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To lovely humans who were excluded from invitations, left behind when they tied their shoes, forced to walk in the grass when the sidewalk was full, spoken over when you tried to contribute, whispered about or laughed at, given side-eye when you tried to fit in.... you are so worthy of love.

In my daydreams, in my wishes, in my ifs, coulds, and woulds, I thought, if hands could write realities, I would write your name next to mine.

Worst part about finding out somebody lied to you is having to sit there and wonder what else they lied about.

A Little Haul of my Life 🌷💌✨

No revenge because I know you needed the love I gave you.

Do you ever feel like you're just sort of there?

Like all your friends go out and do things and get into relationships and like people that like them back and have fun and do stupid things with their best friends and instead of doing all that you're just sort of this mildly entertaining thing that people take an interest in once in a while but they wouldn't really care if it was gone.

Like you just sort of exist but you don't really mean anything.

My only emotions are overwhelming, obsessive love, uncontrollable rage, unbearable pain or complete emptiness.

It's me, my 17 personalities, 238 Spotify playlists, 457 unread books, and disastrous coffee addiction against the world.

They were so close, yet so far... like January and December.

My biggest red flag?

I disappear.

Not in the obvious ways, but in the subtle ones, texts left unread, calls ignored like they never rang.

I cancel plans without an excuse, fade into the background of group chats and missed events.

I laugh less, talk even less than that. It's easier to ghost than explain how heavy my chest feels.

I leave messages half-typed, delete them before I hit send, telling myself they don't care anyway.

I let the days blur together, sleep in too late, or not at all, I pretend I'm fine until I believe it.

Until I'm too deep to find my way back.

I never fell in love with you. Falling is an accident. No, I walked aggressively towards love for you. It was on purpose and with purpose.

Every woman's love language is not having to ask. If I have to ask, I'd rather do it myself.

What version of myself have I killed?

I killed the version that screamed, the one that begged to be seen— the good child, always right, never too loud, never too bright.

But the rage, it built a home in my chest, breathing fire where love should rest.

Now I'm calm, quiet, but there' s a grave inside me where love and rage both sleep, and no one sees the price I keep.

When anybody says "I love you," but my 15 year old self wrote:

"Please, hold me. I want to greet death in the warmth of your arms and cremated in the flame of your love."