wtf..

poetry

idk chat..lately it’s been rough ngl. the thing getting me through as of late is writing. so enjoy this collection of poems, maybe they’ll allow at least one of you to not feel so alone, even for a second. momentary update ig.. ponyo is goated af and still holds up.

some songs i listened to while i wrote these:

the toll

I’m caught in a grey stretch of living—
where friendships flicker,
romance dissolves before it begins,
and everything feels just out of reach.

and still—
I’m most inspired when I’m here.
strangely,
misery moves my pen the most.
a bitter gift.
a quiet fuel.

shouldn’t I be curled inward,
wallowing in the weight of it?
but I don’t.
I rarely do.

pain and I—
we’ve always had
an understanding.

I never feared it.
I learned early
that some things are worth the sting.

like burning your finger
on a flat iron—
just to smooth the strand.

like staying close to someone
who’ll never want you back—
because the ache feels better
than the silence.

pain isn’t the enemy,
just the toll.
the proof you reached for something real.

and maybe that’s why I write.
not to escape it,
but to give it shape—
to make meaning
from the bruises I’ve earned.

a way to say:
I’m still here.
even when it hurts.
especially when it hurts.

---

not so grim..not so reaper

my skull chain dangles on my collarbone,
bouncing with every step—
a symbol I wear,
a quiet reminder
that we all arrive at the same ending.

some run from it,
some walk straight in,
some nod in passing,
grateful for the clarity it brings.

I never feared what follows,
or what doesn’t.
I was raised to celebrate it—
the Día de los Muertos of it all.

candles lit,
photos placed with care,
memories stirred like warm drinks
on cold nights.
they may be gone in body,
but we carry their voices,
their laughter,
their favorite songs
folded into our everyday.

still—
one night, sleep pinned me down.
a silence so loud
I couldn’t scream through it.
limbs frozen,
breath caught like it knew something I didn’t.

and there he was—
the Grim Reaper,
standing at the foot of my bed.

not terrifying.
just… present.
like someone you weren’t expecting,
but somehow always knew would show.

it wasn’t death that shook me,
it was the stillness.
the way my body refused to move,
refused to fight,
even if I wanted to.

and yet—
no panic,
just a strange peace.
as if he came only to remind me:

we all meet, someday.
so why flinch?

and for a moment,
that meeting quieted the noise—
the weight I sometimes carry,
the thoughts that whisper,
maybe now… maybe this is it.

but it didn’t last.

because it felt like he looked at me
and said, oh, for real?
like he was testing how far I’d go.

and I blinked through the fog,
heart suddenly loud again,
and thought—
maybe I’m just sad.

maybe not yet.
maybe not like this.
maybe I still have more to feel,
to hold,
to become.

---

bite the bullet

maybe this...
maybe that...
load the gun—
just shoot me already.

at least then, I’d have a definite answer,
not this purgatory of your half-spoken truths.

you say, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
you say, “I feel bad.”

but here’s the thing about mercy
masquerading as silence—
it still kills,
just slower.

you think withholding is kindness,
but it’s just cowardice
dressed up in concern.

who made you god,
to guard me from the truth?
to cradle my heart like a fragile myth
instead of letting it burn its own way out?

do you think I wouldn’t choose
pain with clarity
over comfort that rots?

you hold the bullet
between your teeth,
afraid of the recoil
of your own honesty—
but I’m the one bleeding
from the wait.