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i feel sick

i kiss you like i bite into an apple. soft at first, just the promise of something sharp beneath the skin. my lips graze your mouth like a hungry hesitation, that moment before teeth sink in, when the world still feels like it's stretching out with possibility, thick with the sweetness of anticipation. it's as though the first taste is all about the skin, all about the texture. smooth, cool, a little bit fragile. and then, the sound: that delicate snap that comes when the bite is made, a brief, quiet violence in a world that mostly speaks in whispers. i taste you like i'm tasting something forbidden, something that feels like it could both nourish and destroy me in one quick movement. the way the juice spills from the apple, running down my chin, coating my tongue, feels like the rush of finally knowing something about you that nobody else could ever know. with each press of my mouth against yours, there’s this unbearable tension, this sense that the kiss could break us, could tear us apart, but also that it’s the only thing keeping us together. it’s raw, like the way the apple's flesh yields to my teeth, and yet it’s sweet. so painfully sweet. i kiss you like the apple, knowing it's not just the surface that's tender, but what's hidden inside, what's meant to stay hidden, like a secret buried deep in the core, waiting to spill out. i kiss you like i bite into an apple, because in that moment, we are both everything and nothing. we are both hunger and satisfaction, both the seed and the flesh, both consumed and consuming. each kiss is a push towards something deeper, something we’re not sure we’re ready to find, and yet we can’t stop. we bite and bite and bite until the apple is nothing but a memory, and yet the taste lingers, always.

the petals are soft, but they drip. deep red, seeping into the soil, staining fingertips that dare to touch. flowers aren’t supposed to bleed, but these do, wounds hidden beneath fragile beauty, thorns sharper than they should be. you pluck one, and it gasps, silent, a breath stolen from the earth. the stem leaks something darker than sap, something thick, something that clings. you hold it too tightly, and the blood seeps into your skin, threads itself into your veins. suddenly, you are not just holding the flower. you are becoming it. roots curling around your bones, petals blooming in your ribcage, your breath filling with the scent of iron and decay. it should be beautiful. it is beautiful. but beauty has always been cruel. you think of all the hands that have reached for you, plucked your petals, torn you from the ground. you remember the weight of their expectations, the way they wanted you soft but not wild, lovely but not free. you remember the way they pressed too hard, cutting into you without ever realising they were leaving scars. the flowers understand. they have always understood. they whisper in the wind, stories of things taken, things lost, things drowned in red. their roots tangle together beneath the soil, a silent network of shared pain, shared hunger. they grow despite it all, or maybe because of it. and as the blood drips, soaking into the earth, you wonder, if you press your hands into the dirt, let it consume you, will you bloom too?

hatred is a slow poison, a self-inflicted wound that festers in the shadows of the mind. it is not born in a single moment but cultivated over time, fed by resentment, by pain, by the echoes of past betrayals. it wraps itself around the soul, tightening like a vice, whispering lies that feel like truth. it is insidious, shaping perception, making every interaction feel like a battle, every slight a war crime. it makes the world small, reducing complex people to symbols of personal suffering, stripping them of nuance, of humanity. hatred thrives in certainty. it finds its power in the illusion of righteousness, in the belief that pain justifies cruelty. it demands fuel, memories, assumptions, stories we tell ourselves over and over until they harden into absolutes. we clutch those stories like weapons, convinced they protect us, but all they do is keep our wounds open. the mind becomes a battlefield where the past endlessly fights the present, where imagined conversations replay like broken records, sharpening anger into something that feels like purpose. but hatred is not strength. it mimics it, disguises itself as clarity, as control, but it is only a cage. it does not heal wounds; it makes them deeper. it does not empower; it consumes. it steals time, peace, and the ability to see beyond itself. it convinces us that to let go is to lose, that forgiveness is weakness, that moving on is surrender. but in truth, hatred is the real surrender. to pain, to fear, to the worst parts of the self. and yet, we hold onto it. because to hate is easier than to grieve. because anger feels safer than sadness. because to release hatred is to confront the terrifying possibility that we have built our identity around it, that without it, we may not know who we are.

there’s something unsettlingly soothing in the thought of leaving without a trace. to just disappear, to let the world continue on, indifferent to the empty space left behind. the silence that would follow my absence might be more honest than any words i could write. what would the notes say anyway? would anyone even care enough to read them? maybe it's better that way. no explanations, no reason to beg for understanding. no one would truly grasp the weight of it, and even if they did, they’d move on. life always moves on. what’s the point in lingering? the quiet that comes with vanishing feels almost like mercy. the ones i leave behind will grieve, yes, but their pain will fade too. and in the end, they’ll forget why i left. none of this would ever have mattered. it would all slip into nothingness. just like i would. no final goodbye, no last breath of regret. just the darkness taking over, consuming what’s left of me, leaving no echoes. it’s like the final breath is a release, a shedding of the burden that has been accumulating for so long. there’s no need for anyone to carry it, no need to drag the weight of my absence through their lives. the thought of fading away, of becoming a fleeting memory that slowly dissolves in their minds, brings a twisted kind of peace. the cruelty of it, though, is that they will never understand the hollow ache that drove me to this point. they’ll never hear the voice inside me whispering that this is the only way to make it stop, the only way to finally escape the noise. but they don’t need to understand. they’re not the ones living with this relentless heaviness. there’s no sense in trying to explain a pain that doesn’t have a name, a darkness that feels endless, suffocating. the world will move on, and I’ll just be gone, a footnote in someone else’s life, lost to time and forgotten before long. maybe that’s the real tragedy. the fact that, in the end, it won’t matter. not to them, and not to me either.

everything feels heavy. the air, the silence, the weight of existing. your eyes are open, but it doesn’t matter. the world moves without waiting for you, without asking, without caring.   there’s no light at the end of the tunnel, just more tunnel. no hands reaching out to you, just shadows stretching longer. tired doesn’t even cover it. it’s deeper than that. like you are hollow but somehow still sinking. nothing is loud but everything screams. everything fades. even the things you swore would last. people leave, even when they promise they won’t. silence replaces voices you once couldn’t go a day without. you forget the way they laughed, the way they said your name. the night stretches longer than it used to. sleep doesn’t come easy. memories play on repeat, but they don’t feel like yours anymore. just scenes from a life that doesn’t belong to you. you wonder when you stopped feeling like a person. when you became just a shadow of who you used to be. maybe you were always meant to disappear.

you're petty. (i would stoop lower.) you would rather go deaf than hear the sound of my voice. now it echoes in the walls of our childhood. what if it never goes away? if i showed you who he really was, would you trust me again? if i showed you what he subconsciously had confined ME to, would it make us better? would you love me and only me? how can you indulge in his presence for your mere entertainment? because of you, i was not alone for the days in which i had been tortured by him. (you were always worse.)

i hate summer, but i miss it like the scent of a once-loved song that still lingers in the air, even though you’ve grown tired of hearing it. i miss it like the last breath of warmth before the cold takes over, a fleeting comfort that lingers just out of reach. i miss it like the last page of a favorite book, reluctantly turned, yet unforgettable in its warmth. for it was in summer when i sat in the fields with the people i could've called home, their laughter echoing through the warm air like a melody that lingered even as the days grew distant. but this is a warmth long gone. summers became an aching silence. i hate the summer.

it’s like everything is melting and i’m stuck in the middle, watching it drip down my fingers, slip through, burn, freeze, crack. nothing sticks. nothing stays. it’s all just noise, noise, noise, and i’m sick of listening. sick of trying to hold on when my hands don’t even work anymore. when i don’t even work anymore.   it’s like i scream and it doesn’t even echo. doesn’t even matter. i could break every bone in my body and no one would notice until the pieces start rotting. maybe not even then. maybe they’d just step over them like they were never a part of something that used to breathe.  i’m tired of clawing at a wall that doesn’t move. tired of pretending the air isn’t getting thinner. tired of waking up and realizing i still exist. it’s pointless. it’s endless. it’s exhausting. i don’t want to be seen. don’t want to be heard. don’t want to be.  i want to disappear not in the quiet way, not in the peaceful way, i want to be ripped out, erased, unmade. like i was never here. like i was never anything at all. like i was just a smudge on the glass, something that was never meant to stay. something that was never meant to be real. i could scream until my throat bleeds, and it still wouldn’t change a fucking thing. i could rip myself open, and they’d just look away, pretend they didn’t see, pretend they didn’t hear. and maybe they didn’t. maybe i’m already a ghost, already fading, already slipping through the cracks and nobody’s reaching out to catch me.  and that’s fine. it’s fine. i don’t want them to. i want to be gone like a name that was never spoken. like a shadow that never touched the ground. like something that never existed in the first place. to let it all burn, let it all fade. i don’t need a reason, don’t need a fucking thing to make it stop or start. i just want to disappear, and that’s the only truth left. no goodbyes, no apologies. i won't even write notes. selfish, isn't it? just nothing. nothing at all.