glowing in the dark,
they say I’ve changed?

**** right, I did.

Because this joy—
this stillness, this freedom—
was earned.

I am happy.
And no one gets to steal that from me again.

memoirs of ink-stained wounds Jul 31

Midnight ;)

You've searched me and You've known me
When I rise up
When I walk out
You read my thoughts

Running all around
Search out my paths
And my lying down
You're not surprised

By any of my ways
And my heart is counting on it
While I wait
Before there was a word

Dripping off my tongue
God, you already heard it
And then it is sung
You hem me in and run

Ahead of both my feet
Order all my steps
And dream up all my dreams
Faithful to the end

Father and my friend
My Heart lays before You

Midnight
You catch every tear I cry
Midnight
I can feel You by my side

Where can I go?
Where can I flee?
There's not one place
That You cannot see

Heaven or Hell
Dark caves and trees
Mountains and hills
Desert or Deep

Even in my lungs
The air that I'm breathing is Yours

Midnight
You catch every tear I cry
Midnight
I can feel You by my side

See I will (I soak my bed with tears)
Still close (still feel Your presence near)
Oh, my sorrow (oh, through heartache, pain and fears)
You carry me God (You carry all my years)

I soak my bed with tears
Still feel Your presence near
(Through every heartache) oh, through heartache, pain and fears

(God You carry me) You carry all my years, yeah
Where can I go?
Where can I flee?
There's not one place

That You cannot see
Heaven or Hell
Dark caves and trees
Mountains and hills

(Oh, Desert or Deep) Desert or Deep
Even in my lungs
The air that I'm breathing is Yours
Midnight

You catch every tear I cry
Midnight
I can feel You by my side
All my tears

God, You know what I am, I'm crying out
Now, I'll drop forth
Apart from Your emblem
Oh-ooh

You've searched me and You've known me
When I rise up
When I walk out
You read my thoughts

Running all around
Search out my paths
And my lying down
You're not surprised

By any of my ways
And my heart is counting on it
While I wait

Reflection:

Sometimes… midnight is more than just a time on the clock.

It’s a place.
A pause between yesterday and tomorrow.
A sacred space where the world goes quiet—but my mind doesn’t.
It’s where my thoughts get loud.
Where my fears come out of hiding.
Where the pain I shoved down all day suddenly sits at the edge of my bed… refusing to leave.

Midnight is where the fight begins.
Not with fists or noise, but with whispers and weight.
I wrestle with questions I don’t dare say in the light:
“Am I really seen?”
“God, are You still with me?”
“Why does it still hurt?”

And sometimes, I feel the enemy creeping in.
Not in horns and smoke, but in thoughts that sting—
“You're forgotten.”
“You're not enough.”
“God’s not listening.”

And yet… in the middle of that silent war, something shifts.

It’s not loud.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s the still, steady presence of a God who never left.

Because when I stop… when I pray… when I whisper His name through gritted teeth or tearful sighs—
He answers.
Not always with a solution.
But always with Himself.

His presence.

And suddenly, midnight isn’t just a battlefield.
It’s holy ground.
A place where sorrow and faith collide.
Where I may soak my bed with tears, but I still feel His nearness.
Where I don’t have to pretend to be strong, because He already knows every weakness—and chooses to stay anyway.

I realize now…
Midnight isn’t the end. It’s the turning point.
Because even in the darkness, God is light.
Even in the silence, God is near.
Even in my breaking, God is holding.

So I breathe.
I weep if I must.
But I will not fear.

Because I am not alone.
Not then.
Not now.
Not ever.