I choose pen over blade.

If someone had offered me a hug, I would’ve cried enough to fill oceans with my grief. But no one did, so I kept the tide behind my gritted teeth and walked away.

I lived life like an unfinished sentence, always waiting for others to complete it.

I have an ocean inside me but can't even describe a wave.

My worst mistake was mistaking the horrible silence inside me for peace.

Walking on eggshells constantly is called life? Ironic.

The ugliest thing someone can do is mock someone else's pain so terribly that they stop asking for help. How cruel it is to take away someone's ability to trust.

I was raised walking on eggshells—from fragile womb to fragile eggshells. My mom said, “Walk carefully on them; if you break them, you won't be my daughter anymore.” My father said, “Carry all these burdens with grace, the way I carried you on my shoulders.” My sister said, “I'll walk on these eggshells with you to break free, both of us.” The floor of eggshells is limited only to the daughters of my home. But eggshells are fragile, they're meant to be broken the way i broke out from the fragile womb.

God, I am trapped within a cage called Earth, where all of your saints live—saints who claim to be holy. Dear God, if saints are bland, then for once I would like to live with sinners, for sinners who own their sins are better than the saints living in their own world.

I hope you never get so attached to someone that their absence bothers you. I hope you'll make peace with yourself instead of building homes in people who are only passersby.

What is even love if it doesn't cost you something? Probably your own heart. The cost of loving someone is making peace existing without yourself.

And if life wins to defeat me— And I go by tomorrow, Tell the whole world That a tragedy is gone, Or keep it a secret The way I was always offered silence.

God, when will the battle of 'almost enough' end? When will I be chosen by the ones I choose? Perhaps the battle only ends when I finally choose myself.

I scratch my open wounds, fill them with salt, then leave no traces of it and mourn my existence. Because I am a burnt child, I was always so afraid of fire once, but I love the burning sensation now.

Mother, I broke myself piece by piece so that you’d help me collect my fallen fragments and repair me again. But you walked past me—like you always do. Tell me, do I look like filth to you?

I hope both sides of your pillow are warm enough to burn your face. When you sleep, may you choke on regrets, and when you wake up, may you struggle to swallow the guilt. May your favorite food taste like poison until it doesn't taste like anything anymore. I hope your existence becomes a wreckage of everything you abandoned. I hope every hand you try to hold stabs you in the same vital spot where you stabbed me. May your hands always feel empty. I hope your life is filled with people just like you, people who run away when you need them most. I’m not wishing you ill, I'm wishing you what you always wanted—worse.

I'm always a passenger seat for people—a source of comfort for a little while, only to be forgotten once they reach their destination.