ଘ 𐔌𝔒𝑙𝑖౨ৎ .ᐟ ഒ

General

Please be patient with me!

I can't edit very fast and I'm in the process!

:3

Music

I LOVE SOO MUCH MITSKI AND ENJAMBRE! (my favorites) Butt i like other artists/groups likee:

Alex g

Lana del rey

Jack 

Msi

Ayesha Erótica 

Jack Stauberr

Mother Mother

Miranda!

Movies

Television

Books

Heroes

Despite the burning pain in his heart, he heald their hand and smiled. -"I love u." Sometimes I feel a cold so strong, no one knows what’s inside of me, a big fear I can’t explain, because it’s a secret I keep quietly. It was someone who should have cared, a family member who hurt me bad, I had no strength to speak out loud, so I stayed silent, not knowing what to do. I hurt myself to try and forget, to quiet the pain I can’t express, I hide the tears no one can see, and dream of a place where I can be free. I want to scream but don’t know how, I want someone to hold me now, for fear to leave and pain to cease, to be happy again, even just a piece. I’m so confused and really scared, don’t know what to do or feel, he’s my dad, but he hurts me, and in silence, I just want to heal. It’s night again, and all is still, the house is dark, I try to sleep, but I hear his steps coming closer, and my heart starts to pound, deep. I stay still, not sure what to do, try not to breathe too loud, ’cause I know what’s coming next, and I wish I could disappear into the ground. He smells like alcohol and speaks weird, says things I don’t understand, his hands hurt me when they touch, even if I don’t cry or make a stand. I don’t get why he does this, he’s my dad—wasn’t he meant to care? But instead of hugs or bedtime stories, he gives me nightmares I can’t share. I feel like this will never end, like it’s my punishment for being me, and I blame myself for being a bad kid, for not knowing how to make him leave. I wasn’t going to say anything. I promised myself I’d stay quiet, because I knew what happens when someone tells the truth. But he looked at me… my friend, with that scared, kind face, like he already knew, like he saw it written on me. I don’t know how it slipped out, or why I said it, but I whispered, shaking: "He does things… that hurt." He held my hand. Said that shouldn't happen, that I needed to tell, that grown-ups protect you when things go wrong. I didn’t say no. I was scared, yes, but part of me wanted it all to finally stop. He went to my mom. And I hid behind the door, waiting… waiting… for her to finally save me. But she came in screaming. “What is this garbage?!” “Did you put these lies in his head?!” She looked at me like I was filth, like I wasn’t her child anymore. She screamed that I was destroying everything, that he was her husband, her family, and that I—because of me— I was the biggest shame of her life. Then the hitting. Once. Twice. I don’t know how many. And honestly, it didn’t hurt as much as her words: “Liar.” “Ungrateful.” “You’re a mistake I should’ve never had.” I just covered my ears, wishing I could go back to silence, where everything hurt, but at least no one called me a monster. And my friend… he just stood there, crying, like he was the one who had failed me. And I didn’t hate him. I only hated myself— for believing, for just one second, that someone would protect me. I suspect that I’m not as important to him/her as I was before. He/she says that he/she likes my body, my scars, asks for more, to the point where I feel like he/she only wants me for that. There’s a fire that burns in my chest, Every glance from you feels like a quest, A journey that never ends, Where my heart calls you—my lover, my friend. Your laughter is my symphony, A melody that sets me free. Every word, every touch, Makes me realize I need you so much. In the quiet, in the noise, I’m lost in your voice. A love so deep, so true, I’ll always, always choose you. I’m okay. Even if it doesn’t seem like it from what I write, I’ll say it again: I’m okay. I’m not crazy. I’m not about to do something dangerous. I’m not secretly crying and hoping someone will come save me. I’m just writing. I write because it’s the only way I can let go of some of what’s inside. Because I can’t say it out loud yet. Because when I try, nobody really listens. So I put it on paper. But I’ll say it again: I’m okay. That doesn’t mean I’m happy or that everything’s fine. It means I’m holding on. It means I’m still here, even if I’m shaking on the inside. Writing helps. I don’t want people thinking my poems are some kind of warning sign. I don’t want them asking me “are you okay?” with pity in their voice. I don’t want to be “fixed.” I’m not broken. I’m just going through something hard. But I’m not falling apart. I don’t need someone to speak for me. I just need to write. To say it in metaphors when plain words are too much. To let it out. I’m not writing to make people feel bad. I’m writing because I need to get out what sometimes burns inside me. Sometimes I wonder if I’m crazy for staying here, waiting for her to be the way she was before. But I can’t help it. I love her, and that blinds me. She tells me she likes the marks on my skin, that I look different, better. And even though I know it hurts, I do what she asks. Because if that makes her stay, then it’s worth it. But every day, I feel her slipping away more. She doesn’t answer like before, her words are cold, and I’m stuck in this horrible fear of losing her. I don’t know if she ever really loved me, but I love her with everything I have. And even if this destroys me, I can’t stop thinking that someday, this will be real love. The pain doesn’t matter, because as long as she’s close, I believe there’s hope. And that’s the only thing keeping me going. You said pain looked beautiful, that love showed best when it hurt. I believed every word you spoke, even as something inside me broke. You kept asking for more, no reason why, and I gave you all, even what I tried to hide. I thought if I suffered just a little more, you’d stay with me, and not walk out the door. But your eyes don’t search for mine now, your voice doesn’t touch me like before. And I, lost between my own scars, wonder if this was love… or just war. Still, I wait here quietly, with empty hands and a shaking heart. Because if this wasn’t love… then I don’t know what I’ve been feeling. I’m so so sorry!!! I know this probably looks super bad written and weird... I’m not good at English and yeah, I totally used a translator… (｡•́︿•̀｡) I’m sorry if this is confusing or annoying or just dumb.(＞﹏＜) HELLU,, AQI ALKUMOS POEMAS-TEXTOS Q ISEM,, SOLO Q AHORA EN ESPAÑOL... el idioma original.. hehe.. "Cicatrices que no ves" No sé en qué momento todo empezó a doler más que antes. Tal vez fue el primer “hazlo por mí” que salió de sus labios, suave como una caricia, pero con filo como una navaja. Yo pensé que era amor. Pensé que si alguien como ella me miraba, aunque fuera un poco, era porque algo en mí todavía valía. Me siento vacío. No cansado de caminar ni de no dormir... sino de existir. Ella me dice que hay algo hermoso en mis cicatrices, que cuentan una historia que la fascina. La primera vez que me pidió que me lastimara, reí. Pensé que bromeaba. Pero no. Me miró seria, con esos ojos que pueden derretirme y a la vez congelarme. “Solo una línea… una pequeñita. Por mí.” Y lo hice. Porque era lo único que me hacía sentir cerca de ella. Desde entonces, cada vez que siento que se aleja, que no me responde igual, que su sonrisa ya no es mía, me entra el pánico. Hago lo que sea. Me corto. Me escondo. Me arrastro. Le ruego. ¿Y sabes qué es lo peor? Que siento que si dejo de hacerlo, se va a ir. Que tal vez ya lo está haciendo. Últimamente siento que ya no me ve. Que solo mira a través de mí. Sus mensajes son más fríos. Sus abrazos más breves. Sus palabras más distantes. Me esfuerzo en no molestarla. Pero nada alcanza. Y no sé qué más ofrecer, excepto más partes de mí. Empiezo a pensar que no está conmigo por quien soy, sino por lo que sufrí. Como si fuera una historia trágica que le atrajo al principio. Un proyecto que la hizo sentirse importante. Tal vez nunca me amó… tal vez solo le gustó tener algo dañado entre las manos. Mi padre me golpeaba. Me gritaba. Me culpaba de existir. Aprendí desde pequeño a esconderme en silencio. A ser invisible. A esperar que pasaran las tormentas, sin saber si alguna vez se acabarían. Y cuando ella llegó, creí que al fin alguien me veía. Pero… ¿y si solo ve las cicatrices? ¿Y si solo le importa el daño? Tengo miedo. No solo de perderla. Tengo miedo de que todo lo que soy se reduzca a eso: dolor. De que sin ella, no quede nada. Que solo sea un recuerdo torcido, un cuerpo lleno de marcas que nadie quiere entender. A veces me miro al espejo. Veo los cortes. Las líneas. Las sombras bajo los ojos. Y me pregunto: ¿lo hice por ella, o porque ya no sé vivir de otra forma?

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