TheEmoReader

She felt it. A tug, a shadow, a weight,

Lurking on the edges of her smile.

The warmth of the day,

A glimmer of hope,

But inside, a storm was brewing,

A storm that always felt so familiar.

Her fingers trembled,

The message blinked on the screen,

A conversation, an escape, a lifeline,

But somewhere, in the hush of the words,

She wandered too far,

Lost in the quiet need for something more.

It started with a flicker.

A compliment, soft and fleeting,

Then more,

Like an ember catching on the wind.

Her heart raced,

Trying to outrun the ache.

In the moment,

The burn felt good,

A spark that made her feel seen,

Made her forget the ache in her chest,

The storm that was always just beneath.

But soon the flames grew too bright,

Too hot, too heavy,

Leaving ash and cold where warmth had been.

The hollow whispers of regret crept in,

Like the way dusk feels when it slips into night,

Quiet and inevitable.

She curled inward,

The weight she thought she’d outrun

Now pressing deeper than before.

She wondered if it would have been kinder

To let the storm come,

To let it pass

Like it always does.

Instead of fighting it with fractured pieces,

Trying to patch a heart that wasn’t yet ready.

In the end,

The storm still came,

But now, it had a darker taste,

A longer echo.

And she wished she had just let it arrive,

Unspoken, unguarded,

Instead of chasing fleeting warmth

That only left her colder in the end.

Authors note

This poem is about a girl who experiences depressive episodes. She feels that unexplainable dread creeping up and knows that one is inevitably coming up and tries desperately to stop it, in her desperate need to stop the ‘storm’ she ends up texting a guy. One thing leads to another and she ends up sending nudes. It feels great at first, exhilarating even. The compliments, the attention, the need to be desired when she can’t desire anything herself. But it spirals out, she takes it too far, posting a nude. The fire that once gave warmth was now nothing but ash, leaving her feeling colder than before. In the end she regrets her desperate escape to feel something. Anything. Would it have been kinder to just let the storm pass? Because in the end, her desperation was for nothing and she was left feeling worse than she did before.

I WROTE A POEM ABOUT HOW I LOST MY VOICE. I know I'm being dramatic but I generally had a mental breakdown and wrote this while crying and wanting to scream. I love singing it's literally my favourite hobby and I find so much comfort in singing. IT'S BEEN THREE WEEKS GODDAMNIT!!! Anyway I hope you enjoy my frustrations and my mental breakdown through poem🥰🥰

It isn’t funny anymore. my mind is cracking like thin ice, splintering beneath every silent gasp. I only ever wanted to sing, to let sound carry the weight my heart could never hold alone.

But now my throat is a bruised battlefield, every word shattering, every breath threatening to burst my chest into a thousand pieces I can’t gather no matter how tightly I reach.

A part of me feels ripped clean from the bone, torched to ash before I even knew what I was losing. And here I am, kneeling in the wreckage, scooping handfuls of soot trying to rebuild something that won’t return.

Is this what Ursula felt? that desperate, hungry ache for a voice that once held the shape of her world? Because without mine, without the music that once held me steady, I feel hollowed out, unrecognizable, a stranger inside my own skin.

Three weeks of this silence, three weeks of hurting, three weeks of wanting nothing more than the sound of myself alive again.

By me

TW hints of abuse, su!cide and se!f h@rm

There’s a girl in a house where the walls never rest, where footsteps mean thunder, and love fails the test. Her mother’s voice cuts sharper than glass, and the echoes don’t fade, they just seem to amass.

The dinner plates whisper of promises cracked, her father’s tired eyes show the life that they lacked. Two rings on a counter, gathering dust, while the air smells of silence and rust.

She hides in her room where the light can’t quite reach, counting the scars she can’t seem to bleach. Each line is a story she never could tell, a way to feel something inside of her shell.

The mirror reflects what she tries to erase, a stranger’s eyes in a familiar face. Hope flickers faintly, a match in the rain, but even a spark can remember the pain.

If you listen at night, through the cracks in her wall, you might hear her breathing, fragile, small. A heartbeat that whispers, “Please, not yet,” for somewhere inside, she’s not ready to forget.

And one quiet morning, the echoes are still, no shouting, no thunder, no sharp words to kill. Only silence remains where her shadow once lay, and the world keeps on turning, unaware she slipped away.

Author’s Note

“Cracks in the Wallpaper” is a poem about a young girl who grows up surrounded by pain she doesn’t know how to escape. it’s a story about what happens when silence replaces understanding, and when cries for help go unheard.

The poem’s ending isn’t meant to glorify her loss, but to remind us of the quiet signs of suffering that too often go unnoticed. Many people who struggle with self‑harm or suicidal thoughts don’t want to die, they just want the pain to stop, or for someone to see them.