Spilled Tears - Blog Posts

Reflection

The water from the reservoir

Is entirely stagnant.

As I hover the water,

The eyes of my reflection rendezvous.

In that moment I began to apprehend

That I truly looked demoralized.

The tears from my cheeks cascade,

And the still of the water is interrupted.

The soft undulations ripple away

Along with the depiction of my reflection

That had scarred the human psyche.

~ceramic-feelings

Hopeless romantic girlies ✨

Today, I encountered a little black girl who looked frail and seemed timid, and it nearly brought me to tears. There was something in her eyes, a glint of quiet pain, of low self-esteem. She seemed afraid to speak, to take up space, to simply exist in the fullness of who she is. And in that moment, my mind instantly went to my younger sister. And of course, to my younger self. I see so much of myself in my little sister. I love her with everything in me, and I would do whatever it takes to shield her from the cruelty of the world—from my father's rage, from society’s judgment, from the harshness I was never protected from. I couldn’t save my younger self from all the things that broke me. The things that silenced me, made me shrink, made me feel like I wasn’t enough. So when I see little girls like that—like her—I feel this deep, aching need to protect them. I glanced at her multiple times today, and she might’ve thought I was judging her. I wish I could’ve told her I wasn’t. That I cared. That in a world where others might overlook her or treat her like she’s invisible, I see her. I would be there for her. But I couldn’t say it. Because that would've scared her off. I hope I see her again. Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t this sensitive. I wish I could just numb myself just a little, so I wouldn’t have to feel so deeply all the time. But here I am, writing this with tears in my eyes. Empathy is starting to feel like a curse to me.

—A lady and Her Quill, Journal of wandering thoughts.

James Vowles' marketing strategy is top peak bc wdym you only heard about him after Logan's departure. HE'S A FREAK. (is somebody gonna match my freak? kicking out potential drivers)

maybe it's the kilometers who were the friends we made along the way 💔💔💔💔

Just when I think I can’t love Oscar Piastri more I learn that apparently he made his parent read him car magazines instead of bedtime stories as a little kid

my favorite person

TW: Selfharm

Just one cut. Only one tiny simple cut. That's how it starts, one cut.

It starts with one at a time, "I can always just stop". Then it's more and more, you stop wearing short sleeved tops. Your whole arm is covered in cuts and blood, dried and fresh.

Your arm is one giant scar and suddenly you can't stop, suddenly you're addicted. You always wear long shirts, hoodies or pullovers. You tell the others it's just because you're cold.

You get cold easily. They don't even notice that you flinch when anyone touches your arm. They don't know, they can't.

You pray that noone will ever know, how disappointing that would be to everyone. But at the same time you need someone to find out, intervene. You realize that it is wrong and harmful, an addition yet you also can't seem to stop. You can't stop, you keep going. Hoping for someone, anyone to take notice and do something.

You're clean. You've been for some...months, maybe a year or two. You don't exactly remember. No one was there to celebrate milestones, so you forgot. They couldn't have been there, you never told them.

You're clean, but ever time you feel so lost like you're stuck in a void...you want to cut again. You can't help it, it's the addiction speaking. You will never be able to live like "normal" people.

For a while you hide your arm but as time goes by the scars fade. At first you're mortified, they shouldn't fade that would mean that they were never deep enough to be real. But they were real, you bled and your arm is now covered in healed cuts, scars.

By now you only look at your arm sometimes. Noone else can see them, the scars but you. You can still see the distinct lines of where you cut.

You tell yourself "just one cut". One cut couldn't hurt, right? But instead of giving in you start to do other things. You draw, sometimes crochet or write. No more cuts, no more.

Forgive me for seeing beauty in your sufferings, when there was only cruelty.

- reign

I lost a bit of you and you lost a bit of me, all in translation.

- reign

I am tired of seeing you in my dreams. I don't want to walk through this memory with the ghost of you again. To see you smile, to see us back underneath the summer sun, is agony. To recall my name, from broken pitches of your last remembered voice, is agony. With that said, again I will wait for you in my dreams tonight.

- reign

I hope it never escapes, the longing to call you today. I will hold it in my heart and let it decay, with the rest of me. Ah! Sure I will not forget you, do not fathom that I regret you. Know this, even if untold, I will see you in every spring leaf turned gold.

- reign

The word 'prodigy' never found its way near my name. Yet, all I hear from peers who used to be proud, now concerned, is ' you know too much.' And I ask, and I cry.

Did I fly too close to the sun again, Father? Am I falling?

- reign

I weep in rememberance of the ache that once existed. Not before. I wait for it to die, then I cry for the sapling that grows on its burial floor. This doesn't save me from pain, it just spares no mercy. So I lament for what is and once was.

-reign

It's a poet's inclination. The urge to abandon this domestication and be the gentle beast of the woods. To see curiosity and amazement in the eyes of creatures for once. To have my muse climb trees. To fetch water from roaring streams. I have been civil in my suffering. Now I want to suffer from unusual ailments.

- reign

Maybe if

My shattered seams were laden with gold

I could have promised

To have and to hold

But like the former

I broke

-reign

If there is an afterlife

I will spend it

Finding a love letter

In those eulogies

- reign

I seldom remember you but hearing your name casts a smile on my flaccid face and a tear rolls down my cheek.

Nothing is more painful than being the reason behind the tears in your mother's eyes

They will come back... they always do

Sadgirl hours

To feel nothing