I Felt Like I've Had Yellow Tears Before It Existed. The Scars And All,
- Reads 13
- Votes 0
- Parts 4
"Before Yellow Had a Name"
My pain-it's not loud.
It doesn't scream or shatter glass.
It just sits there,
in the corners of my smile,
in the silence between my words.
I want to tell people.
God, I want to.
But my mouth always gets caught on the wrong syllables,
and my voice folds in on itself
before it ever reaches the air.
So I write.
Because paper doesn't flinch.
Because ink doesn't interrupt.
Because maybe if I bleed between the lines,
someone might finally see me.
I feel like I cried yellow tears
before yellow even existed.
Before anyone gave it a name.
Before people knew that joy could look like pain
and a smile could mean "I'm not okay."
My yellow tears ran
when the world thought I was fine.
When I laughed in rooms
and died in hallways.
When no one looked twice,
because the bruises were invisible.
And maybe that's why I write.
Not for answers.
But so someone-anyone-
might read the ache
and finally believe it.
All Rights Reserved
#208
null
Join the largest storytelling communityGet personalized story recommendations, save your favourites to your library, and comment and vote to grow your community.
You may also like
when you need me most
When you need me most, that's when I walk away. I've spent years with him-giving, pretending, sacrificing-but I've never really felt the way I thought I would. And still, I've never fully walked away. Each day feels heavier than the last, a quiet ache gnawing at me, reminding me that the person I'm losing isn't him... it's myself. People see us together and think it's enough. They see the smiles, the routines, the quiet mornings, the coffee he always makes, and they assume our love is perfect. They do not know the nights I lie awake, questioning if staying is worth the cost, or if leaving will destroy everything I've built inside myself. They do not know the small, invisible ways I've been disappearing-slowly, quietly, while he keeps holding on, unaware of how fragile I feel. It isn't that I don't care for him. He's kind, patient, and loving in ways that make me ache. But sometimes love isn't enough when it takes more than you can give-and when the person you're with doesn't meet you where you need them most. Between guilt, obligation, and the pull of familiarity, I've lost sight of myself, and I can't tell if I'm holding on to him... or just holding myself back. And now, when life throws new challenges his way, I have to face a question I've avoided for far too long: do I continue to sacrifice myself for a love that demands everything and gives only uncertainty? Or do I finally choose me-even if it means letting go?
A Look Inside My Head
It started on a Monday. I don't know what happened after that. I started off normal. I was still normal, wasn't I? I don't know, I just don't know. I was happy, I should be happy, but I'm not. Maybe I am? It's like there's a blackness in my mind, and I've covered it with yellow. I hate the colour yellow, but it's what I am. It's all I am now. My friends were laughing, I was laughing, but it didn't feel like it. My face felt tight as I stretched into a smile, yet it fooled them. I shouted with them, tears coming to my eyes. They laughed harder at that, everyone crying out my name, pointing at me, tears coming to their own eyes. The hole in my heart widened. I didn't know whether they were tears of sadness or happiness. Everyone was rocking back and forth, and slowly, they seemed to form into looming monsters, with wide eyes and pale faces. We stood up, hearing the bell. The sun hurt my eyes. I ran after them, shouting with them. I was loud, too loud. My own voice hurt my head. I didn't want the attention on me, so I dragged it to my fake self; my mask. I hated myself, and what I was doing. I had walked off again. I'm not sure why, but as I blinked, my feet decided that we were not going that way. I ignored them, and they thought it was a joke. They screamed my name, startling me, making me sprint over to them. I hadn't realised how far I had really wondered off. I joined my group, only to wish I had kept walking. They were laughing again, their laughter hurting my head. It shattered my thoughts, echoed around my head, deafened any emotions. I shrieked with them. We were like monkeys, chattering together. Maybe not; we were too dangerous for that. Monsters. Pale, looming monsters. (Updates everyday day!!!) (Oh, and the picture on the title page doesn't belong to me!!! Credit to whoever it belongs to!!!)Complete
Gods Favourite Loser
Sometimes I wish I knew what it felt like to be someone else, anyone other than me, really. It's not that I dislike who I am(I do sometimes), or even that I'm lost. It's more like... I'm curious. Curious about the weight of other people's thoughts. The texture of their fears. The shape of their joy. None of us walk the same path, even if the streets overlap. None of us carry the same sky, even when we stand under the same stars. I often wonder, can eyes that have seen different corners of the world ever truly see the same world? Two people, standing side by side, might witness the same event. But they won't feel the same chill in the air. They won't flinch at the same memories. They won't hear the silence in the same way. So maybe we don't live in one world at all. Maybe we live in billions. Each one stitched together by memory, perception, pain, and hope. But maybe we can get close. Maybe, with enough honesty and enough patience, we can build bridges. Quiet little bridges made of words and glances and shared stillness. Maybe we can stretch ourselves across the gap. And maybe, just maybe, if you're willing to meet me there... I can show you what it's like to be me. So come. Walk a little with me. Let me try to emulate this strange maze of thoughts, this ever-shifting fog I call a mind. Let me turn myself inside out for you, just for a moment. The name's Blank. And I welcome you to the world through my eyes, my imaginary audience, watchful, patient, and perhaps just as lost as I am. Together, we might not find all the answers. But maybe, if we're lucky, we'll find the right questions.
the suicide mind
"and you left me with bad habits like cracking my knuckles and wearing your sweater because the smell of you still lingers. you left me chewing at the skin of my skin on my lips because maybe just maybe if it's gone the taste of you will be too, but the problem is i can't tear off my skin. so i'm left with the shivers down my spine when my body remembers your hands running up my back as you kissed me and it paralyzes me because i miss it. i miss you. i miss smiling between kisses because damn you just made me happy and I thought I made you just as happy because you would smile and whisper "what" but i would just shake my head and pull you close and it was real. it was. all of it. so why did you leave me? why?"Complete
A Self-love Story
Bliss. Delight. Contentment. Euphoria. Elation. Joy. Glee. Felicity. Jubilation. These are all words synonymous to the word happiness. But what is true happiness? Happiness is that feeling of butterflies fluttering around in your chest, trying to break out. Happiness is that invisible fluid rushing in your veins, making you shiver in the most wonderful way. Happiness is the force that pulls your cheeks up into the widest smile and makes your eyes twinkle. Happiness makes you light-headed and giddy, it is in fact like alcohol. Well then, I am utterly and completely drunk. When you're happy, everything feels amazing. Even small insignificant things like getting up in the morning. The golden hue of sunlight streaming in through the curtains feels like a soft caress from the hand of a lover. The birds seem to chirp sweetly outside, a melody to which the leaves sway as if mesmerised by their music. The curtains tango with the wind beautifully. Every little thing seems perfect. And that's a word I'd use to describe my life. Perfect. To give you a little introduction about me, let me start by explaining the most important aspects of my life. I have a loving family. There's my sarcastic, yet surprisingly sweet brother, my beautiful mother (both in looks and spirit) and my stern, yet humorous father. I have the best best friend, Charlotte and I have an amazing boyfriend, Theo. I'm quite beautiful and popular too which I'm not saying to brag, I'm just stating the truth. So that is my life. The life of Tia-Jade Garcia. *** What she didn't know was that every high has a low and that the higher you rise, the lower you fall and the more painful that fall is. Follow her story as she loses everybody she ever cared for and thereby her happiness. See her fight all of her demons by herself. Watch her fall in love...with herself because the only person's love you'll always need is yours. This is her self-love story.Complete
Tethered
Bright lights, the beat of the music beneath my feet. Distant chatter, quite whispers. The feeling of joy, loss, heartbreak, and loneliness surround me. Buried in a crowd, drowning under the gazes of people who look through you. I am but of glass, a mirror if you will, willing to be seen through, but not seen. Screaming in a room full of people when no one can hear you, let alone see you. Hidden breaths, rising, falling. Isn't that funny, falling? Laughing would be easier than standing here in the crowded place, filled with people, faces, judging every moment the other makes. I could tell you the peace I get standing alone in a room filled with people who only see you as a mirror for who they don't want to be. I could cry tears of blood, and non would ever so much bat an eye in my direction, but I love it. The feeling of being unseen as to appose being seen for the matieral object I once was. Silent, unmoving, unwilling. I am but an idea, glass, shatterable, broken beyond compare. But strong, resistance flows through me. Willing me to be the best I can be, but can I? Who says I make sense, who says I am even me, am I? That's a question I spent years wondering. Who would I be without these scars that tether my skin, marking each even, like a calender. To mend the feelings people have isn't a easy thing, but to break is easy, always easy. How easy it is to forget, to run. I can feel the ground beneath my feet, feel the soil in-between the crooks of my toes, I could describe to you the smell of the rain. Pinpoint the center of the earth, but as I stand here, again amongst the crowd of people stand in this room. I am lost again, an idea, but for what purpose? If I could run, navigate my way through this crowd, I would seek refuge somewhere dark and cold, where I could take off this cloak and be one with who I am, or want to be.
THE BOOK OF FORGOTTEN DELIBERATELY
"Some truths don't set you free. They set you on fire." They told me not to open that book. They warned me with stories-old, crusty ones-about madness, about secrets best left untouched. They said the library's far wing was cursed. That the books in that section didn't whisper wisdom-they screamed. But curiosity has a strange way of settling into your bones, especially when you've lived your entire life inside walls built from someone else's truths. My name? It doesn't matter-not yet. This story isn't about names. It's about what was forgotten deliberately. And how I found it. I wasn't born a rebel. I didn't want to challenge kingdoms or rewrite history. I just wanted to understand who I was, why I felt out of place, and what those strange dreams meant. The ones with burning skies and voices calling me by a name no one else knew. This isn't a tale of heroes and villains. It's messier than that. It's about a girl who found a truth so big, it didn't fit into her world. And maybe-just maybe-it won't fit into yours either. But I'll tell it anyway. Because stories like this-whispers like these-were never meant to stay silent. Disclaimer This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales is purely coincidental. The stories in this book are designed to entertain, provoke thought, and explore a range of emotions and themes. They do not intend to offend or represent any belief system, historical accuracy, or cultural narrative in a literal way. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author.Complete
Save Me From The Scars Of Yesterday.
I'm broken beyond repair and yet... I still wish for someone to save the last pieces of me before I completely die away. I only have one wish... And that is for someone to see past the smiling facade... For someone to see through my bright smile... I want someone who will ask me even just for once... If I was alright... If I was okay... But no... Everyone sees no one else but the happy me. Even jealous of how much I was enjoying life... How mistaken they all are...Complete
beneath her shadow
I didn't know I was disappearing until it was almost too late. At first, it was subtle. A missed call here. A joke at my expense there. A delay in responding, followed by a grand explanation that made me feel silly for even asking. You start to wonder if you're imagining things-if your skin has grown too thin, or if the world has always been this cold and you just never noticed. But no, this is different. This is targeted. This is personal. He came to me like a storm pretending to be sunlight. Charming, magnetic, wounded-how I mistook those wounds as something that needed my healing. I didn't know then that narcissistic abuse doesn't always arrive screaming. Sometimes, it tiptoes in wearing the face of love. He said all the right things at the right time, until I stopped trusting my own sense of wrong. The highs were dizzying: he told me I was everything. Special. Unlike anyone he had ever met. He made me feel chosen. And so, I stayed-even when the lows scraped at my bones, even when the words grew sharp and the silence louder than his rage. I didn't see the cage being built because I was too busy decorating it, thinking I was safe inside. The thing about narcissistic pain is that it often masquerades as longing. You ache not just for the person-but for the version of yourself you were when they first looked at you like you mattered. You miss the illusion. You miss the fantasy. And worst of all, you blame yourself when it shatters.Complete
To Be Broken
What does it mean to be broken? (I wrote this poem myself) ______________________________ Why be sad? When no one knows how bad You feel your Pain makes you sore. Why be mad? When no one can tell How hard you fell How it hurts MORE than a tad. Why be happy? Be like all those sappy People pretending to be What they want you to see. Why be frightened? Senses heightened Screaming, As sick people are beaming. Why be tired? When no one knows How your wired How you grow. Why be honest? When all known is a broken promise When no one believes you Even if what you say is true. Why hurt? When no one feels your pain When no one's ever alert When you never feel sane. Why pretend? When you know in the end No one will be there Because no one cares. Why care? When no one cares enough for you To know what your going through They think your heart is unfair. Why try? When no one sees that you do They just pry Thinking they know more than you. Why speak? When no one will ever hear They'll say you're a freak They don't see a single tear. Why do anything at all? It's not like anyone will see If you fall If you scream. ____________________________________ "Just admit it Winter. After the whole accident....your broken." "No...No that's where your wrong. I'm not broken. Because to be broken, you had to have been whole in the first place."Complete
When you need me most, that's when I walk away. I've spent years with him-giving, pretending, sacrificing-but I've never really felt the way I thought I would. And still, I've never fully walked away. Each day feels heavier than the last, a quiet ache gnawing at me, reminding me that the person I'm losing isn't him... it's myself. People see us together and think it's enough. They see the smiles, the routines, the quiet mornings, the coffee he always makes, and they assume our love is perfect. They do not know the nights I lie awake, questioning if staying is worth the cost, or if leaving will destroy everything I've built inside myself. They do not know the small, invisible ways I've been disappearing-slowly, quietly, while he keeps holding on, unaware of how fragile I feel. It isn't that I don't care for him. He's kind, patient, and loving in ways that make me ache. But sometimes love isn't enough when it takes more than you can give-and when the person you're with doesn't meet you where you need them most. Between guilt, obligation, and the pull of familiarity, I've lost sight of myself, and I can't tell if I'm holding on to him... or just holding myself back. And now, when life throws new challenges his way, I have to face a question I've avoided for far too long: do I continue to sacrifice myself for a love that demands everything and gives only uncertainty? Or do I finally choose me-even if it means letting go?
More detailsContent Guidelines