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Abdulla 7d
Abuse, avoid, forgive, abuse, avoid, forgive
It’s never ending a cycle of stupidity I allow to continue
We talk, we have fun, but I must follow the script

A cycle of stupidity I can’t break free of
Oh, how family can cause so much pain
A crave for love, and a crave to love
And all they crave is to be on top

But it’s not my fault you’re not the favorite
It’s not my fault you’re lazy and dumb
But it is my fault I stay
Stay in this box, broken and withered,

I stay with hopes you’ll change
But it’s been 15 years
And your grip has gotten stronger
And your heart has gotten colder
As my heart falls further

But I crave for love and protection
I crave for normalcy, and to be able to confide in you
But you’ve left me to fall apart like a box in the rain

I see others and how they live
Their hearts full
Not like mine
Not like yours

Not like your empty, broken heart
That knows nothing other than breaking mine
Not like my broken heart
That knows nothing but to try and fix the pieces.

Oh, it’s truly a cycle of stupidity, and I want to break free
But I live in a world of abuse, avoid, forgive
It waits until I’m almost steady.
Not at rock bottom ~
that’s too predictable.
It prefers the moment I reach for light
with both hands.

That’s when it speaks.

“Cute,”
it coos,
“You really thought clarity made you real.”

It doesn’t shout.
It purrs,
low and syrupy,
like a lullaby laced with glass.

It knows every version of me;
the ones I buried to be digestible.
It built this mind like a haunted house
and hands me the key every time I dare to leave.

“You always did mistake coherence for truth,”
it says,
dragging its nails along the walls of my thoughts.
“So good at talking. So bad at existing.”
I flinch.

It recites memories I forgot to be ashamed of.
Plays tapes I didn’t know I recorded.
Slows down the faces, the pauses,
the ones who humored me and didn’t mean it.

“Look at them smile. Look at you, lapping it up.”

It paces.
It prowls.
It pulls up a chair when I sit with someone and dare to feel seen.
Leans in and whispers,
“They’re just being kind. You’re not that hard to pity.”
It keeps me tense.

It’s not a villain.
It’s a roommate.
It knows my schedule, my preferences, my tells.
It trims my self-trust like dead ends from hair.
Efficient.
Unemotional.
Necessary.

And when I resist ~
when I say No, I felt that, I meant that,
it doesn’t argue.

It just tilts its head and says,
“You really do crave applause for surviving, don’t you?”

Then it goes quiet,
knowing I’ll crawl back
the second I start to question
what’s mine
and what’s performance.

Because between the two of us,
only one of us ever sounds like she knows what she’s talking about.
This is the voice that doesn’t yell - it purrs. The one that arrives not in crisis, but in clarity. It’s the part of me that keeps the lights dimmed just enough to make doubt look like insight. It isn’t dramatic. It’s persuasive. And it’s lived in my head long enough to sound like the truth.
Spicy Digits Jul 16
I thought we were strangers
As much as we were strangers to
Everyone around

I thought you were just
A story untold,
A future ideal

My little self dreamt of you
Pretended you were a hero

She saw you under the bed
In the backyard
In the furled faces
Of a million flowers

I knew you were of this
universe, well-known
But wasn't convinced
We'd ever meet in the flesh

But we've met many times
You and I

In the corner of my shoe closet
Running down that street, bruised.
We met in a cafe on Rue de Seine
On the 4-hour bus rides at 3am

We sat together, utterly content,
On the floor of old libraries
Inhaling stories and scents
Of cedarwood and vanillan

I saw you dancing
When I was dancing
Awkward nerds
You took my hand, pulling

Your kind, fractalled face
Kissed mine a thousand times
Your voice saved my life

In awe at the depth of your knowing,
I'm grateful we're still alive.

X
Vazago d Vile Jul 15
You say your demons haunt you.
But I’ve stared into worse —
and they blinked first.

If yours would face me,
I’d burn them down with truth and fury,
one by one,
until your name was free.

But they don’t.

They wear your face.
Speak with your voice.
And you…
you still call them home.

So I wait.
Not because I’m weak —
but because this battle is not mine to win.
It’s yours to start.

But when you do?
I’ll be there. Sword drawn. Fire ready.
Not to fight for you —
but with you.
This piece is a vow — not to save her, but to stand beside her. A battle cry wrapped in love.
Inspired by watching someone I love wrestle with pain, trauma, and inner demons they call home.
I don’t fight their fight. But when they rise… I’m there.
— Vazago
Lynette Jul 12
(a poem for the women left holding the dustpan)

I remember when my children were small—
eager hands reaching for the broom,
begging to help.
They’d trail behind me,
half-heartedly sweeping,
missing corners,
scattering crumbs.

But they wanted to try.
So I let them.

I’d guide their tiny hands,
show them the rhythm,
and still end up doing it myself.
They’d get tired, bored—
drop the broom mid-sweep
and run off laughing
while I stayed behind
to clean it properly.

That’s what this felt like with you.

You insisted.
“I want this. I can do this.”
So I gave you the broom.
I showed you the way.
I slowed down, waited,
offered my heart like a home.

But the minute the work began,
the minute the dust stirred,
you handed it back—
too heavy, too much,
not fun anymore.

And like a child,
you disappeared into yourself,
while I stood there—
hands full of splinters,
heart full of ache,
sweeping up the pieces
of everything you couldn’t carry.

You wanted the broom.
Until you didn’t.

And now I’m here,
again—
cleaning the mess
you made of me.
Remembering the men who wanted to play, but not clean up after the mess they made.
In A Corner
Utterly mine, in the deep silence,
in a house of purest white,
On the cusp of a morning,
with my soul utterly serene.
In the garden of the soul,
among the butterflies,
softly fluttering,
gently whispering,
poems,
within me.
For me,
sighs,
tranquil and hushed,
from that weary breath,
that still persists,
whispering poems,
even as I drown,
in this life that is not mine.
While I await my flight,
to soar from my corner to another place.
That distant realm where the soul takes wing,
where peace knows no end,
where living no longer burdens,
where I shall never tire,
where all is beautiful,
on the very wings of God,
in my own place,
so far away.
Meanwhile,
time softly slips by,
and I still gaze out,
from this beautiful corner,
of a soul that has grown weary of living.

EN UN RINCON

Muy mío, en el silencio,

en una casa blanca pura,

Al borde de una mañana,

con mi alma sosegada.

En el jardín del alma,

entre mariposas,

revoloteando,

susurrando,

poemas,

en mí.

Para mí,

suspiros,

tranquilos,

de ese respirar,

cansado, que sigue,

susurrando poemas,

a pesar de ahogarme,

en esa vida que no es mía.

Mientras espero despegar,

y volar de mi rincón a otro lado.

Ese sitio lejano donde el alma vuela,

donde la paz nunca se acaba,

donde ya no cuesta vivir,

donde ya no me canse,

donde todo es bello,

en las alas de Dios,

en mi lugar,

lejano.

Mientras,

pasa el tiempo,

y yo me asomo aún,

en ese rincón tan hermoso,

de un alma que se cansa de vivir.
VERY SLOWLY
How many years have drifted by,
Time rushes swiftly on.
And I, at times, pause myself,
So very slowly I go,
And in myself get lost.
Very slowly,
I take my time,
To lose myself,
Within my being,
Deep in thought.
I take my pause,
So very softly,
I look and listen,
I lose myself within,
Cease thinking,
And only feel,
That beating heart,
That soul,
That throbs,
That feels,
And I forget,
Of everything, no more.
I turn to me,
And let myself just sleep,
Within those dreams.
Sometimes I read verses,
So very softly,
Just as I like it.
Very calm,
I stop my clock,
And rest.
Cadmus Jun 17
🎭

What I truly feel
doesn’t survive the telling.

It breaks
on the edge of language…
leaving only
a softened version
for others to understand.

while the real thing
keeps burning quietly
where no words can reach.

🎭
Some truths are not spoken - they are endured in silence.
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