TheDepressyBessie✨💀🌙

One More Morning

To the one I loved

who never quite loved me back—

it’s been a while now

since we let the silence

grow louder than us.

We didn’t even notice it happening.

One day we were everything to each other,

and the next—

you were just… gone.

There was a time

we didn’t need to ask to be together.

You’d show up at my door,

or I’d find my way to yours,

like it was instinct—

like breathing.

Whoever had the coffee

would pass it between us,

morning smoke curling into the quiet

as we figured out the day

like we had all the time in the world.

We fit so easily.

Like something already whole.

Your mom—

she became mine too in a way.

She saw me, understood me,

in that rare, gentle way

people don’t come across twice.

So when she got sick,

there was no question—

I was there.

Holding her hand,

trying to hold onto time,

grateful just to have known her,

to have known you.

And you—

you became everything she needed.

You got sober for her,

showed up in ways

that made her proud.

I saw it.

I still carry that version of you.

And even after she was gone,

you kept going.

You got better.

You started living.

You found someone.

God, I was proud of you.

I still am.

I just wish

I could’ve stayed close enough

to watch it all unfold.

But somewhere along the way,

I realized

this ache is something I built myself—

a home made from almosts

and maybes.

Because you were different.

I loved you

like something inevitable—

like gravity,

like magnets

pulling without permission.

You knew me

in ways no one else ever has.

And even now,

with your life moving forward

and mine still searching for direction,

I find myself waiting—

for your name,

for a message,

for some small piece

of what we used to be.

I miss you.

But more than that—

I miss us.

The version of love

I didn’t even know was love yet.

My other half.

My best friend.

My world.

And if I could ask for anything—

it wouldn’t be forever.

Just one more morning.

One more cup of coffee passed between us.

One more cigarette

in that quiet, easy silence.

Where I End And You Begin.

I didn’t leave you

because you weren’t enough.

I left

because you were everything—

and somewhere in the middle of that,

I disappeared.

Do you understand

how terrifying that is?

To be loved so well

you forget

how to stand

on your own two feet?

You held me

through every breaking moment—

told me I was beautiful

when I felt like nothing.

And God,

you meant it.

You always meant it.

You gave me a love

people spend their whole lives chasing—

and I’m walking away from it.

Not because I want to—

but because I have to.

Because I need to know

if I can survive this life

without needing someone

to save me from it.

And maybe one day,

we’ll meet again

as two whole people

instead of two halves

trying to make something last forever.

But right now?

Right now

I have to choose me.

The Shadow That Stays.

An addict is the only father

I’ve ever known.

It isn’t all that he is—

but it has always been there,

woven quietly

into the life we share.

His addiction hangs close,

like a cloud

that never quite drifts away.

Like Peter Pan’s shadow,

dragging behind him,

tethered stubbornly

to his ankle.

Sometimes it falls back

just far enough

that you start to breathe easier.

You start to believe

maybe this time

it will stay away.

But addiction is patient.

It taps him on the shoulder

when no one is looking,

and they slip away together

like old friends.

Then the cycle returns.

When I was a kid

my worries were simple—

the next time he’d be

kicked out,

the next door closing.

But when you grow older

your hopes grow heavier.

You hope he finds a way

to let the shadow go.

You hope the next hit

isn’t the one

The Girl Who Knows How To Drown.

I don’t know how to be better—

not really,

not in the way people say it

like it’s a place you can reach

if you just try hard enough.

I’ve been drowning so long

it feels like breathing.

Pain isn’t something I visit—

it’s the room I was raised in,

the language I speak

without thinking.

And I wouldn’t even know

how to exist

in a world

that didn’t revolve around it.

I don’t know how to ask for help.

I’ve never let anyone see

how deep the water goes.

Not my parents—

because things are finally calm,

and I won’t be the storm

that ruins it.

Not my best friend—

not because I doubt him,

but because I don’t.

Because I know

he would dive in after me,

no hesitation,

no fear—

and my mind is not a place

you come back from unchanged.

It’s dark.

It spreads.

It clings like ice

across every surface

until there’s nothing left underneath.

And maybe—

maybe I’m not ready

to be saved yet.

Not my sister—

she’s just learning

how to stand on her own,

and I won’t be the weight

that pulls her under again.

So I stay quiet.

I build walls

so tall, so careful,

no one questions them.

Everyone knows me

as the girl who gets it done,

the one you call

when things fall apart.

But no one knows

how often

I am the thing falling apart.

I don’t know how to be

anyone else.

I don’t know how to step

outside my own mind,

or how to find ground

that doesn’t shift beneath me.

Because the truth is—

the scariest thing

isn’t the drowning.

It isn’t the noise

or the chaos

or the endless weight

of my own thoughts.

The scariest thing

is the silence after.

The moment

I finally surface—

and have to meet

the person standing there.

The one beneath the trauma.

The one I’ve never known.

The one

I’m not sure

The Day the Weight Lifts.

One day—

I’m going to wake up

and the weight won’t be the first thing I feel.

Not this pressure in my chest,

not this constant hum in my mind

that turns every moment

into something to dissect,

to question,

to replay.

One day,

I won’t overthink every word I said

like it’s evidence in a trial

where I’m always the one on the stand.

I won’t second guess

every choice I made

like I’m searching for the exact moment

everything went wrong.

Because right now—

it feels like I’m the villain

in every ending,

the common denominator

in every story that didn’t last.

But one day…

one day that won’t be my truth anymore.

One day,

I’m going to wake up

and the sun will break through

those storm clouds I’ve been living under—

not slowly,

not cautiously—

but all at once,

like it’s been waiting for me

to believe I deserve the light.

And this version of me—

this one that’s been changing quietly,

breaking down,

rebuilding,

learning in the dark—

will finally step forward.

Not perfect.

But new.

I’ll understand things differently—

not everything,

but enough

to stop blaming myself for all of it.

I’ll give

without feeling like I’m losing pieces of myself.

I’ll receive

without questioning why I deserve it.

And the past—

the people,

the versions of me,

the chapters that still echo—

I’ll let them stay where they belong.

Behind me.

Because one day,

I’m going to wake up

and I won’t need this cocoon anymore.

The one I built

to keep the world out,

to keep myself safe,

to keep myself small.

One day,

I’ll claw my way out of it—

not because I’m forced to,

but because I’m ready.

And when I do…

I won’t just be someone

who survived the storm.

I’ll be someone

Nights Like These.

I miss you

on nights like these—

when the room tilts soft

and the world blurs at the edges,

and I try to trade one kind of intoxication

for another.

But vodka doesn’t smell like you.

It burns,

it numbs,

it quiets the sharpest thoughts—

just enough

so I don’t have to sit

in the echo of your absence.

I’ve never been this person,

and you of all people

would know that.

You knew the reasons,

the lines I swore I wouldn’t cross.

But these past months without you—

without my best friend—

have been a kind of brutal

I didn’t know how to survive sober.

There are a thousand things

I still save for you.

Little stories,

half-laughed moments,

the way my day folds in on itself

without somewhere to land.

I want to tell you everything.

I want you to look at me

the way you used to—

like even at my messiest,

my most unsteady,

I was still something worth holding onto.

You always held me together.

Through every fracture,

every quiet breakdown,

every version of me

I didn’t recognize—

you were there,

steady hands,

soft eyes,

a place I could finally rest.

You were my safe place.

And now—

now I don’t know where that is.

I look for it

in crowded rooms,

in louder nights,

in the bottom of glasses

that promise less feeling

and deliver more truth.

Because if the vodka tells me anything,

it’s not to move on,

not to search for something new,

not to pretend you’re replaceable.

It tells me

how much I miss

ending nights like this

with your arms around me—

how you saw beauty

in everything I was,

even when I couldn’t find

a single good thing

to hold onto.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part—

that even now,

when I can’t stand

the reflection looking back at me,

I still see myself

Checkpoint.

I thought I was done searching.

Not in the tired way—

but in the finally way.

Like I had reached the end of something,

like the story had settled,

like all the wandering roads

had led me exactly

where I was supposed to be.

You.

For ten years

I built a future

that only made sense

with you standing in it.

There were no “what ifs,”

no alternate endings,

no versions of me

that didn’t have your name

woven into the days.

I thought you were it.

Not almost.

Not maybe.

It.

And for a long time,

I believed I had won—

like love was something earned

after enough hurt,

after enough waiting,

after enough becoming.

But somewhere along the way,

the truth slipped in quietly:

maybe I’m not meant to win

in the way I thought I would.

Maybe I’m not the ending.

Maybe I’m the turning point.

A chapter people pass through

on their way to becoming

someone better

for someone else.

A lesson.

A mirror.

A checkpoint.

And I hate how much sense

that makes

when I look back.

Because I really thought

I was done searching

when I found you.

I thought life would be easier—

not perfect,

but certain.

Like I had my person

early,

and everything else

would just fall into place around us.

But now—

after distance has settled in,

after the silence learned how to stay—

I don’t know how we come back from this.

You can’t force something

that once flowed

without effort.

You can’t rebuild magic

by trying harder.

And maybe that’s the hardest truth of all:

maybe we already lived

our chapter.

Maybe this was it.

Not forever—

just enough.

And now I’m standing here

in a world

that doesn’t know what to do with me

without you in it—

but somehow feels just as unfamiliar

imagining you still here.

I don’t know how to walk forward

without you beside me.

But I’m starting to realize

I don’t know how to stand still

with you anymore, either.

So maybe this is where I learn

the kind of love

that doesn’t leave.

Even if, in the end,

it’s just me

choosing

She grew up beneath amber lights

and the low hum of evening voices,

in a tavern that smelled of wood polish,

old laughter, and stories

that had been told a hundred times before.

Her grandmother stood behind the bar

like the captain of a well-worn ship,

wiping glasses with a towel

that had seen more years

than the girl had lived.

And the patrons—

they were never just customers.

They were the man who always sat

three stools from the end,

who slipped her quarters for the jukebox

and called her “kid”

long after she wasn’t one anymore.

They were the woman with tired eyes

who hugged her every birthday,

the men who argued over baseball scores,

the quiet ones who nodded hello

like family who didn’t need words.

They watched her grow

the way people watch seasons change—

slowly, naturally,

as if the tavern itself

had raised her.

She ran between tables as a child,

sticky fingers clutching soda cups,

perched on bar stools that were too tall,

legs swinging in the air

while laughter rolled around her.

She learned early

how grief could sound like laughter,

how loneliness could sit quietly

inside a crowded room.

But she never drank then.

Back then

she only belonged to the light—

to the clink of glasses,

the jukebox humming softly,

her grandmother’s steady presence.

Years passed

the way they always do.

And life,

as it sometimes does,

began to crumble quietly

around the edges.

The world grew heavy

in ways she couldn’t explain.

Memories pressed too hard,

loss settled into her bones,

and the road ahead

looked lonelier than she had ever imagined.

So she went back.

Not for the beer at first—

though eventually

she learned the taste of it.

She went back for the sound of chairs scraping

against the same wooden floors

she had run across as a child.

For the same tired jukebox

still humming in the corner.

For the faces

that had known her

before the world ever hurt her.

They didn’t ask too many questions.

They just made room.

A stool pulled out beside them.

A quiet nod.

A gentle, good to see you, kid.

And there she sat

night after night—

a grown woman now

in the same place

where she had once been small.

Beer in hand.

Grief in her chest.

Memories she sometimes wished

would blur.

But the tavern held her

the way it always had.

No judgment.

No whispers.

Just warmth and worn wood

and people who had watched her

become who she was.

They let her feel it all—

the sorrow,

the anger,

the quiet breaking inside her.

And when the nights grew heavy,

someone would slide another drink her way

or tell an old story

that made the room laugh again.

In that small tavern

built from her grandmother’s hands

and a hundred loyal hearts,

she was never alone.

And somewhere between

forgotten memories,

familiar laughter,

and the soft glow of bar lights,

the girl who grew up there

finally allowed herself

to let go

and grieve

among the only family

who had been there

all along.

Some places don’t just hold memories—they hold you together when you’re falling apart. 🍺🍻

When I sit here

and try to picture my future—

really picture it—

it feels blurred at the edges,

like something I’m supposed to see

but never quite can.

People talk about certainty

like it’s simple.

Like they’ve always known

what they want,

who they’ll have beside them.

I never did.

But there was one thing—

one piece that always fit

no matter what the rest looked like—

you.

Us.

Two dumb, sarcastic,

too-loud-for-our-own-good best friends,

stitched together with laughter

and late-night conversations

that felt like home.

You were the constant

in a future I couldn’t define.

The one thing

I never questioned.

Until tonight.

Because tonight

I sat down

and tried again—

tried to build something clear

out of all this uncertainty—

and for the first time,

I couldn’t find

where you fit.

And that—

that broke something in me.

Eleven years.

Over a decade

of you being the first call,

the steady voice,

the person I didn’t have to explain myself to.

Your family

became mine.

You

became mine—

in every way

that didn’t need a name.

And maybe the truth is—

in another life,

you were it for me.

Because the way you understand me,

the way we exist together—

that kind of connection

is rare.

It’s the kind you hold onto.

The kind you fight for.

The kind you don’t let go of.

But what happens

when it starts slipping anyway?

Because when you’re you—

really you—

I still see him.

The boy I grew to love,

to trust,

to believe in.

But when you disappear

into something else—

when your words blur,

your presence fades—

it feels like I’m standing

in front of a stranger

wearing your face.

And I don’t know

how to love someone

who keeps vanishing.

Do you know why

I held onto you so tightly?

Why one piece of you

was enough

to keep me there for years?

I think it’s because

I needed someone

who wouldn’t leave.

Someone steady.

Someone who wouldn’t promise me better

just to fall back

into the same patterns.

I needed something real.

And somehow—

I found you.

You became

the closest thing I had

to a constant

in a world

that never felt stable.

Before anything else came back—

before anything made sense—

there was you.

And now I’m here,

trying to understand

how something that felt so permanent

can suddenly feel

so uncertain.

Going through my archives. Sometimes I read old work and just feel so totally immersed back in the deep emotions I was going through when originally writing it. Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel things as deeply as I do, but then sometimes, I’m thankful I do.

I dream of you calling me in the mornings again.

When we can’t sleep so we just meet up.

I dream of sitting in our spot, and seeing you stroll up.

Neither of us having known the other would be there.

I dream of having bad days spent in bed, hiding from the world, but you coming in anyways.

I dream of us making our way back to each-other,

One day after all the years, we realize why it never felt like it should have.

I dream of calling you when I’m happy,

You being the first person I gloat to, and you cheering me on, like always.

I dream of our movies days,

Cuddle up, watching whatever, just soaking up time near each-other.

I dream of how it was in school.

Us being us, came so naturally. I never thought it would change.

I dream of our long summer drives,

Listening to the music too loud,

Smiling and laughing, singing at the top of our lungs with the windows down.

I dream of our sleep overs,

Staying up to talk, or color, or adventure around town,

When it was just us.

I dream of scenarios no one should dream of.

Tragedies, break ups, death,

But you’re there with me in the end, so it’s okay.

I dream one day,

You’ll look back and finally see, i was always waiting, that I’ll always be here no matter how much I let myself disappear.

I dream one day,

I won’t love you so much,

Or it went always be so front and center.

I dream that I’ll get easier to be around you,

That I’ll be able to look at you and smile the same way I had.

That we will get back to where we were.

I dream of the day,

Your life burns,

And my life burns,

And we sit together, holding the charred match ends.

Together.

I dream of a day,

I burn my whole life down,

because you finally see me they way I see you.

And if that day never comes,

If that dream never comes to fruition,

Then I dream, one day,

I’ll be able to tuck this love in a bundle, put it in a basket, lovingly, gentle.

And I’ll walk away.

They spent years

like two shadows

that forgot how to separate.

Every waking minute—

couches worn thin beneath them,

late-night walks under buzzing streetlights,

phones lighting up at 2 a.m.

because he couldn’t sleep

and she always answered.

He wasn’t easy.

Alcohol wrapped around him

like weather—

unpredictable,

sometimes warm and laughing,

sometimes sharp and cutting.

But he was her best friend.

Flirty in the way

you toe the edge of something

you’re afraid to name.

Long glances that lasted half a second too long.

Drunk confessions that almost meant something—

almost.

He never looked at her

like she was more.

He looked at her

like she was home.

And she tried to be grateful for that.

She saw the good in him

even when he couldn’t.

The gentleness beneath the chaos.

The humor that made strangers soften.

The loyalty that only showed up

for a chosen few.

He didn’t think highly of himself

most days.

So she loved him enough

for the both of them.

When no one else picked up,

she did.

When the world got tired of him,

she stayed.

They knew each other

in the quiet ways—

the tells in his voice before he spiraled,

the way her silence meant she was hurting.

They had their spot—

halfway between both houses—

neutral ground where real life

couldn’t quite reach them.

They’d sit there for hours,

knees touching,

talking about everything

and nothing.

Every first snow,

they’d wait until the city fell asleep

and run into the streets like children—

throwing handfuls of white at each other,

breath visible,

laughter echoing off empty houses.

Those nights felt infinite.

Sometimes, when he was drunk,

he’d say things—

soft things,

dangerous things—

about how he didn’t know

what he’d do without her.

And her heart would leap

into meanings

he never confirmed.

Morning always erased

whatever the alcohol wrote.

Then one day,

he got sober.

And she was proud—

God, she was proud.

But sobriety came with new orbit.

A girlfriend.

A future.

A version of himself

that didn’t need her

the way he used to.

And just like that—

poof.

Years of intertwined lives

untangled in months.

Her phone stopped lighting up.

The couch stayed empty.

The halfway spot grew quiet.

He moved forward.

She stood still,

holding memories

like they were fragile glass.

A year and a half later,

she still replays it—

the closeness,

the almosts,

the way their lives once fit

like matching puzzle pieces.

She misses who they were

before clarity,

before girlfriends,

before growing up meant

growing apart.

She misses being his storm shelter.

Misses the first snow

most of all.

Because this year,

when it fell,

the city slept.

And she stood alone in it,

wondering

if he ever thinks about

the girl

who loved him quietly,

who answered every call,

who would have chosen him

in every lifetime—

even if he only ever

saw her

as home.