Mother
She cut out my tongue and screamed at me to speak.
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@knockingfrominside
Mother
She cut out my tongue and screamed at me to speak.

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Please find me
Look for me
Like you use to
And find me
Let me know youāre still here
I need you to be here.
To whoever needs to hear this today...
good days will come. Even if it feels like the sky is collapsing inward and the air keeps escaping your lungs, even if your chest feels tight and your heart won't stop whispering worst case scenarios... hold on.
You're allowed to pause. You're allowed to cry. You're allowed to not have it all figured out yet.
But don't stop fighting for yourself. Keep tending the little parts of you that are trying so hard to grow back. Keep choosing the tiny, quiet acts of healing, even when they feel pointless in the moment. They're not. They're seeds.
And please.. let yourself have something good for once. Stop stepping out of the sunlight the moment it touches you. Stop assuming joy is a trick. It isn't. You deserve softness. You deserve a break. You deserve something that doesn't hurt.
Good days will come, love.
Maybe not all at once, maybe not loud or cinematic... but they will find you.
Stay long enough to meet them.
I want to curl up in his mind, use his words as blankets and read each thought like a book.
Because as long as I have words, I'll truly never disappear.
Just like art, I fell in love with writing at a very young age. I used to write stories, letters, poetry, anything really. Each word was a doorway, a way to step out of the walls I was trapped in and into a world where I could breathe. At first, it was simple. Scribbles in the margins of homework, notebooks full of half finished fairy tales, letters I never sent to people who'd never understand me anyway. I wrote to escape, but somewhere along the way, I realized I was writing to survive. Each sentence became a stitch, holding together the pieces of me that life tried to tear apart.
Writing was my tourniquet when the bleeding wouldn't stop. It was the mirror I didn't want to look into and yet the only place I could face myself. I could build whole universes out of ink, create people who never left, who never hurt, who understood me better than anyone i knew in real life. Characters who said what I was too afraid to, who carried the rage I swallowed, who laughed with the joy I thought I'd lost and when the world told me to be quiet, I wrote louder.
Writing became my rebellion. It was my sanctuary, my proof that I was still here no matter how much pain tried to silence me, my words would still scream, my words would still live. Over time, I stopped writing to just escape. I started writing to own it. To own the scars, the grief, the chaos of being alive. My words weren't just paper and ink, they were my blood and bones, my testimony that I refused to vanish.
Maybe that's the truest kind of art, not just the pretty things we make but the raw things that keep us alive. The kind of art that doesn't beg to be framed, the kind that whispers "This is me." People think they see a glimpse of me in my art, that it tells stories, that it softens me.
Truth is, they wouldn't know me until they read what I wrote. Unlike my art, I keep my writings hidden, secret, safe. When I want them to be heard. I release them quietly into a secret account, a space no one knows belongs to me. There, I am faceless. They simply know my words and I love that. I love the anonymity, the freedom of only being a voice. I am told again and again that my words make others feel understood. And that, more than anything, brings me peace.
So yes, just like my art, I fell in love with writing young. But unlike art hanging silent in a gallery, my words have always been alive. Screaming, sobbing, bleeding, healing. I'll keep writing them.
Because as long as I have words, I'll truly never disappear.

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They say to take everything in because in the blink of an eye everything can fade away
So I try not to blink as much
In hopes I wonāt lose time
Iāve lost too much time in the past
What if I blink and it really is gone
Iām not ready for that
Iām not ready at all
I can always tell when Iām slipping
because I always end up back here.
Back on my safe little corner of Tumblr,
where no one knows my name,
only the ache that leaks through my words.
Here, I can fall apart in lowercase.
Whisper into the void
and let it swallow everything Iām too tired to hold.
No one interrupts.
No one tells me to ābreatheā
or ālook on the bright side.ā
Itās just me,
my thoughts,
and a blank page that never looks away.
I come here when the world feels too loud
when I need to remember
that silence can still be gentle,
that sometimes surviving
just looks like typing it out
where no one will answer.
Stay with me, always
I want the love that bleeds ink,
the kind poets whisper about
in the trembling silence between stanzas.
The kind where metaphors run wild,
where a single kiss is described
as the universe folding in half,
where fingertips on skin
are galaxies colliding.
I want the love that writers die for,
the kind scribbled in candlelight,
bleeding through paper like it couldnāt be contained.
The kind whispered in desperate breaths,
where two souls swear theyāll never loosen their grip.
āStay with me.ā
Three trembling words, a plea
sharp as glass and soft as prayer.
āAlways.ā
One word,
but it weighs like eternity.
Thatās the love I crave
not the lukewarm,
not the passing glance or half hearted handholds,
but the wildfire kind,
ferocious and tender,
like ivy swallowing stone,
like the tide that returns,
again and again,
to kiss the same waiting shore.
A love that refuses to be paper thin,
that etches itself into bone and marrow.
A love where āstay with meā
isnāt fear,
itās a heartbeat
and āalwaysā
isnāt a promise,
itās the only ending worth writing.
I knew the fever had returned
when I started building homes
in a strangerās ribcage.
We sat at the edge of our futures
like children folding paper boats,
pushing them into the current,
pretending we knew where the river ended.
I told him he didnāt know me
the hollowed rooms,
the broken furniture in my chest,
the windows painted shut.
He didnāt hesitate.
He left my name unlit,
turned from the doorway,
and agreed with the ease
of someone who had never planned to stay.
I swear I was here
I feel so alone,
like I could vanish mid-sentence
and no one would notice the silence.
I feel like a ghost
in rooms I havenāt died in yet.
Like I keep reaching for people
with hands they canāt see.
I laugh in circles of friends
and still feel like a shadow at the edge of the frame.
They smile, they talk,
but none of it touches me.
Like Iām here,
but not really.
I feel like furniture in everyoneās lives
something they use,
lean on,
until they outgrow the space I take up
and move on without me.
Itās always the same,
over and over again.
They come in with fireworks,
light me up like Iām worth something,
and when the smoke clears,
Iām holding ashes and trying to call it love.
I tell myself Iām strong.
That solitude is sacred.
But it doesnāt feel holy.
It feels heavy.
Like Iām drowning in the quiet.
Like every heartbeat echoes
just to remind me no one else is listening.
And the worst part?
I start to believe itās my fault.
That Iām too much.
Too quiet, too weird, too sad, too soft,
too me
to be worth keeping.
People always say,
āIām here for you.ā
But they never mean for long.
They mean
until itās inconvenient.
Until I stop performing the version of myself
that makes them feel needed.
And then itās just⦠silence.
Screens left on read.
Plans forgotten.
My name falling from their mouths
like something theyāre trying to unlearn.
I want to scream,
āIām still here. I matter.ā
But I donāt even know if thatās true anymore.
Some days,
I feel like background noise
in everyoneās better story.
And I wonder
if I disappeared tonight,
would anyone feel the cold I left behind?
Would anyone look around
and realize the room got quieter?
I feel so alone
itās like my skin has stopped remembering
what itās like to be held
without flinching.
But Iām still here.
Even if no one notices.
Even if no one stays.
I swear I was here.
Even if all I leave behind
Are poems
No one reads

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Knocking from inside
Thereās a knocking.
But itās not at the door.
Itās not someone coming in
itās me
trying to get out.
Iāve been pounding at the walls of my own chest
like an animal in a burning cage.
Screaming into the hollow
that echoes back
with the sound of my own name,
like it forgot how to belong to someone soft.
These emotions
they donāt sit still.
They riot.
They rattle the ribs like prison bars,
gnaw at the wires in my throat,
and every time I try to speak,
all that comes out is smoke.
I am a haunted house
with the lights flickering behind my eyes.
Somethingās moving in the attic.
Somethingās scratching at the basement door.
And no one believes me
because I smile so well.
Iāve been knocking.
Desperate.
Bloodied knuckles against bone.
Iāve begged my own skin to let me out.
Begged my spine to snap like a lockpick.
Begged my breath to break open a window.
But the thing about being full of feeling
is thereās no escape route.
Just endless hallways of ache
and rooms with mirrors that scream.
Sometimes I think
if I just scream loud enough,
my soul might shatter the glass.
That I could burst
like a dam giving up
not out of weakness,
but from holding back
everything for too long.
I donāt want to be brave.
I want to be heard.
To stop speaking in metaphors
because the truth hurts worse when itās dressed pretty.
I want someone to hear the knocking.
To press their ear to my heartbeat
and say,
āI know youāre in there.
I know itās hard to climb out of a cage you built
just to survive.ā
But until then,
Iāll keep pounding.
Keep pushing at the pulse in my throat.
Keep whispering through the cracks in my smile
āIām in here.
And Iām not okay.ā
Iām not meant to be loved back.
Not the way poems are written.
Not the way hearts skip,
or strangers smile when they see it blooming.
Iām not meant to be waited for, or held.
Not meant to be someoneās peace.
Not shown patience, or consistency,
or the kind of admiration that makes people say,
āGod, I hope I find that too.ā
No.
Iām not meant for public hand-holding
or tagged photos that say āmine.ā
Not meant for songs.
Not meant for āIād never leave.ā
Not meant for soft forever.
Iām meant to be alone.
And when Iām not
Iām meant to love the ones who never felt it.
To be patient with those
whoāve never known calm hands
or kind eyes that stay.
Iām meant to see their mess,
their fear,
their ruin
and call it beautiful.
I help them grow.
I help them glow.
I help them become the version of themselves
they never thought possible.
And when they finally become someone
capable of loveā¦
they leave me.
Like a mother bird watching her fledglings take flight,
returning to the nest
that never stays full
for long.
Thatās my purpose, isnāt it?
To be the light they find in the dark
but never the home they stay in
when morning comes.
RELAPSE LETTER (unsent)
I donāt know how to say it without sounding like Iām making excuses,
but I think Iām falling apart again.
I didnāt mean to.
I swear Iāve been trying.
Every day I wake up and pretend a little harder than the day before.
Smile on autopilot.
Answer messages like Iām not disappearing behind the screen.
Hold it together just enough that no one notices the seams tearing.
But now itās back.
The heaviness.
The aching in my ribs for no reason.
The silence that fills every room even when Iām surrounded by people.
And I hate that Iām back here.
I hate that this is familiar.
That my brain still knows the way down like muscle memory.
I havenāt told anyone.
I donāt know how to bring it up without feeling like a burden.
Like a disappointment.
Like a problem everyone thought was fixed.
Because they all want me better.
Not real.
Just⦠better.
Easy.
Digestible.
Not someone who cries at the sound of a voicemail or canāt answer the question āHow are you?ā without lying.
So here I am.
Writing it out instead of saying it.
Because it feels safer to leave it on a screen than in someoneās hands.
Because I donāt want to be looked at differently.
Pity is not love.
Silence is not support.
I just needed to let it out somewhere.
To say: Iām not okay.
And I donāt know when I will be.
But Iām still here.
And I guess for now,
that has to be enough.
Ashes & Apologies
Cigarettes taste like bitter goodbyes
that Iām not ready to make.
I hold the smoke in my lungs
like Iām holding people in my life
too tight, too long,
and always with the fear theyāll leave anyway.
But whatās the point
in keeping anyone around
if Iām always too much?
Too sad.
Too loud.
Too heavy.
Too haunted.
Too me.
Itās not fair.
Not to them.
Not to anyone.
To keep them chained to a heart
that only beats to the rhythm of regret,
when all I ever do is cause pain
even when I swear Iām trying not to.
I love people like Iām begging them to leave.
And they always do.
I guess I just give off
the kind of smoke
that burns
instead of warms.
Even when Iām fine
Everyone says Iām doing good.
They smile. They nod. They say,
āYouāve come so far.ā
And maybe I have.
I wake up. I function. I laugh in the right places.
I take my meds. I answer texts.
I pass for fine.
But the moment I tremble..
the second I say
āHey⦠Iām not okay today,ā
Or worse:
āHey⦠itās been a hard month.ā
Or the most honest of all:
āHey⦠itās the month of the anniversary that makes me want to curl in a hole and hide away.ā
the room empties.
Their silence louder than any breakdown Iāve ever had.
Because suddenly⦠Iām ātoo muchā again.
Again.
Again.
No one claps for the relapse.
No one visits the relapse.
No one wants to love a wound
when it wonāt stay closed.
And I get it.
Itās hard for them.
But itās hell for me.
Because I will always be mentally ill.
Even on the good days.
Even when I smile.
Even when Iām golden and glowing
and lying through my teeth.
And still..
I try.
So fucking hard.
To be soft enough to love
and small enough to keep.
But what is so wrong with me
that makes people leave
every time I stop pretending?
Why does everyone disappear
the second I show them
Iām still bleeding beneath the bandage?
What is so bad about me
that being near me
hurts them more than it hurts 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 Truth
I go to sleep
sad,
lonely,
mad,
dragging myself beneath the sheets
like grief pulling at a hem.
But then I dream of you..
and for a breathless moment,
everything goes quiet.
Everything⦠forgets.
Funny, isnāt it?
That the one who tore me open
with the sharpest hands
is the one I still run to
when the world disappears.
You brought the kind of pain
that echoes
through bone.
And yet,
in the hush of sleep,
I find safety
curled inside your name.
I know Iām bad again.
Because Iām back here.
Because I always come back
when I shouldnāt.
Because I know itās pain
but it doesnāt flinch when I break
and it never lies about what it is.
Maybe thatās just who I am now..
wired to return,
even when it rips me apart.
Because when it hurts that deep,
even in sleep,
my heart still limps back to you.
And maybe thatās the cruelest truth of all:
that I only trust the pain thatās always waited for me.
That even in dreams,
I run back to the fireā¦
just to feel something real.
To whoever finds this,
I hope you know you are worthy of love. I hope you find someone who stares at you as if you are the prettiest sunset they ever laid eyes on. Someone who makes flowers grow in the darkest parts of your sad little soul.
And then I hope you are able to keep them, forever.