whorella

i remember you well in the chelsea hotel

you were talkin' so brave and so sweet

givin’ me head on the unmade bed

while the limousines wait in the street

those were the reason an' that was new york

we were runnin' for the money and the flesh

an' that was called love for the workers in song

probably still is for those of them left

ah, but you got away, didn’t you babe

you just turned your back on the crowd

you got away, i never once heard you say

i need you, i don’t need you

i need you, i don’t need you

and all of that jiving around

i remember you well in chelsea hotel

you were famous, your heart was a legend

you told me again you preferred handsome men

but for me you would make an exception

an' clenching your fist for the ones like us

who are oppressed by the figures of beauty

you fixed yourself, you said, "well, never mind

we are ugly but we have the music"

and then you got away, didn't you baby

you just turned your back on the crowd

you got away, i never once heard you say

i need you, i don't need you

i need you, i don't need you

and all of that jiving around

i don't mean to suggest that i loved you the best

i can't keep track of each fallen robin

i remember you well in chelsea hotel

i am not the problem, but the lesson lies front of me.

no matter how scary i fear the next page might be, or to realize everything up until this moment was a season.

i will be okay.

don’t illustrate your past as deceit,

or you’ll scribble your future.

remember the experience as what became of you.

life once heavy, became a feather.

i fear the futures weight knowing i must internalize this feeling.

standing alone where i once dreamt your presence alongside mine.

i will not paint you red when all i felt was blue.

i will not complicate my mind of what could have.

only the present exists.

the past is no more.

the future is not now.

and neither are we.

so i’ll leave my bags at the station.

and catch my ride home.

let them go, she says. "allow people to move on from you, stop disrupting people's peace, happiness and healing, let them go. let it end, allow people to heal from YOU."

heal from you.

maybe they do need to. their names drift through conversations like smoke, lingering where they no longer belong. i condemn them in one breath, then praise the euphoria they gave me in the next. my private life becomes public theater—online, with friends, replayed endlessly. i torment myself over men i never truly loved, mistaking obsession for connection. my mind adores the role of the victim, blind to the truth that no one owes me anything.

i lose myself in ego. ego of how could i let you play me so ruthlessly. i thought we were building something sacred, not speeding toward an ending. i was your getaway car, reckless and temporary. did it thrill you, racing down the highway with me beside you, listening to her songs?

and here i go again. analyzing his mind, dissecting his games, trying to solve what was never mine to understand. that’s my poison—curiosity disguised as healing. the need to comprehend the plague that is the male psyche: lust bound to judgment, tenderness that always fades into avoidance. they get to know you, make love to you, laugh and play with your hair while your bodies chase warmth—and then comes clarity.

they avoid who i am as much as i avoid revealing it. an online spectacle: men pay to watch me undress; women watch to feel less alone in their chaos. even in describing myself, i reek of insecurity. you never said it was because of this, but i felt it. you never said you missed your ex, but i felt it. you never said you were comparing us, but i felt it. i drown in my feelings, projecting them onto you. even if i’m right—why does it matter?

but you need to girl, or you'll be hurt again. i always am. i was when i lost my virginity. i was when my father left. i was every time a man only wanted my body, even when i pretended that’s all i wanted too. why wasn't i enough? was i ugly? did you hate my nose the way the voices in my head do, the ones that whisper only when i feel imperfect?

i am weak-minded. any tremor and i collapse. my foundation, what i thought was healed, was only fragmented stone. so i confront my demons—sit beside them and listen to their mourning. i look into their faces and see the version of myself i despise: the one who mistakes chaos for love, pain for depth, confidence for armor.

i am mother nature addicted to hurricanes. i birth my own chaos just to feel alive within it.

see through the storm. when you feel yourself unraveling, return here. let this be the calm you built, the proof that you survived. breathe. steady the tide before it turns against you.

root yourself in what has ended and remember: the future is yours to define. do not overthink your worth, or how men measure it—it was never theirs to decide. hear the noise, face it, and laugh at its false importance—its hunger to consume you before you ever learn how to love yourself fully.

09/07/2025 2:20 P.M.

the damage is done, and i’ve accepted defeat over whether or not it’s my fault we’re over. i revealed your past only to make myself vulnerable, still questioning if we were ever meant to be. i felt shame after posting that video — afraid you’d see it and think differently of me. but even without it, i still wouldn’t be “normal” enough.

we met on an app where all i’ve uncovered are my own insecurities. the final pillar, our fate, was just part of my endless search for comfort. maybe i should take this reaction, this feeling, this longing as a lesson to keep my dating life private. deep down, i always knew i should.

reminding myself of the ending of all modern tales, i tell myself i couldn’t care — knowing you’d hurt me eventually. is my honesty nothing more than a desire for us to burn already?

maybe we’re each other’s clarity. i can’t remember laughing with you. i only just learned your last name, trying to conceal my identity from judgment. am i sad over the fantasy ending rather than reality? every man approaching me, i pray that its different. my shadow looms tall above it all. i blame men for never wanting me longer than a fortnight, but if i were in their shoes, would i even want myself? i was about to sit here and pity the discomfort of being trans, an onlyfans creator, and the world’s worst secret keeper on social media. but maybe that’s where the problem stems.

we had talked about being serious two weeks in. i'd never told a man i had boundaries before. i can sense us both recognizing the foolishness to fall so carelessly at twenty. comforted by my kisses on your neck, your breathless face looking down at me in missionary. is that all i can reminisce? was our chemistry our sex? was i the other woman the entire time? its over now.

i can sense your fatigue. you asked me,

"whats wrong?"

to which i said,

"nothing".

i couldn't tell you my wishes to be exclusive. choked up at the idea of you rejecting me, or if what i felt was true. you said

"ill start"

as i packed the bowl, ablaze my thoughts of you into clouds of smoke, you murmured

"you left early in the morning without saying anything.. and even now i can't tell if you meant what you said about wanting something more".

i did. i couldn’t sleep that night, haunted by my existence both online and in front of you. but leaving that night was driven by my own pride. we had stayed up until four a.m., kissing, perched on your lap, staring down at you with molly shimmering in my dilated pupils. i'll miss the way we made love even if it was casual all along.

was i too sudden with my wishes. did i lead you to believe i was more than the mess i made of us. can i even receive love if i blame you in your silence. would i write this if i didn’t mean it? or am i just another sucker for love, with no sense of what it really means.

writing this i can't help but feel sorry — sorry for disregarding your feelings, for failing to voice my thoughts about us, and for not realizing sooner how deeply i hurt you. projecting the pain i've endured from men before, i lost what i so deeply prized.