Polkadot

@

authenticity is a myth

Me trying to decide if I'm gonna stay calm or if I'm about to undo all my personal growth and say something so horrible that will stick with them forever

highkey wanna be jeff buckley when i grow up

Cuz i do LOVE people saying ‘just communicate’ like the problem wasn’t that both of us were communicating perfectly — one in passive aggression and the other in psychological warfare.

Nothing says emotional maturity like needing three business days to recover from a conversation where nobody even raised their voice.

Please, i dont fit into any shoe just let me be and dont examplify me into scenarios

Got handed emotional unavailability, mixed signals, and three business days of silence, and i be sitting there whispering, “Maybe they’re just scared of how deeply they feel.” Uh NO. Maybe they dont text back why should i be reading between the lines like it's my job to do so! Someone showing basic human decency suddenly doesn't means the universe wrote their names together in cursive even if it so fuckin seems like it ( so inconvenient )

Me and you? We got no treasures just traumas and trust issues that we're gonna hand down like family heirlooms.

Does a heavy heart makes a writer? Or it's just the chaos stitched into your skin before you even learned your own name that makes you wordsmith

Rebuilding yourself from scratch is such a beautiful concept in theory. Very cinematic. Very “rise from the ashes.” What they don’t mention is that half the time you’re not a phoenix — you’re just sleep deprived, emotionally constipated, and pretending a personality crisis is “character development.” Everyone romanticizes rebuilding until they realize it mostly consists of staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m. trying to figure out which parts of you were genuine and which were just survival tactics with good handwriting. And the “starting over” part? Adorable phrase. Makes it sound like there’s a clean reset button somewhere, instead of dragging burnt ruins into a new room and calling the smoke “growth.” But sure. Rebuilding from scratch. Nothing says healing quite like becoming your own unpaid construction worker after somebody else set the house on fire.

You hold the knife by the blade and still call it poetry — but did I ever know how your throat got swollen with words that never made it out alive? How much dying it took to make it look like art? You speak of time like it gently sands the sharp edges, like it turns screams into signatures, like suffering only needs patience before it becomes beautiful. Yet I look at the ruins of you and cannot call it beauty. Because it is still raw flesh: shaking hands, sleepless nights, half-finished confessions rotting in your mouth, and a body still bleeding for an audience you have not even learned to face.

"the world is your oyster, but you can't crack it open on a mattress"

I love conversation—but ppl talk too much and i dont have the battery to sustain lengthy chats. I need to feel included, but also—please, for everyone’s sake—leave me alone. If you don’t reply? Wow, you’re ignoring me on purpose. If I don’t reply? I will rephrase it to taking space(learn the difference,malyshka) I’m all about human connection, right up until it starts feeling… human. One minute I’m yapping, oversharing, bonding, building over shared trauma about everything —a whole storyline— next minute—bam. I vanish like I never paid rent in this conversation. Then I come back, slightly judgmental, slightly offended, fully convinced you ruined the vibe— while also feeling personally attacked by a situation I created. Honestly, it’s impressive. Same person, same brain, just running two completely opposite personalities with zero communication between them.

Between a blink and a breath, I wondered— if I softened my eyes, would the world learn how to soften too?

I actually don't get ppl, excuse me.

Reminded me of someone

Choosing to attack anxiety before it gets it's hand on me

And it hits you—not all at once, but slowly, like rain seeping through cracks—you weren’t waiting for anything to be put into your palms. You were waiting for the version of yourself that could finally hurl them outside your window