โ a slice for a thought | blog dedicated for my poems and journals / original writings of my own musings. may contain ideations, dark content and triggering imagery/depictions. proceed with caution.
[ shblr lurker. my spiral space to mitigate the relapse tendencies โ interactions will show @stcinthru ]
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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There is a very specific kind of sadness in realizing your parents loved you, and still did not always know how to meet your emotional needs.
Because it is confusing. It would almost feel easier if there was no love there at all. But sometimes there was love. In the way they tried to protect you. In the sacrifices they made. In the ways they worried about you, cared for you, wanted a good life for you.
And at the same time, there were still things missing.
Maybe comfort did not come in the way you needed it to. Maybe your feelings were not always understood, or noticed, or handled gently. Maybe you learned to keep certain parts of yourself quiet because it felt easier than trying to explain them.
That kind of hurt is difficult because it does not always come from cruelty. Sometimes it comes from people who loved you deeply, but did not know how to emotionally connect in the ways you needed. People carrying their own wounds, limitations, fears, or ways of surviving.
And you are allowed to acknowledge both truths at once.
You are allowed to recognize their love and still grieve what you needed but did not receive. Those things do not cancel each other out.
Forgiveness, for a lot of people, is not pretending nothing hurt you. It is slowly accepting that someone can love you and still fall short of understanding you completely.
That does not make your pain dramatic. It does not make them monsters either. Sometimes it just means everyone was trying with the emotional tools they had, and some of those tools were not enough.
And I think many people quietly carry guilt for still feeling hurt by parents they know tried their best. But being loved imperfectly can still leave wounds. It makes sense that it affected you.
At the same time, you do not have to stay trapped only in anger forever either. Sometimes healing looks like understanding that your parents were human before they were parents. People shaped by their own experiences, their own upbringing, their own emotional gaps.
That understanding does not erase your feelings. It just softens the sharp edges around them a little.
You deserved emotional safety. You deserved gentleness. You deserved to feel understood, comforted, and emotionally close to the people raising you.
And if they could not fully give that to you, it is okay to mourn it.
But I hope you also know this: the love you needed is still something you can experience in your life. Through other people. Through chosen family. Through the way you learn to treat yourself now.
The story does not end at what you did or did not receive growing up.
You are still allowed softness after all of it ๐ค
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cw/tw. ideation, graphic depiction of self-violence and destruction, body horror, not proofread, biologically inaccurate, stream-of-consciousness style.
i wanna burn me. i wanna cut me open. i wanna rip my limbs apart, tendons by tendons, arteries by arteries, muscles apart. i wanna skin me alive, flay myself with eyes open while acid rains on me. i wanna gouge my eyes and soak it in bleach, to bathe my sockets of rubbing alcohol and fuel mixed together. to use it as bowls, as the lighter dips its nozzle, igniting it to a huge, huge bonfire.
i wanna tear my scalp open, recklessly scratching the flesh underneath, picking apart the root sheath and melting it all down to pour it over my fresh burn marks. the skin, solid and supple, wishing it was made of wax, melting it slowly, by candle, by a match, until it darkens. until the cartilage leaks out, white and yellowish, revealing the rotting bone beneath. the knife, to scoop it out, to use it as a butter on the bread, my breakfast in bed, as the fire swallows my bones, leaving behind soots and ashes.
i wanna yank my bowels out, my guys as my lungs contract of air, inside my bedroom, in the middle of my living room, in the corners of my bathroom. i wanna tug my intestines out, and put an incisions on it, measurements, as i open the sewing machine open and put in under the machineโs relentless needle.
i wanna jerk my esophagus out of my throat, bruising my uvula until it swells and falls off, to dismantle my voice box, and boil my larynx. i wanna simmer my pharynx in a pot of scorching oil, to muffle the unheard screams and wails of this body.
i wanna bash my skull open until it shatters to pieces. i wanna unravel my brain, no matter how delicate, until its no longer the squiggly flesh of muscles but a whole parallel set of lines of glial tissues laid out in the open, under the humid heat of the blazing sun, suffocating and drying.
i wanna tenderize my stomach, my lungs, and my heart, repeteadly pounding on it, splatter after splatter, until all its left off is a mush of organs and flesh. unidentifiable. unintelligible glob of unidentifiedโฆ slimy substance.
i wanna smash my jaw, to explode and wrench mg teeth out of my gums, same with my nails, one by one, replacing the teeth on my gums of my nails and my nailbeds of teeth. i wanna plug the blender and press it open, its sharp blade almost invisible as it whirs into a circular, sawing motion, chopping the air of nothingness.
i wanna replace that nothingness with a loud and nasty impact of machine choking on my mouth that enclosed on the blade, struggling to break apart from the muscles enclosing on it. as seconds stretches more, it breaks free, dicing my gums, obliterating my jaw and the roof of my mouth.
i so so crave for the utter desolation, the desperation of brutality against myself with the hopes to chase away the gnawing madness that chips away my humanity. to replace fear of pain instead. to replace my gnobs of reality of something tangible, so my humanity wouldnโt be lost inside this gradual illness that creeps in slowly.
whoโs to say its not that that already wrote this? whoโs to say its not that that already convinced you its still me?
how do i know if iโm still me inside this body i inhabit or if this body already inhabited me.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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the ones like wolves, raised in the wild, who howl every time they get angry and carve their way out with teeth and claws;
and the others like serpents, raised in cages, their rage turning to poison, who bite their tongue and bide their time, burning and waiting for one final strike to be free.
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