ashesinverses

They say trios don’t work.

But somehow,

the three of you

do.

And then there’s me.

The fourth.

The afterthought.

Plan D.

I laugh when you laugh.

I stand beside you.

But I never quite

belong.

You’re a series.

Tightly written.

Familiar and warm.

And I?

I’m the guest character

that shows up

every few episodes.

Forgettable.

Replaceable.

I want to belong.

I want to be part of the “we”

that you say out loud.

But I feel like

I’m watching

from behind the glass.

Close enough to touch—

but never to hold.

What’s wrong with me

that I can be there

and still not matter?

I try to shrink myself

to fit in.

But no one notices

the spaces I break

just to be small enough.

And maybe

you never meant to leave me out.

But that doesn’t make it

The worst words didn't come from other people.

They came from me.

My voice spoke them,

my mind shaped them,

over and over,

until they burned into my skin

like a painful tattoo.

The older I grew,

the more independent that voice became,

until it no longer felt like a part of me

but like something of its own—

a living organism

that took up residence in my mind,

forever out of reach.

I do not want to be hated, by anyone.

I want to be liked, yes, perhaps even loved.

Perhaps that is why it offers

a small measure of comfort

that no one can hate me the way I do.

No eyes could look at me

with as much disgust as my own do

when they meet mine in the mirror each morning.

No gaze could be as devastating

as my own reflection.

No words are quite like mine.

Yours may be arrows,

but mine are bullets—

I belonged a little bit everywhere, but nowhere completely. I was a small, replaceable part of a structure far too vast.

I belonged a little to school, a little to my friends, a little here and there, yet never fully.

We were a quartet, but anyone could spot the trio within it.

I was merely a blurred outline beside solid silhouettes, trying to take shape just to fit into the picture somehow.

I am like one of those thousand filler words you can cram into any sentence, yet never the one that fits quite right.

The air was cool, yet it carried the scent of a summer that hadn't quite faded. It clings to the dusty ground, to parched blades of grass, and between the pages of an open notebook.

Even though a few days of summer still lie ahead, I know how quickly time passes. Days drift by like images in a slideshow—never pausing, never giving us the chance to linger on any single one.

This summer is unlike any other. It is a beginning, but also an end.

A touch of freedom, a touch of a cage.

Unknown paths are opening up before me, while others are closing forever. A new life lies ahead—yet I do not know if I am ready for what is to come, or for all that I must leave behind.

a deepfake,

in pale contours.

Electric shocks travel along my skin.

I…

I have lost my voice. I have thought this often before, but never has it felt as final as it does now.

I can no longer commit either of my languages ​​to paper. Usually, whenever I lost my connection to one language, the other was there to take its place. Now, there is nothing left. Perhaps it was because my critical eye grew ever sharper—because I had to admit to myself that almost everything I write sounds too generic, too inauthentic.

But that should never have stopped me from picking up a pen. For writing has always been a reflex—a need that simply had to be satisfied.

I believe it still is;

but why should I do something that only fuels my self-doubt and heightens my frustration?

Perhaps I haven’t lost my voice at all.

I drove it away with perfectionism—let it merge with that obsession until using it became too painful to bear.

I miss writing, yet at the same time, I hate what it now triggers within me.

between paper

and scratching pencils,

my heart squeezed

tight in a corset,

while thoughts flicker

before my eyes

once a year,

flickering before my eyes,

while I wish

to be someone else.

Icing,

an idiotic costume,

for numbers that rain down on me,

Tomorrow I'll lose you,

in a way that even reality couldn't achieve.

Everything that never was,

everything that should have been

breathes out one last time tonight.

The cocoon of naive hope

breaks apart tomorrow.

And I must spread my wings,

the bitter taste

bitterly melting on my tongue,

my reflection,

an old photograph,

stored in old boxes,

my skin a costume,

sewn by your eyes,

fingers that are not mine,