🔥171: diamond in the dust

maybe what you need

is space.

they say all's fair in love and war, but my heart feels like a perpetual tug-of-war that is always heavier-armed on one side.

when honeymoon turns to nightmare, i keep finding myself in ruins, shattered and scattered among broken bricks of walls i have built, hacked off cancelled projects too-eagerly taken up without realising the bonds i shackled myself into.

when their game is over, i keep going back to the drawing board, wondering what went wrong.

maybe i should've loved harder,
maybe i wasn't strong enough,
maybe i wasn't careful,
maybe i just wasn't ready because i can barely hold the fort in my own internal battles while also bearing the weight of extra hopes and expectations on my shoulders.
maybe love shouldn't be a test, a survival of the fittest to begin with.

my glassy bright eyes may keep grossly misreading the level of bloodthirst around me leaving me to sift through dusty debris of destroyed disney dreams, digging deeper and deeper into the rocky graves of my past lives... but perhaps the treasure from the wreckage is me making peace with myself being either too much or never enough for those who are forever insatiable.

perhaps, instead of finding myself a significant other, i am better off focusing on finding myself significant.

maybe what i need

is closure.

- diamond in the dust

last updated: 2021-03-15

-----

maybe what you need
is space.

they say all's fair in love and war, but my heart feels like a perpetual tug-of-war that is always heavier-armed on one side.

when honeymoon turns to nightmare, i keep finding myself in ruins, shattered and scattered among broken bricks from walls i have built, hacked off by cancelled projects i too-eagerly agreed to take up, not realising what i signed up for.

when their game is over, i keep going back to the drawing board, wondering what went wrong.
maybe i should've loved harder,
maybe i wasn't strong enough,
maybe i wasn't careful,
maybe i wasn't ready because i can barely hold the fort in my own internal battles while also bearing the weight of more hopes and expectations on my shoulders.
maybe love shouldn't be a test, a survival of the fittest to begin with.

my glassy bright eyes may keep grossly misreading the level of bloodthirst around me leaving me to sift through debris of destroyed disney dreams, digging deeper and deeper into the graves of my past lives, but perhaps the treasure from the wreckage is me making peace with myself despite always being too much and never enough.

perhaps, instead of finding myself a significant other, i am better off focusing on finding myself significant.

maybe what i need
is closure.

- diamond in the dust, 20191013 0903

what you need
is space.

they say all's fair in love and war, but my heart feels like a perpetual tug-of-war that is always heavier-armed on one side.

when honeymoon turns to nightmare, i keep finding myself in ruins, shattered and scattered among broken bricks from walls i have built, hacked off by cancelled projects i too- eagerly agreed to take up, not realising what i signed up for.

when the game is over, when reality sinks in,
i keep going back to the drawing board, wondering what went wrong.
maybe i wasn't strong enough, maybe i wasn't careful, maybe i wasn't ready because i can barely hold the fort in my own internal battles while bearing the weight of more hopes and expectations on my shoulders. maybe, i didn't try hard enough.

but love shouldn't be a test for me to figure out, nor a survival of the fittest. my glassy bright eyes may keep grossly misreading the level of bloodthirst around me, leaving me to sift through debris dreams, digging deeper and deeper into the graves of my past lives, but perhaps the treasure from the wreckage is me making peace with myself despite always being too much and never enough.

perhaps, instead of finding myself a significant other, i am better off focusing on finding myself significant.

maybe what i need
is closure.

- diamond in the dust, 20191013 0848
-

need space.

they say all's fair in love and war, but my heart feels like a perpetual tug-of-war that is always heavier-armed on one side, destroying the walls and towers i have built for them to turn into ruins when it all ends when honeymoon turns to nightmare.

when the game is over, i keep going back to the drawing board, wondering what went wrong. maybe i wasn't strong enough, maybe i wasn't careful, maybe i wasn't ready because i can barely hold the fort in my own internal battles, while bearing the weight of more hopes and expectations on my shoulders. but love should not be a survival of the fittest. in my naivety my glassy bright eyes may keep grossly misreading the level of darkness and bloodthirst around me, leaving me to sift through debris dreams and dig deep into the graves of my past lives, but perhaps the treasure from the wreckage is me making peace with myself despite always being too much and never enough.

perhaps, instead of focusing on finding myself a significant other, i am better of focusing on finding myself significant.

i need closure.

- diamond in the dust, 20191013 0803

💜💜💜170: panic pixie dream ghoul (draft)

throughout my life,
i have been taught
to be seen but not discerning,
to constantly sacrifice spoons
and breakdown
walls i have painstakingly built
to survive; to smile at my own vandalisation.

lately
i have learnt
that part of the problem
is i keep getting lost
trying to find hope and meaning in the halls of shame
of gaslighting goodvibers armed with husnuzon on one hand
and hubris on the other;
my dirt-filled nails and shaky scarred fingers
have been trained to dig up blood-stained building blocks
of altars that served souls saved through divine intervention
at someone else's expense—no

now
what i really wanna know:

Why do i keep talking to walls
that only wanted
wallflowers?

— 20190829 0311

169: gasbag

i have sliced open my chest far too many times to know that brutal honesty is painful for a reason.

unbloating myself from feelings feels like an easy reflex sometimes, but the aftermath of pouring out the content of my heart is never a pretty sight: the streams of words bleeding down my sleeves pooling in my palms always end up looking like an acidic al pha be t s oup, a Ho tCri m s onMes s d r i p p i n g on the floor that i may have to lap up in the end, and my oral fixations do not include having my own foot between my lips.

but after years of slowly swallowing morsels of self-compassion and washing them down with perspective, i am learning that layers of bandages are weights i need not carry. poking my brain to thoughtvomit has a tendency to leave a lump in my throat, but i am starting to understand why we must squeeze out pus to clean wounds -  that there is wisdom in releasing things that make you ill, and the dangers of romanticising decay.

and so i pick out the letters i need with one hand to form sentences the best i can
and hit send
with hope that you understand.


2019-10-08 8.45pm



i have sliced open my chest far too many times to know that brutal honesty is painful for a reason.

unbloating myself from feelings feels like an easy reflex sometimes, but the aftermath of pouring out the content of my heart is never a pretty sight: the streams of words bleeding down my sleeves pooling in my palms always end up looking like an acidic al pha be t s oup, a Ho tCri m s onMes s dripping on the floor that i may have to lap up in the end, and my oral fixations do not include having my own foot between my lips.

however, after slowly swallowing morsels of self-compassion and perspective and patience
i am learning that layers of bandages are weights i need not carry.

poking my brain to thoughtvomit has a tendency to leave a lump in my throat, but i am starting to understand the wisdom of cleaning infections by squeezing out the pus first.

and with that, i pick the letters with one hand
to form words the best i can
and i hit send
with hopes that you will understand.

2019-10-08 8.34pm

i have sliced open my chest far too many times to know that brutal honesty is painful for a reason.

unbloating myself from feelings feels like a good selfish reflex sometimes, but pouring out the content of my heart is never a pretty sight: the streams of words bleeding down my sleeves pooling in my palms always end up looking like an acidic al pha be t s oup, a Ho tCri m s onMes s dripping on the floor that i may have to lap up in the end.

my oral fixations do not include having my own foot between my lips and poking my brain to force out thoughtvomit has a tendency to leave a lump in my throat,

but i am starting to understand the wisdom of cleaning infected parts by squeezing out the pus first;

perhaps it is finally time for me to learn to swallow my worries and wash it down with self-compassion

to see the beauty of clean wounds

rather than live in layers of bandages

and with that, i wash my hands and send

with hopes that you will understand.

168: Aliens Anonymous

In another world, reality, dimension,
I would not feel the need to hide
behind aliases;
semi-anonymous accounts and self-censored face scribbles would be as archaic and alien as
my views being valued,
my traumas being validated,
and my feelings being justified.

In another lifetime,

I matter.

20191005 0030