in so many words

but these cries unsettle you. like those of an infant stranger who wails inconsolably, you are disturbed by their helplessness—as well as your own. you find yourself incapable of reaching out to them, and they cannot voice their distress with anything more than howls of imprecise anguish.

you and the mewling creature of your soul are locked in a prison of inaction. you know your neglect prolongs their suffering.

to soothe them wasn’t meant to be your responsibility.

and still you long to aid them.

and still you fail to do so.

it's great you don't need others to heal but it is incredibly isolating and lonely to carry the heavy burden of your own well-being. it's also exhausting when those inner children take hours or even literal weeks to soothe before you can address the underlying hurt. you do your best to be patient with yourself because you know those versions of yourself are that way due to continuous invalidation, suppression and repression. their responses are real but might not reflect present reality.

having self-compassion takes time and a lot of forgiveness, 2 things that are hard to come by. still, when you reach that point, you'll feel grateful for all the effort.

They’ll build a highway over my grave,

no one will grieve me, no one will pray.

I’m not one to leave a lasting impression

on the hearts I touch.

Maybe not in person, but hopefully on paper.

If I could tap into my well and quench my artistry,

oh, the things I could accomplish.

My imagination in full force—stronger than the roots of a tree.

The limitless potential I hold seems so close,

yet my pen speaks a different language than me.

If I could express my deepest grievances

in a way that society understands,

then maybe—even when the cars rattle my headstone—

I’ll be at peace, knowing my bones will be remembered.