Unstitched Version of Me

08/28/2026

The sentence didn’t arrive with anger; it arrived as a simple, matter-of-fact declaration. You weren't supposed to be here.
​Most people build their identity on a foundation, even a shaky one. Mine was built on an absencea spot at the table that was never meant to be set. When you are handed that knowledge early on, it becomes the lens through which you view every room you ever step into. You don't just enter a space; you measure the exit. You wait for the moment people realize you’re occupying room that wasn't reserved for you.
​Over the years, the quiet questions start to compile. Is it the way I speak? The way I look? My eyes, my hair, the physical space I take up, the volume of my emotions? You audit yourself endlessly, looking for the flaw that explains the distance. But the hardest truth to sit with isn't that you haven't been chosen yet; it's the suspicion that the origin story was right all along that you are an outsider by design, watching through a thick pane of glass while everyone else learns the vocabulary of being loved.
​I don't look at other people with envy so much as pure bewilderment. I watch them accept affection as if it’s as natural as air, completely unaware of what it feels like to live an entire life without ever hearing the words I love you spoken directly to you, meant solely for you.
​I am not writing this so anyone feels sorry for me. Sympathy is just another form of distance; it’s people looking through the glass and tapping on it. I write this simply to put a name to the weight. To document what it actually feels like to walk through the world carrying a solitude that was handed to you before you were even born.

08/01/2026

A touch of shimmer on the skin,
A secret whisper to begin.
I trace the Sneaky Link along my wrist,
A quiet prelude to a kiss.
​Then Kiss and Tell begins to glide,
A velvet warmth I cannot hide.
It glistens softly in the night,
Catching every drop of light.
​The scent drifts up, so rich, so sweet,
The moment that our glances meet.
I see the hunger in his eyes
No room for breath, no space for lies.
​He pulls me close, his fingers trace
The golden curve, the tender place.
Addicted to the warmth I wear,
Losing himself inside the air.
​He whispers that I’m all he needs,
As desire grows and patience bleeds.
His hands locked tight around my waist,
Intoxicated by the taste.
​The night can fade, the world can turn,
But in this glow, we only burn.
He’s trapped within this golden spell
Bound by Sneaky Link and Kiss and Tell.
He holds me close, his senses breathlessly tied,
And promises he'll never leave my side.

07/16/2026

The Reservoir is Dry
​I poured my spirit into open palms,
believing they would cradle what I gave.
But you just took my storms and called them calms,
and washed me out like debris on a wave.
You drank the light I kept inside my chest,
and left me shivering in the quiet gray.
I gave you every piece, my very best
and watched you carelessly throw it away.

​Do not come knocking at this heavy door,
expecting warmth or shelter from the cold.
I have no mercies left for you in store;
there is no magic left for me to hold.
I scraped the clay until my fingers bled,
trying to find one final drop of grace.
But all the rivers in my heart are dead,
and silence has inherited their place.

​Let others chase the shadow of the spark,
and write their foolish vows in gold and red.
Let others build their castles in the dark,
and believe the gentle lies they are fed.
Love is a luxury for luckier souls,
who haven't known the terror of the theft.
Go watch them play their designated roles;
I’m done.
I have only the quiet ashes left.

06/25/2026

You twist the fibers of my chest,
A phantom hand that will not rest,
Reaching in to pull the twine
That mimics life, but isn't mine.
You draw me near to warm your hands,
Then cast me out to frozen lands,
Discarded like a broken toy,
Whose only purpose was your joy.
​The mind you bend, the thoughts you break,
The endless, suffocating ache
Of being something made to hide
A hollow shell with storms inside.
You look right through me, cold and clear,
As if the agony and fear
Are just a play you like to watch,
Another notch upon your watch.
​“Don't you realize how deeply you cut me down to my core and you leave me bleeding on the floor?”
​I pool in crimson on the floor,
A fractured thing behind the door,
While you go out to find your fun,
Unbothered by what you have done.
I am the puppet, taught to know
My place within your cruelest show:
To bleed in silence, static, still
An echo subject to your will.

06/21/2026

I carved away pieces of my chest,
handing them out like breadcrumbs
to a hunger that could never be filled.
I thought if I gave you enough of my light,
the shadows in your eyes would finally break,
and you would see me.
​But love is not a currency;
I could not buy your devotion with my depletion.
​I loved you with a gravity that bends bone,
a fierce, unblinking tide that poured and poured
into a vessel laced with cracks.
You drank until you were whole,
and left me entirely empty
a hollow shell echoing with the ghost of my own warmth.
​It is a quiet, devastating ache
to realize your capacity to care is a wildfire,
and theirs is just a match that refused to strike.
I have bled myself pale trying to keep you warm,
only to stand freezing in the winter of your silence.
​There is nothing left inside to give.
The vault is bare, the well is dry,
and still, my foolish, stubborn heart
beats out a rhythm meant only for you
shattered, but somehow, tragically, still open.

06/21/2026

I held your fragments in my naked hands,
unmindful of the edges cutting deep,
and built a fortress out of my own skin
to guard the broken corners of your sleep.
When nightmares chased the color from your face,
I breathed my own air down into your chest,
and traded every peace I ever owned
to lull your raging phantoms into rest.
​I gave you secrets shielded from the world,
the sacred, hidden spaces of my soul.
I poured my time, my youth, my vital spark
into your cracks, just trying to make you whole.
It wasn't currency to buy your heart,
nor selfish vanity that drove my hands
it was a love so fierce it would have marched
through hell itself to answer your demands.
​But you drank down my marrow like a wine,
and left the glass discarded on the floor.
I bled myself to paint your canvas bright,
yet still, you stood there, begging for some more.
I am a hollow valley, stripped and bare,
a ruined temple where the fire died.
I resurrected you from your own dark,
and now I drown inside this empty tide.
​How agonizing, then, to look at you
rebuilt, restored, and standing in the light
while I am just a ghost of who I was,
a casualty of fighting for your night.
I gave until the vault was turned to dust,
I broke my bones to serve as your defense.
And still, it wasn't enough to make you stay.
And still, it wasn't enough to make it sense.

06/20/2026

If I ever open the gates again,
if this ribcage, stitched with gold and hard-won stone,
ever learns to soften into a pulse that answers another,
he will have to know the heavy math of my survival.
​He will not hold me like a fleeting season,
or a temporary shelter built for the rain.
When his arms close around me,
it will feel like a quiet, undeniable claiming
as if the earth shrunk down to a single room,
and I am the only face he sees in the crowded dark.
​He will be the architecture that does not shatter.
When the vertigo of the past pulls at my heels,
and the air thins, and the old terrors try to drag me down,
he will not stand by and watch the descent.
He will catch me before I even know I am falling.
He will be the ground that rises to meet me,
solid, unyielding, and safe.
​He will look at this heart
this fierce, wild thing that has survived the unraveling
and he will not try to tame it or take it for granted.
He will hold it like the rarest artifact,
cherishing every crack, every seam, every jagged edge,
knowing exactly what it cost to keep it beating.
​If I ever surrender to the quiet heat of love again,
it will be because he is a fortress, not a cage.
He will hold me close,
he will keep me safe,
and he will never let me hit the ground.

06/13/2026

The morning light is cold and still,
A quiet space we always fill
When all the world is fast asleep,
And I’m the secret you must keep.
You come to me with shadowed grace,
A phantom in this hidden place,
Stealing hours from the dawn,
Before the sun says you’ll be gone.
​My body shook, the tears ran free,
While you held tight and questioned me,
Asking soft, with worried eyes,
If you had caused these broken sighs.
I looked at you, my voice a lie,
And whispered no beneath the sky
But truth was bleeding on the floor,
A silent ache, an open door.
​The truth is, you have left your mark,
A thousand times within the dark.
No heavy hand, no physical scar,
But mentally, you’ve stretched too far.
Emotionally, you tear the seams,
And splinter all my quiet dreams,
Because the pattern never breaks:
I give, and take what your ghost leaves.
​I am the woman never chosen.
A sudden warmth, then quickly frozen.
You keep me tucked behind the screen,
Unspoken, private, and unseen.
You call on me to take my fill,
To drain the passion and the will,
And once you have what I can give,
You vanish so that you can live.
​You disappear into the air,
And leave me holding empty care,
Until the next time hunger calls,
And you return to these four walls.
So yes, you hurt me, deep and true
But here is what I also do:
I open up the lock and key.
I let you bruise the heart of me.

06/11/2026

The Architecture of Echoes
​I am stitching a garment out of phantom thread,
tailoring a warmth for an empty space.
I give you the marrow, the gold, the unsaid,
and receive, in return, a phantom embrace.
​How beautifully cruel, the physics of this:
to be a torrential, unmappable sea,
hurling my waves at a shoreline of stone,
that shape shifts, and shrugs, and absorbs all of me.
​I have memorized the quiet geometry of your spine,
the way you look away when the light hits just right.
I am a satellite locked in a desperate design,
orbiting a sun that belongs to the night.
​It hurts in the places where boundaries blur,
where the ghost of your hand feels completely concrete.
I am drowning in things that will never occur,
while my own stubborn heart beats a rhythm of defeat.
​To love you is standing at the edge of a well,
dropping my coins in, but hearing no sound.
No splash in the dark. No restorative spell.
Just the long, quiet drop to a bottomless ground.
​So I wrap up the pieces, the frayed and the torn,
and I wonder how much a spirit can bleed,
before it remembers the skin it had worn
before it was bent by a phantom need.

05/30/2026