Learning to use my words. NSFW 21+ https://nitter.cf/t.co/IB2CuJey1a
United States
Joined February 2010
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I know men like this
derangement
they call it passion
when a man
works himself
down to the bone.
chases the sun
until his skin
comes away in sheets
and the blood beneath
begins to shine.
they admire the fire
from a distance.
call the wreckage
ambition.
i have seen
what obsession does
to a man alone
with his reflection.
the mirror cracked
years ago.
somewhere inside
is a version of me
who knew when to stop.
i no longer recognize him.
there is beauty
in madness.
the obscene clarity
of wanting something
more than survival.
every morning
i promise myself
mercy.
by noon
i have buried
that poor bastard
behind the house.
some men know
the difference
between genius
and self-destruction.
i envy their sleep.
i have made art
from things
that should have
ended me.
and still,
when the edge comes,
i lean forward.
call it passion
on the way up.
madness
on the way down.
the pavement
has never cared
what name
a falling man
screams.
6
264
Seeker retweeted
thief
comparison is not
the thief of joy.
expectation is.
the quiet arrogance
of believing life
owes you the version
you invented in your head.
we murder perfectly
good moments
because they arrive
wearing the wrong face.
we hold happiness
against the light
looking for flaws,
then wonder why
our hands are empty.
we spend entire lives
mourning things
that never happened.
resenting people
for promises
they never made.
punishing the present
for failing to resemble
a future
that never existed.
joy was never stolen.
we strangled it
trying to make it
look like something else.
Seeker retweeted
Y cuando la luna se asoma
tímida al horizonte,
El viento le canta canciones de plata.
Le susurra versos de amor y de nostalgia y ella sonrie,
sabiendo que no está sola.
- Gloria Ortiz
No matter how much you’ve invested, time or money or energy or emotion or ego, letting go is necessary
(she says while packing up items to donate or contemplating the last five years or both)
1
10
620
Seeker retweeted
Lemon Juice
Some people only see the version of us we show.
But our real stories are written in invisible ink
quiet truths dried onto the page.
We keep our secrets written in lemon juice.
Invisible to the passing eye,
until someone brings enough warmth to read them.
And somehow, they don’t turn away.
They see the shadows, the flaws,
the parts we struggle to show,
and they stay …
without asking us to rewrite a single line. 🤍🖤
