Before you read, here’s a note from the author:

This work is not a story. It is an experience squeezed into words. It is not meant to be fancy, or pretty, or poetic. It is meant to serve as a record of the thoughts and memories that flooded through my head the day my coach died. While I usually write works that are rhythmic and striking and concise and poetic, this is meant to be nothing but a record of how I felt, what I thought, and how I experienced it. Every piece of this work, including sentence structure, narrative, dialect, and pacing, is intentionally chosen to replicate my raw experience that day, and my hope is that you are able to live this moment along with me. If you are interested in a clearer, more put together depiction of this experience, I have a reflective piece on her death that centers around this same moment. I will link it down below, and I would love for you to check it out after reading this one! It reflects on death and its finality, dives deeper into the memory of her, and focuses on the way she affected my life. Make sure to check it out if you want to hear more about what happened.

Now, without further adieu, I welcome you into this whirlwind of chaos!

Good luck.

Take it away, Little Me!

There is a body in the casket before me. They tell me it’s my coach. They are lying. I have never seen this cold, blank woman in my life. This is not the sparkly coach I know, splattered with freckles and life and happiness. Who wears two fiery red pigtails and a blue and green tank top to every practice. This woman is pale and grey and lifeless. Her hair is straight and dull. She wears a ridged black dress that doesn’t even sparkle. This is not my coach. Where have they put her? I think she’s hiding. She’s good at that. She used to do it every Tuesday in the conference room all those years ago. On Those Days. I wonder where she’s hiding now.

I used to find her in her freckles. The ones that looked like fireworks. The ones that made her look like she was shedding sunlight. sparks were cascading down her shoulders. Like liquid fire was splatteriLikeng her legs with drips of gold. She always looked so beautiful as herself. With little sprinkles of sunlight waltzing on her icy skin.

I used to find her there. Inside her freckles. On Those Days. In the morning, before the parents came, and she was already pulling on the skin of someone smaller than she. Quieter than she. Duller and flatter than she could ever be. I hated that costume of hers. It didn’t fit her. She never seemed comfortable in it. And she only wore it on Those Days.

It was thick and ugly, like a heavy, silicone silence. It drooped her shoulders to the ground and stole the bounce in her step. It didn’t fit her quite right. It was always too tight, too small, too wrong. It squeezed the life out of her every time she put it on.

In the mornings of Those Days, she didn’t cover up her freckles. She left them out until the very last moment, letting them breathe for her when her armor pulled too tight. They spoke her voice the same way she did, chaotic and loud and confident. They were the only piece of herself she allowed to shine through that day. The rest of her she sanded down, shoved inside, zipped up and stuffed beneath her heart. Her freckles were the only thing she let stay. And even then, she wore them like lace. Delicately. Cautiously. She would rest in the little pin pricks of light that poked themselves through her painted shadow. And thats where I would find her. On the mornings of Those Days. Sunk inside her skin. Almost Invisible. Ready to duck into the shadow of herself the moment they walked into the room.

So that is where I look. I lift my eyes to her face, pupils shivering. I don’t believe them. This can’t be her. So I look inside her freckles. And I’m right. They aren’t there. They aren’t there. They. Aren’t. There. Except that they are. Disgustingly, they are. Horridly, they exist beneath a wretched film. Hideously, they are pasted over with sticky tan cream and dusty red blush. They are hidden beneath layers of falsehoods. The same way they were on Those Days.

They have ruined her. She looks like a doll. Cold and dull and artificially sweetened. It hurts. Her freckles. Her beautiful, happy little freckles. The one thing that spoke the way she did, and breathed when she couldn’t. Are smothered. Are they breathing for her now? When her chest cant rise and her lips wont part? How can they? If they are gasping lungfuls of thick orange paste, and suffocating beneath a layer of fake skin. They are trapped, thrashing in their constraints as they fight against the banishment of their entirety. I hate it.

They call out to me in her voice and I fight the urge to cover my ears. I know it is not them that is the problem. It is me. I am scared to hear what they have to say. Scared it will tell me who I am in this moment. And scared, that int his moment, I am not anymore myself than she. So I tune out the noise and simply stare. I feel sick. The freckles transform into little, pulsing pieces of her that I want to carve out and save. I hate the way they are hidden. It’s as if they are being punished for their vibrancy. Just like she was. Just like I am.

I’ve been here for moments. I don’t know how many or how few. Time is all twisted and sticky and wrong right now. It clumps together like foamy memories, bubbling slightly now and again. It’s disheveled and staggered and it feels slow and fast and non existent all at the same time. It feels as broken as me. And suddenly I like time. So I stand here in spite of it. Along with it. For moments I can’t count and minutes that don’t matter. I keep staring. My heart keeps reaching out to hers. I keep looking for her.

And then, as my hands begin to numb, I start to see her. It’s as if my eyes begin to adjust to the dark. I start finding little pieces of her, refusing to die. I study her freckles. I can’t stop staring at them, Peeking out from beneath the layers of makeup. They are still alive. Stubbornly bright as always. Just like her. They look like bruises now, smearing falsely across cold, grey skin. But they are there. Always. The same way she was. Even on Those Days.

I stare at her hungrily now, searching for pieces of her beneath this mask. My eyes sprint down her arm, stumbling over the freckles that scream to me like prisoners, something akin to memories splattered on a lifeless canvass. Gold trapped in grey. A sun stained graveyard, bleached with loss. They aren’t painted over. Not here, along her arms. But still, they are wrong. They are trapped. They are smothered by this heavy, grey substance that unjustly clings to the title of “skin”.

It’s lying. I move past them to her hands, tinged blue and white. They refuse to move. I cannot look at them. I race back back up her arm and search her shoulders. It’s worse than her face here. There’s nothing hiding her from me. I decide she must be hiding some place else. I move on. Her neck is ridged and perfectly straight. Someone must have moved it. I don’t think people die that perfectly. I make it back to her face. It hurts a little less now. The makeup seems oddly comforting. Warmer than her skin. More lifelike. I start to like it more. Maybe because it’s easier to pretend she’s hiding beneath it. I don’t notice this. I choose not to. I don’t want to know so I ignore it and all of a sudden I feel like her. I feel like the makeup and the sticky green smile. I feel like a liar. I thought the makeup was lying to me. Turns out I’m lying to myself. Everything hurts. I just want to be mad at the makeup. I don’t want it to mean anything. I don’t want to think about this. My eyes feel heavy. I don’t want to acknowledge my humanity. I don’t want to know I’m alive. I don’t want to think. So I keep looking.

Her eyes are closed. I think that’s where she’s hiding. It makes sense. After all, it’s the one thing she could never truly dull, even when the rest of her was folded neatly into place. That’s where she went when the quiet came. That’s where she hid on those dreadful Tuesdays, when the parents arrived in their chalky lipstick and crunchy coats, and we all had to sit in the angry green room, with the tall angry people and the loud angry voices.

Those Days were the worst. And the loneliest. She always erased her freckles that day. She would rub a thick orange paste all over her face, and it would cake and crack every time her face moved. Maybe that’s why she never smiled right on Those Days. Those days, she sunk herself into the holes in her head, burned and curled her hair, and then painted her face with a sticky green smile. I hated that smile. It felt gross. I used to call it her tailored smile. The sad one. The weird one. The one that always wore a suit.

Those days, in the angry green room, the thick orange paste and the crinkly black dress would smudge her being. It’s like we were looking at her through a dirty mirror, or a shallow puddle in a rainstorm, when the surface shivers with each drop and twists the image into some contortion of its identity. I think that’s who she was Those Days. Some contortion of her identity. Some piece. Some particle. Some fragment of her being. It was as though she painted herself a shade of rust, dulled and diluted so as not to blind the eyes of the adults. She wasn’t herself. And neither were we. Maybe that’s why we hated those days. Because none of us felt like ourselves when she couldn’t be. Maybe she was our freedom.

I never knew why she scrubbed herself away on Those Days. But the parents seemed to like her better when she did. They came to the room in their suits and ties and called her “smart” and “sweet” and looked at her like candy and glass. Even the good ones, in their sweatpants and t-shirts, would glance at the clock while she was talking, and bounce their knees like ping pong balls on the old green carpet. I don’t think she liked conferences anymore than we did.

We couldn’t ever find her Those Days. When the chairs were too hard and the air felt sticky. She was always tucked inside her eyes, folded into the sparkle that danced around her pupils. That was the only place we saw her. In her eyes. On those Tuesdays in the angry green room. I wonder if she’s there now.

The parents didn’t understand. They couldn’t. They never looked at her the way we did. Never saw her the way we did. I don’t even think they ever truly met her. Any of them. Because if they did, I wouldn’t be the only one staring at her freckles while she lays in her casket. I wouldn’t be the only one searching for her beneath her makeup. And I wouldn’t be the only one remembering what it was like on Those Days.

I don’t think they ever loved her like we did. Maybe it’s because she was less like them, and more like us. We loved her for that. Because in doing so, she made us more of ourselves. We loved that woman. She was one of us. Even in her wobbly black heels, and pasty red lipstick, she felt as much a child in that sick little room as all of us middle schoolers hunched in the little black chairs. She was on our side. She was on my side. And she didn’t look at us like glass and she didn’t treat us like candy. If anything, it was the adults she treated like children. Maybe that’s why we all liked her so much. Maybe that’s why this all hurts so much. Maybe that’s why I can’t breathe. Maybe that’s why I can’t move.

She’s lying in a casket. A casket. She’s white and blue and cold and her freckles are gone and her eyes are closed. She’s lonely and fake and scary and wrong. She’s hiding. I’m searching. And I can’t find her anywhere.

There’s tears running down my face now. My eyes are frantic and angry. I’m searching every part of her. Sifting through her skin, combing through her hair, running my gaze over her shoulders and arms. I’m trying to find her. I can’t find her. I can’t find her.

I feel like I’m back in that room, and it’s one of Those Days again. I feel like I’m staring at the porcelain version of her. I feel like I could shatter her with my anger, and I almost want too. Why did she hide? Why is she hiding? I don’t want it to be one of Those Days today. I want a hug and a smile and a laugh. I want my coach and I want her now and I can’t have her and I’m so tired so scared so lonely so broken so cold.

So cold. She’s so cold. I’m touching her arm and she’s cold. She’s so cold. Too cold. She’s too cold and suddenly she’s not hiding in her eyes or her freckles or anything anything anything anything. She’s not hiding. She’s not hiding. She’s too cold. So cold. She’s so cold and too cold and too still and too grey and too scary and too cold and too dead. Too dead. She’s too dead. Because I’m breathing and she’s not. And I’m warm and she’s cold. Cold. She’s cold. So cold. And dead. So dead. So dead dead dead dead dead.

And now I want to die too. Because I’m too cold and she’s too cold and the world feels too wrong and too lopsided and too loose. Everything is falling but nothing is moving and I’m not moving and everything is wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. I should be moving and she should be breathing but I can’t breathe and she won’t move.

I’m on the ground. I can’t feel my hands. I squeeze her hand and she doesn’t squeeze back and then I’m gone. I’m gone from the room and I’m leaving and I’m breathing and I’m moving. I’m moving away from her and I’m leaving and I’m moving and she’s not and the noises come rushing back and it’s so loud, so loud.

I’m cold and numb and on the ground, on the ground, on the ground. And my knees are stinging and the world keeps slipping sideways and everything is lopsided. Too lopsided. Too wrong. It’s not supposed to do that and I’m not supposed to do that and she wasn’t supposed to leave me. This shouldn’t be happening I shouldn’t be out here I shouldn’t be breathing.

And she’s not breathing. She’s not breathing breathing breathing. So I’m not breathing. Im not breathing. I’m not breathing I’m not breathing. My chest is so tight too tight too cold so cold. I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe breathe breathe.

There’s voices again. I hate the voices. I hear them in my head. They are yelling yelling yelling. Loud so loud too loud. It hurts hurts hurts. And im shaking. Shaking shaking shaking, and my hands are numb. Numb too numb and my head isn’t thinking it’s empty. Empty empty empty. And I’m empty, so empty so cold. But not as cold as she is. Because she’s more cold. Too cold. Dead. So dead. Too dead.

And I’m floating now. Up up up and away. Away away away. Becuase she’s away. And dead so dead. And i must be too because neither of us can breathe. Becuase my chest feels like hers. And Im dying dying dying, cause she’s dead dead dead. And it’s loud. So loud. Too loud too loud too loud. And now I’m repeating. Repeating repeating repeating. Cause she’s dead dead dead dead dead. So dead too dead so dead so dead so dead. SHES DEAD. SHES DEAD. SHES DEAD. SHES DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD. AND ITS TOO MUCH. ITS TOO MUCH ITS TOO MUCH ITS TOO LOUD I CANT BREATHE. ITS TO MUCH TO DEAD TOO LOUD TO DEAD TO MUCH TOO MUCH TOO MUCH TOO MUCH TOO MUCH. ITS ALL. TOO. FUCKING. MUCH.

And then I’m gone again.

I wish I could go back in time. I wish I could say all the things I didn’t say. I wish I could love her the way she loved me. I wish I could see her again. I wish a million things. But wishing doesn’t save lives and wishing doesn’t change the fact that she’s dead. And she’s gone. And I’m still here. Still crying. Still breathing. Still living.

Still sitting. Out here, under the moon. Still sitting. Still sitting. Still sitting and wishing. Sitting and wishing. Sitting and wishing and sitting and wishing and wishing wishing wishing wishing wishing.

Wishing I could go back in time.

Even if it was one of Those Days.

Hello! You made it! Congratulations! Thank you so so much for reading!

Here’s a little bit more about how I wrote it and why:

I wrote this from the mind of an 11 year old kid. I wanted it to read like an experience, rather than a story. The way I wrote it is meant to depict my descent into panic and the way the world spiraled into chaos. It is sporadic and choppy and confusing on purpose, and its meant to leave you feeling overwhelmed and anxious. It’s meant to make you feel like I did. This piece is written by my thoughts. I gave them a pen and they wrote this the way I thought them. The way I experienced them. Painfully. Loudly. Directly. The narrative is purposely chaotic and detached, and the memories and moments all twist together into a mess of emotions. This is done to reflect the way my brain seemed to implode in on itself, sending thoughts ricocheting off each other and sprinting from the past to the present and back again. The ending is panicky and tense, and the sentences run together the same way my thoughts did. The mentions of “Those Days” are meant to form a connection between the worst moments with her (aka, the moments when she wasn’t really there) to this moment as we know it, where she finally, truly, isn’t there. Isn’t here.

And then we find ourselves wishing for Those Days. Because suddenly, Those Days don’t seem so bad anymore. At least then we got to visit her inside her eyes. Now, we are left visiting a grave, instead of a person. Because that’s not what she is anymore. She’s a thought, a memory and experience. But the person I knew, the person I loved, is somewhere far far away. I don’t know where and I don’t know why. But she’s gone and I’m not. And now I must keep every memory of her, even the ones from Those Days, tucked inside my chest. Forever and Always.

Hello again! Gold star for making it all the way down here! I wanted to wrap this up with a couple more notes and thank yous.

This is a style of writing I’ve never tried before, and honestly I have no idea if it’s a good read or not. I agonized for hours and days and years and months about the panicky part. I don’t know if it worked. I don’t of it was too much. I really don’t know. I took bits and pieces from a doc I typed in when she died, and I pieces it all together the best I could. Do you think it worked okay? Was it clear I was panicking? Did you panick along with me? I’ve never written anything like this and I would love to get some feedback from all of you on what you think! Constructive criticism is welcome but keep it kind and thoughtful! Don’t be afraid to get deep and ask questions! I would love your input! I know it might have been a rather chaotic read, but honestly, what did you think? How did it make you feel? How was the ending? How was the narrative? What were your thoughts on the way it flowed? Was it too long? Too wordy? Too confusing? What was your favorite part? TELL ME TELL ME TELL ME! I’m so freaking curious about how other readers experienced this!

Anyways, thank you all so much for reading. I cannot thank you all enough for all the support and love I’ve gotten. It’s given me the confidence to post something super new for me, and now I can’t wait to share it with you all. Hopefully this was an interesting read, and don’t forget to check out the reflective essay linked below!

I love all of you so freaking much.

💕💕💕

-BBB

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I have words to share.

Listen and learn.

Be wary and reckless.

Burn colder than ice.

Love painfully.

Live like you’re dying.

Become your own contradiction.

Choose those that intrigue you. Infatuate you. Pool in your thoughts like blood.

Look for me in the only place I’m not, and find me growing in your scars.

Between the cracks in your character.

I am your reflection.

I am everywhere you wish I wasn’t.

But always there when you need me.

I come in many hues, but my brightness never fades.

I am nothing and everything and anything you want me to be.

I am the moon, the sun, the stars, and every shade of blue in the sea.

Name me what you like, and dress me how you please.

I wear many clothes. Many identity’s. Many intentions.

I am volatile and selfish.

I am the child of your desires and the object of your dreams.

I am the victim of your suffering and the villain in your story.

I am hate and fear and loss and devotion.

I am angry and scared and broken and sad.

I am what you make me, and how you see me.

But above all…

I am you.

- Sincerely,

Love

Four Little Letters

I arrive in your silence

As you stare at the face

Of the only true light

In this dark, vapid place.

With palpable fury

I pool in your chest

To boil with vengeance

As life falls to rest.

I shriek through your bloodstream

I poison your heart

I rip through your tendons

And tear you apart.

I demand that forgiveness

Be laid at the grave

Of the one who just killed

Themselves with your blade

I force each indulgence

To come with a cost

In blood for the passion

That both of you lost.

And while you still blame me

For the passage of time

You know in your heart

The fault is not mine.

For though I’m the reason

You kneel at their grave

It’s by your own hand

That you were enslaved

By the woes and the wonders

That I claim to hold

You trusted too soundly

The lies that they told.

Now demons wear halos

We made with our pain

Stop running in circles

Admit your afraid

Of finding yourself

Alone in the night

Grasping at shadows

You swore held you tight.

Let visions of anger

And hatred and fear

Usurp your forgiveness

And wither your tears

Stop running and hiding

We’re one and the same

Stop fighting the battles

You lost in my name.

Just sit in the rubble

Of all you have lost

This person you’ve chosen

Now comes with a cost.

They tore you apart

From your head to your toes

Yet you blame me alone

For the highs and your lows

As you stumble through suffering

Lost and confused

You trip over bodies

Your words have abused.

Your hate can’t be hidden

Inside of my name

Stop holding this silence

Alone at their grave

As you whisper three words

And pray they won’t hear

When fury enfolds you

Truth pools in a tear.

Kneel down at the alter

You made with their lies

And draw your decisions

In blood from their thighs.

Now listen to devils

That scream in your head

And let them convince you

Devotion is dead.

I lie in a withering,

Shivering heap

Of decades of promises

You failed to keep.

I died with their feelings

I stripped you of blame

I answered your questions

I basked in your pain.

I’m evil, I’m woeful,

I’m weaponized truth

I lurk inside anger

I steal from your youth.

You hate me

You know me

You wish I was dead

You curse me

And tell them

It’s all in your head.

You trust me in fury

I bleed through your veins

I’m eons of fervor

Disguised as your bane.

Stop hiding in grief

And wilting in loss

You’ve made this decision

You know you have crossed

The line you created

And drew in the sand

I tarnished your promise

And ruined your plans.

Erase it with sadness

This line that you drew

Between me and hate

As both of you grew

To trust one another

Through thick

And through thin

You learned from the losses

That I always win.

You hide me in sentences

Riddled with hate

And splash in your sadness

When anger runs late.

I drift through your writing

I burn through your chest

I’m decades of longing

You can’t put to rest.

You find me in silence

I find you in dreams

You hide in my letters

I drip from your seams.

You beg me to leave you

But trust I will stay

I sit in your horror

As night turns to day.

I cradle you softly

As truth blooms from lies

You turn to me sadly

And bleed from your eyes.

I lie in your vengeance

I flow down your wrists

I’m here to protect you

The knife in your fist

I slip though your judgement

And hijack your fate

As you stare down the monster

I helped you create.

Inside of your fury

You search for a key

To unlock the heartbeat

You left inside me

But fail to uncover

The secret I keep

Inside of my stories

A thousand years deep.

I’m four little letters

You splattered with blood

Your very own lifeboat

Afloat this great flood.

My name is a promise

A story, a tale,

Of trials and triumphs

Where hero’s prevail.

You hide me in poems

You question my truth

You trade me for lust

In the midst of your youth

I bloom through the cracks

In your characters mask

You drink me like poison

The heart in your flask.

I live in your heartache

I slip through your grin

I burn through your anger

I make your head spin

I call me ferverous

Passion and pain

Boiling over

Through hatred’s red bane

You call me fury

And anger and spite

Poised to attack

In the cold dead of night.

They call me callous

And evil and cold

But hold me like daylight

Afraid to grow old.

Neither can choose me

I come when I call

I creep through the darkness

And sleep in the walls.

I’ll guide you through horror

With effortless glee

My power is endless

The moon envies me.

My job is to hurt you

And help you rebuild

I thrive in the chaos

Your stories are filled

With endlessly dangerous

Tales of my strength

My name still fills silences

Hefty in length.

You call me like winter

Reluctantly certain

That my time has come

You draw up the curtains

And hide me from onlookers

Petty and snide

Older not wiser

They’re rotting inside.

You sit down dejectly

Huffing a sigh

I slip from your mouth

As you trip on your lies.

You stumble on syllables

Caught in your teeth

My name wiggles through

And squeezes beneath

The bars you created

To seal of your heart

Begin to disintegrate

Falling apart.

As truth tumbles down

Like salt from the sky

I arrive in the moment

That hope starts to die.

I call me dangerous

They call me fake

You call me horrid

A lying green snake

I call me beautiful

You wish me dead

They hide in the trauma

Trapped in their head

And when it’s all over

They leave us alone

Just you and I sitting

Silent as stone.

Eons of suffering

Led us to this

I hurt you

I broke you

I poisoned your kiss

You call me a villain

They call me a curse

You think me a devil

And lay in my hearse

You scream at the stars

And moon up above

You call me a demon

And then name me “love”.

Thank you so much for reading!!!

This was a 100 subscriber special!

One of the scariest things about posting on here and sharing writing is genuinely pouring your heart out into a piece and then sharing it with hundreds of people.

I made a deal with myself when i first started my substack journey. If one day, people genuinely wanted to read my work- the real stuff- then I would post the personal pieces. I didn’t think that day would come, in all honesty, so I pushed it to the back of my mind and kept posting little things. Stuff that wouldn’t hurt to bad if it flopped. But somehow, I woke up today with over 100 subscribers.

Holy shit.

Speechless. Absolutely fucking speechless. 100 people wanting to read my work. Incredible.

I’ve been editing this for months, going over every piece and hyper analyzing every line. The support from all of you is what pushed me to finally stop and get it out there.

So thank you.

I’m so proud of each and every one of you and I’m so glad I’ve found a place on this platform.

As always, comment me your thoughts! Constructive criticism is welcome, and I would love some feedback on the cadence, the message, the word choice, the mood, etc.

Thank you for everything and I can’t wait to see what you think!

keep writing you beautifully broken bastards!

Luv ya!

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

-BBB

Ps. I’m sorry I haven’t been responding much, I’ve been hyper focusing on getting this done and edited for you all- but I can’t wait to jump right back in!

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Blessed with a brain that’s both horrifying and fascinating. Wonderful and disgusting. Beutiful and tragic.

I don’t fit into boxes. I don’t follow the rules. My brain is a puddle of contradictions and a chaotic, overwhelming mess of thoughts.

It took me a while to learn how to swim, and I’ve certainly drowned in my own thoughts a couple times, but i’ve grown to love it, cherish it, and respect it.

Here is a poem I wrote about my brain, and its contradictory existence.

It’s incredibly difficult to put into words how neurodivergent brains function, but here’s my best shot:

It writhes like a beast

As it burns through my chest

My soul is a burden

I can’t put to rest

With fear as its weapon

And fury its crown

It hates with a vengeance

This love that we drown.

It screams like a vulture

And claws at my skin

Then sobs like a tyrant

As it bathes in my sin.

It knows how to break me

It always prevails

When blood starts to splatter

I know I have failed.

It creeps though my body

It twists through my veins

It bathes in my teardrops

and dances through pain.

It sits in my anger

It plays with my heart

It puppets my soul

And tears me apart.

My anger is burning

My kindness grows cold

My heart has been broken

My story retold

I shiver with vengeance

I shake in my bed

I sob when the darkness

Declares my heart dead.

My mind is a monster

Chained down by the past

The ropes are unfreying

My trauma steadfast.

I hold it inside me

A piece of me still

A demon of justice

I wish I could kill.

It’s anger and vengeance

It’s unbridled hate

For those who have broke me

And gave me this fate.

It’s fury and passion

It’s bold and it’s true

It’s pieces of nightmares

And you are the glue.

It whimpers behind me

It hides in my fear

It trembles in terror

It screams in my ear.

It huddles in horror

It screeches in pain

It breaks from the pressure

It bleeds in the rain.

This beast is a child

Corrupted by hate

The friendship you mended

Just moments too late.

It’s tired and restless

Its youthful and old

It loves you like fire

That burns in the cold.

It isn’t the villain

Just victimized fear

I won’t let you hurt him

He’s safest in here.

He’s broken and ugly

He’s scared and confused

His trust has been broken

His love was abused

I hate him with terror

I love him with pain

He’s part of my future

I call him: My Brain

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you so much for reading! Let me know your thoughts and opinions in the comments! How was the pacing? The rhythm? The cadence? Did any lines stand out to you? Hopefully this reached any of you who needed it! Love you all to pieces!!

-The Beautifully Broken Bastard

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How do you survive?

What are you doing to get out of bed in the morning? How do you choose life?

How are you living?

How are you hanging on?

Are you standing on the edge, glaring down at the abyss?

Are you sitting in a porch chair, your back to the chaos, ignoring how close you are to falling?

Are you hanging on for dear life, your fingertips clinging to the edge of sharp stone and slipping in the blood from your wrists?

How are you surviving?

Where are you on the ledge?

And how close are you to falling?

They tell you to love yourself.

They tell you that you are perfectly imperfect.

They tell you to repeat daily affirmations in the mirror and stare down your scars until they look away.

They tell you that you’re human, and you make mistakes.

They tell you it will get better, and all you have to do is hang on.

But they don’t tell you how.

So we all find our own ways.

Most of us grab the nearest person and hold on for dear life.

A lot of us use the icepics of logic, frigid and sharp, to haul ourselves back over the edge.

Many of us use guilt as a grappling hook, throw it as hard as we fall and hope someone cares enough to catch it. Catch us.

But some of us are different.

Some of us dance along the edge, trading caution for freedom and letting danger spike our spirits.

Some of us stumble to the ledge, drunk off love, and high on life, and giggle maniacally as the ground swoops toward us.

Some of us sit peacefully, our legs dangling and dancing, swinging lightly back and forth as we gaze at the horizon gleaming above the void.

Some of us enjoy existing precariously, dangerously, impulsively.

Some of us find caution caging and freedom frightening.

So we balance on the edge like ballerinas, tipping with the wind as it pleases, but never straying from our stationed point.

And then there are those of us who want the fall.

Need it, to remind us that there is a consequence to our self destruction. Punishment for our pain.

For some of us find fulfillment in the things that destroy us. Some of us paint selfishness with selflessness in hopes of dismissing the guilt that coats our fingers, our wrists, our thighs.

Some of us need the fall.

And some of us learn from it.

Some of us take notes as we suffer. Collect our own tears for research and place vials beneath our bloody wrists in hopes of catching reason.

We force ourselves to feel it, to understand it, to experience it in its entirety, simply to prove we can take it.

Some of us need to experience every moment of life in a state of ecstasy or hellish suffering, if only to reach fulfillment through our extremes.

In our extremes.

And so, weather to avoid pain or chase it, we study ourselves at our lowest points.

Like scientists, we poke and prod, reopen wounds and study our reactions.

We ask questions, stimulate emotions, push our minds and our bodies to the edge, simply to find out how well we can balance.

And how long it will take for us to bleed out.

And then, disgustingly, putridly, wonderfully.

There are some of us who enjoy it.

Some of us who find happiness simply in the descent from stability.

Who don’t take kindly to those who beg them to bring a parachute, for it is the very absence of one that makes life worth living.

Some of us who exist only to decompose, and find comfort in the finality of destruction.

Millions of us, alive and dead.

Dead and alive.

Living like we’re dying.

Because we love the fall.

We love the rush of the wind in our ears.

We cherish those moments of weightlessness as the world falls away, and we fall away from the world.

We let screams of pain and joy and despair rip themselves from our chests and meet the ground before us.

And most of us allow those screams, that trauma, to cushion our landing, then recoil in horror when reality splinters our trust.

Some of us believe that past heartbreak will dull our blades, but inevitably, we surprise ourselves with our own stupidity when we realize it’s done nothing but sharpen it.

Some of us exist in a perpetual state of pain, and see nothing wrong with it but the lack of entirety it beholds.

Some of us live to die, only to find true life inside death.

And then there are some of us who wait for the fall.

Who stand at the edge and let dizziness wrap our heads with so much gauzy fear it chokes out the regret. It muffles the rage. It suffocates the panic.

Our terror staunches the bleeding, but doesn’t stop it.

So we stand there till it does.

And then, miraculously, there are those

Who have never fallen.

Lucky souls, in their insolence, hold their hearts like roses. Gentle and sweet.

Fragile and forgiving.

They stare at the edge in terror, miles away, and scramble backwards still, palms splitting on the sharp stones of each choice they make.

We wait for them like vultures and mothers, standing with our backs to the edge and waiting for misery to join our company, opening bloody arms to bad decisions and destructive thoughts.

We guide them to ledge and lower them gently into the void, sharp nails caressing and stabbing in tandem as we help them drown.

Some of us stray away from our company, simply to exist in our own landcape of delusion.

But most of us find friends to hold us together.

Therapists to poke our wounds.

Parents to haul us up by the hoods of our coats and wipe the blood from our noses and tell us to be more careful because one day they won’t be there to catch us anymore.

But not all of us have a hood to catch, or a hand to catch it.

In fact, sometimes it is those very hands, and that very hood, that strangle us.

For some of us watch as our very figures of maternity contort into demons of distrust, and gods of corruption.

Some of us are forced to replace the scars our parents made with our own, if only to burn the fingerprints from our skin.

If only to feel whole in our own dismemberment.

We writhe in tortured confinement, trapped inside houses we’ve never called home, and pleaded with peacock gods to grant us peace.

With immortal power, they hold the strings of our lives in their hands like puppeteers, guiding our future with stands of golden trauma.

With jagged needles, they stitch the wounds they made with poisoned thread only to condemn us for refusing to heal.

It is their hands that brand us broken, and their “love” that led us to the edge.

Their final gift to us lies in the angry shadows that stain our future. Around every corner, in every face, we see the failure they have graced us with.

And we have nothing but gravestones left to hate.

So we run to the ledge, lace each kiss with poison, and leave fingerprints on the lives of everyone we touch.

And then we jump.

Falling in quiet silence.

When the mask of curruption threaded through our scars burns away, and the veil of loss disintegrates, we fall like boulders through sky.

We plunge through the void, affecting everything we can, plaguing lives and ruining minds.

We fall with vigor and anger and violent acceptance.

We fall like boulders, and we don’t care who we crush.

And then there are those of us who fall in love.

Foolishly, we jump, twisting through the air like butterflies, before the sun we cherish so brightly melts our wings.

Burns holes in our halos.

Skewers our hearts and rips the trust from our bones with livid tenderness.

We plummet with beauty, drifting down like petals shook from an elder branch.

Slipping through the air like delicate dew, sliding down the stalk of a daffodil.

We fall with reverent grace, slipping from our flight like billowing sheets of stardust and settling upon our graves in shimmering waterfalls of light.

It is disgustingly beautiful when one falls with love.

Dismayingly ethereal as we tumble through the air in delicious spouts of pure ecstasy, and bounce across glittering puffs of air.

We disgust ourselves with our own passion, and loathe the love we descend with.

We fall like stardust.

And then there are those of us who fall with fury.

Who are wrenched from their perch of comfort and thrown to the void of loss.

We tear the world apart with our screams as howling winds of grief claw at our skin with frigid fingertips.

We plunge through the sky like knives, shearing through the fabric of darkness with such intensity it rips the word apart.

Our knives are tipped with white hot resentment, dripping fury as it tears through the fabric of justice in tandem with our skin, shredding the seams of the h inverse with fervent glee as it rips holes in time.

We carve scars, neck deep, through the past and sear lines of hatred beneath our skin, watching darkness flood from corrupted veins.

We smear streaks of bloody night across the horizon, bathing the sky in regret as we turn the tides of sunrise, yanking the stars from their pace in the sky as we plunge towards hell.

It is fury that incinerates forgiveness.

It is betrayal that sharpens our hearts.

And it is love that sent us spiraling through the darkness, poised to strike.

Some of us sit on the edge and watch others fall, in love, in hate, in furry, and sit with our own knives, crafted from the bones of those we failed to save.

We drag the knives across our skin and hold our wrists over the edge.

We let our anger drip down our fingers and fall to the ground at the foot of the cliff, splattering upon the hearts of friends and the wrists of foes.

We allow the pain to escape in tiny droplets of blood as they cascade from our scars.

We beg death to accept our offerings, and submit applications through the little white lines we decorate our soul with.

But we never jump.

And then, there are those of us who face things so disgustingly putrid, words cannot capture the essence of the experience.

Hundreds of us hide bruises beneath turtlenecks and scars beneath sleeves.

We tremble behind doorknobs and flinch at our names.

We hide behind stories and carefully crafted facades.

Our lovers push us off the ledge, and we simply fall like shredded daffodils, drifting sadly through life.

You might think that at the edge, we are met with grace, love, acceptance.

But you would be wrong.

Some of us are met with scorn. Some of us are met with pity. Some of us are gaslit or lied to or manipulated.

So none of us stop walking.

We simply step off the ledge and hope the fall hurts less than the climb.

We fall to the voices of parents and therapists, echoing from above and chasing our hearts, even as we descend.

Some of us hear dismissal and anger.

Some of us hear tales of the “real world” and its woes, and how this fall might finally toughen us up enough to survive it.

And that all this suffering will be worth it, when your feet hit the ground.

As though pain is currency.

And love is expensive.

But some of us don’t hear any voices as we fall.

But some of us don’t expect too.

Some of us have lived through silence.

And some of us will die in it.

Some of us never learn how to live.

Many of us dangle from the edge, swinging listlessly as the wind of life buffets our cheeks and touseless our hair.

But most of us don’t ever truly feel it.

Many of us manage to hang on.

We find strength in hope and power in spite.

We build nets from the love of others, and sculpt harnesses form promises.

But not all of us have the strength to hang on.

Some of us dangle from trembling fingertips, sticky with the blood from our wrists, and cling to sharp rocks so hard our fingernails burn white.

We shift frigid fingers along the ledge, quivering in fear as gusts if winds crash against the cliff and send rocks tumbling into the abyss.

Some of us manage to hang there, dangling from a cliff with numb, bloody fingers, for as long as we have too.

But some of us fall.

Many of us.

But many of us don’t.

We all survive differently.

We all die in our own special ways.

Some of us bleed out.

Some of us befriend death on a good day, and drift away in peace.

Some of us suffocate in our own loss and grief and fear.

Some of us fall too far, too fast.

But it doesn’t really matter how you die.

It matters how you survive.

Some of us create safety nets, built by hundreds of hands, and the love of a thousand hearts.

Some of us find someone to keep us balanced, so our hearts don’t beat too fast and our feet stay firmly on the edge.

Don’t allow yourself to tear through the safety nets so many people helped create.

Stop looking for holes in the love you live upon, just so you can slide through.

Stop waiting to fall.

Stop avoiding it.

Stop running, stop hiding, start living.

Start choosing.

Create a harness, a parachute, a support system.

Some of us will manage to tie ourselves to life with hope for the future.

Some of us must ask spite to bind our wrists so we can damn the knives that scarred us.

Some of us must beg our deamons to hold us down.

Most of us will learn to balance on the edge.

But all of us must find something.

Or someone.

And all of us

Bloody and broken,

Small and scared,

Must find a way

To choose life

And live through The Fall.

Hey! Thank you so much for reading! I’m just beginning on this platform and this is the first real writing piece I’ve posted! I’m branching out my writing style and trying more Freeform, poetic document type stuff, and I would love to know your thoughts!

Do we like the formatting? The breaks? The vibe? Any constructive criticism or comments? I would love to hear your feedback as always!

thank you so much and consider subscribing or pledging if your looking for more!

-The Beautifully Broken Bastard

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Written when platonic love was enough for me.

Written when the world was right side up and I was moving forwards, not sideways.

Written when you saved me from myself, and changed my life.

Written before everything else.

Written for you.

An oldie, I know- it’s not my best work but it’s one of my favorites. I’m currently editing and putting together a collection of some short poems, which I will hopefully have up soon!

In the meantime, enjoy!

And to the one who saved me: I wish shooting stars were strong enough to take us back to the beginning. I miss you. I miss us. I miss all that we were and all that we could have become. It’s my turn to wish on shooting stars now. I wonder if stardust could seal out wounds?

I couldn’t say.

But for now, I’ll be happy with the gentle moments that flit like butterflies between us, and the words you left in my heart. One day my love will be strong enough to build a Time Machine. Maybe then we could start over. Maybe then I could find home again.

I found home

In every part of you.

In your eyes

Your kaleidoscope eyes

That saw past the scars

On my skin

And through the walls

I worked so hard

To build.

I found home

In your hands.

Your ink-stained hands

When they stole the knives

beside my bed

And hid them away

So the daemons

Couldn’t find

My wrists.

I found home

In your smile.

Your starlight smile.

When it lit up the room

And burnt so bright

The darkness in my heart

bloomed to life.

I never thought I could find home

So lost in my own mind.

But I found it

Home.

Beneath your skin

Your glowing, scarred skin

So ethereal

In its misery

It turns pain to paint

And skin to canvas.

And there too,

I found home.

In the art upon your thighs

And the stories scrawled

Across your chest.

I found home

In the love

We made

From promises

And the stars

We stole

From the night sky.

I found home

In the stardust

Racing through our veins

And the scars

That form constellations

Between us.

I found love

In the home we built

between the lines

Of this broken, beautiful story.

More coming soon!

This was a pretty light one, but it means a lot to me!!!

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I am so proud of each and every one of you. And I stand beside you from here on out.

To all the scared little kids out there, to all the beautifully broken teens, to all the young adults scared out of their minds.

You’re doing great, kiddo.

I’m so fucking proud of you.

And for all of you broken beautiful bastards out there who are also beginning their writing journey: Come here you gorgeous idiots, I want to meet you. I want to learn your story. I want to grow and change and bloom together.

If you’re looking for some good old fashioned depresso espresso poetry, stick around, send me a message! Let’s build ourselves a community of beautifully broken poets, yeah? It would also be amazing if you could follow or subscribe! It’s completely free and I really really want to grow big enough to change some lives.

Can’t wait to meet all of you!

Ps. Here’s a poem from when I was a kid about what it felt like to find myself through writing.

Rainstorm

Wit of word

Is wit of worth

Like thunder, wind, and rain

It strikes the heart

And soaks the cheek

With tiny shards of pain.

Born from broken monsters

And poets scarred and true

These words we thought

Would drown us

Have bloomed this world anew.

With sharp and angry droplets

Of water born from word

These words of shining, emerald green

Must howl to be heard.

These glowing, gleaming droplets

Twinkle as they spin

They splash across our heartstrings

Drawing music from within.

It blusters fast with fury

It bruises tender leaves

It thrashes like a wild beast

In storms of hate we heave.

With sharp and pointed arrows

It slashes through the sky

Through tears in silky fabric

Our tears began to fly.

Through years of listless silence

We huddled in the gloom

But each place an angry word falls

A life begins to bloom.

These tiny, tender, flimsy shoots

Of golden, glistening, green

Must push their way through darkness

In trust of light unseen.

They wait there like the morning

As fear begins to set

They bask in harrowed violence

As heaven pays its debt.

And then as fuming frigid rain

Declares its vengeful hate

The scars left deep beneath our skin

Begin to dissipate.

Like little bashful daffodils

Discovering the sun

We stretch our little tendrils

Of frilly, frightless, fun.

They creep their way past shadows

And frolic in the rain

As words of heavy healing

Wash away our pain.

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When the years pass

And your tears dry

I’ll be standing here

Where we said goodbye

When the seasons change

and the flowers bloom

I’ll be lying here

in my self-made tomb

When the sun sets

And the light dies

I’ll be sitting here

When the stars arise

When the monsters come

to feed on fear

run back to me

I’ll be standing here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

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KEEP WRITING.

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(About ICE and the current presidential administration)

Looking for advice, role models, examples, ideas, plans, opinions.