Welcome To My Asylum

Look for me

Like you use to

And find me

Let me know you’re still here

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.

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 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 I’m too tired to hold.

No one interrupts.

No one tells me to “breathe”

or “look on the bright side.”

It’s 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

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 couldn’t be contained.

The kind whispered in desperate breaths,

where two souls swear they’ll never loosen their grip.

“Stay with me.”

Three trembling words, a plea

sharp as glass and soft as prayer.

“Always.”

One word,

but it weighs like eternity.

That’s 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 “stay with me”

isn’t fear,

it’s a heartbeat

and “always”

isn’t a promise,

when I started building homes

in a stranger’s 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 didn’t know me

the hollowed rooms,

the broken furniture in my chest,

the windows painted shut.

He didn’t hesitate.

He left my name unlit,

turned from the doorway,

and agreed with the ease

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 haven’t died in yet.

Like I keep reaching for people

with hands they can’t 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 I’m here,

but not really.

I feel like furniture in everyone’s lives

something they use,

lean on,

until they outgrow the space I take up

and move on without me.

It’s always the same,

over and over again.

They come in with fireworks,

light me up like I’m worth something,

and when the smoke clears,

I’m holding ashes and trying to call it love.

I tell myself I’m strong.

That solitude is sacred.

But it doesn’t feel holy.

It feels heavy.

Like I’m 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 it’s my fault.

That I’m too much.

Too quiet, too weird, too sad, too soft,

too me

to be worth keeping.

People always say,

“I’m here for you.”

But they never mean for long.

They mean

until it’s inconvenient.

Until I stop performing the version of myself

that makes them feel needed.

And then it’s just… silence.

Screens left on read.

Plans forgotten.

My name falling from their mouths

like something they’re trying to unlearn.

I want to scream,

“I’m still here. I matter.”

But I don’t even know if that’s true anymore.

Some days,

I feel like background noise

in everyone’s 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

it’s like my skin has stopped remembering

what it’s like to be held

without flinching.

But I’m 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

There’s a knocking.

But it’s not at the door.

It’s not someone coming in

it’s me

trying to get out.

I’ve 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 don’t 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.

Something’s moving in the attic.

Something’s scratching at the basement door.

And no one believes me

because I smile so well.

I’ve been knocking.

Desperate.

Bloodied knuckles against bone.

I’ve 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 there’s 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 don’t want to be brave.

I want to be heard.

To stop speaking in metaphors

because the truth hurts worse when it’s dressed pretty.

I want someone to hear the knocking.

To press their ear to my heartbeat

and say,

“I know you’re in there.

I know it’s hard to climb out of a cage you built

just to survive.”

But until then,

I’ll keep pounding.

Keep pushing at the pulse in my throat.

Keep whispering through the cracks in my smile

“I’m in here.

Not the way poems are written.

Not the way hearts skip,

or strangers smile when they see it blooming.

I’m not meant to be waited for, or held.

Not meant to be someone’s peace.

Not shown patience, or consistency,

or the kind of admiration that makes people say,

“God, I hope I find that too.”

No.

I’m not meant for public hand-holding

or tagged photos that say “mine.”

Not meant for songs.

Not meant for “I’d never leave.”

Not meant for soft forever.

I’m meant to be alone.

And when I’m not

I’m meant to love the ones who never felt it.

To be patient with those

who’ve never known calm hands

or kind eyes that stay.

I’m 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 love…

they leave me.

Like a mother bird watching her fledglings take flight,

returning to the nest

that never stays full

for long.

That’s my purpose, isn’t it?

To be the light they find in the dark

but never the home they stay in

I don’t know how to say it without sounding like I’m making excuses,

but I think I’m falling apart again.

I didn’t mean to.

I swear I’ve been trying.

Every day I wake up and pretend a little harder than the day before.

Smile on autopilot.

Answer messages like I’m not disappearing behind the screen.

Hold it together just enough that no one notices the seams tearing.

But now it’s back.

The heaviness.

The aching in my ribs for no reason.

The silence that fills every room even when I’m surrounded by people.

And I hate that I’m back here.

I hate that this is familiar.

That my brain still knows the way down like muscle memory.

I haven’t told anyone.

I don’t 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 can’t answer the question “How are you?” 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 someone’s hands.

Because I don’t want to be looked at differently.

Pity is not love.

Silence is not support.

I just needed to let it out somewhere.

To say: I’m not okay.

And I don’t know when I will be.

But I’m still here.

And I guess for now,

Cigarettes taste like bitter goodbyes

that I’m not ready to make.

I hold the smoke in my lungs

like I’m holding people in my life

too tight, too long,

and always with the fear they’ll leave anyway.

But what’s the point

in keeping anyone around

if I’m always too much?

Too sad.

Too loud.

Too heavy.

Too haunted.

Too me.

It’s 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 I’m trying not to.

I love people like I’m begging them to leave.

And they always do.

I guess I just give off

the kind of smoke

that burns

Everyone says I’m doing good.

They smile. They nod. They say,

“You’ve come so far.”

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

“Hey… I’m not okay today,”

Or worse:

“Hey… it’s been a hard month.”

Or the most honest of all:

“Hey… it’s the month of the anniversary that makes me want to curl in a hole and hide away.”

the room empties.

Their silence louder than any breakdown I’ve ever had.

Because suddenly… I’m “too much” again.

Again.

Again.

No one claps for the relapse.

No one visits the relapse.

No one wants to love a wound

when it won’t stay closed.

And I get it.

It’s hard for them.

But it’s hell for me.

Because I will always be mentally ill.

Even on the good days.

Even when I smile.

Even when I’m 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

I’m still bleeding beneath the bandage?

What is so bad about me

that being near me

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, isn’t 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 I’m bad again.

Because I’m back here.

Because I always come back

when I shouldn’t.

Because I know it’s pain

but it doesn’t flinch when I break

and it never lies about what it is.

Maybe that’s 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 that’s the cruelest truth of all:

that I only trust the pain that’s always waited for me.

That even in dreams,

I run back to the fire…