u/midget_baby88

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Some people carry darkness

like it’s stitched beneath their skin,

a bitterness so deep

they confuse joy for arrogance,

peace for pretending,

light for something fake

because they’ve forgotten

what warmth feels like.

And when a happy spirit walks into the room,

they bristle.

Not because the light did anything wrong,

but because misery hates mirrors.

Because genuine laughter

echoes loudly

inside a soul

that only knows sorrow

A miserable soul

cannot understand

how someone smiles without permission,

how someone still dances

after life tried to break their knees,

how kindness survives

in a world that profits from cruelty.

So they mock it.

Doubt it.

Try to stain it with their own misery.

They throw storms

at people made of sunlight,

hoping the rain

will make them heavy too.

But a happy spirit

is not fragile.

It is a wildfire

that learned softness.

A garden grown through concrete.

A heart that refused

to become cruel

just because cruelty touched it first.

And that,

That

more than anything,

is what miserable souls cannot stand:

someone who suffered

and still chose

to shine.

Some people carry darkness

like it’s stitched beneath their skin,

a bitterness so deep

they confuse joy for arrogance,

peace for pretending,

light for something fake

because they’ve forgotten

what warmth feels like.

And when a happy spirit walks into the room,

they bristle.

Not because the light did anything wrong,

but because misery hates mirrors.

Because genuine laughter

echoes loudly

inside a soul

that only knows sorrow

A miserable soul

cannot understand

how someone smiles without permission,

how someone still dances

after life tried to break their knees,

how kindness survives

in a world that profits from cruelty.

So they mock it.

Doubt it.

Try to stain it with their own misery.

They throw storms

at people made of sunlight,

hoping the rain

will make them heavy too.

But a happy spirit

is not fragile.

It is a wildfire

that learned softness.

A garden grown through concrete.

A heart that refused

to become cruel

just because cruelty touched it first.

And that,

That

more than anything,

is what miserable souls cannot stand:

someone who suffered

and still chose

to shine.

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Rest in Pieces

Would you find it in your heart

to finally let me go,

or do you need one more piece of me

to drag behind you

like proof you were loved?

Because I have nothing left here

except smoke in my lungs

and your voice in my head

teaching me how to hate myself quietly.

I stayed long after love died.

I laid beside the wreckage

and called it commitment.

Called your cruelty confusion.

Called your distance pain.

Called your betrayal a phase.

I renamed every wound

so I would not have to admit

the person I loved

was destroying me on purpose.

You touched me

like someone trying to keep possession

of something they never respected.

And God,

I let you.

I let you hold my softness

with hands that only knew damage.

I let you return after every goodbye

because your apologies sounded so much

like hope

when I was starving for tenderness.

But apologies without change

are just rehearsed manipulation.

And I memorized your script

like it was scripture.

You would break me

and pull me close while I bled,

kiss my forehead

with the same mouth

that made me question

whether I deserved to exist gently at all.

Do you know what it does to a person

to beg for kindness

from someone who swears they love them?

Do you know what it feels like

to become smaller and smaller

inside your own skin

just to avoid another explosion?

I disappeared for you.

Piece by piece.

Friend by friend.

Dream by dream.

Until there was almost nothing left of me

except the version of myself

that knew how to survive you.

And the sickest part?

I still loved you.

I loved you

while flinching at the sound of your voice

While rehearsing conversations in my head

so I would not upset you.

While crying in bathrooms,

parking lots,

grocery store aisles,

pretending I just had allergies

because it was easier

than admitting love had turned me

into a ghost.

You were not a home.

You were a disaster

I kept trying to decorate

so it would hurt less to live inside.

And,

God, I knew.

Every time my stomach sank

when your name lit up my phone.

silence felt safer

than honesty.

Every time I had to convince myself

that being loved should not feel this lonely.

I knew.

But I kept choosing you

because losing you felt terrifying

and losing myself happened slowly enough

that I could pretend

it wasn’t happening at all.

Until now.

Now I look at whats left of me

and I cannot keep calling this love

just because it once felt beautiful.

Some things glitter

right before they destroy you.

So no

I do not hate you.

I hate what loving you

forced me to become.

Someone who apologized for crying.

who mistook survival for devotion.

who learned to break my own heart

just to keep someone from leaving.

I cannot do it anymore.

So let me fall apart without chasing me.

Let me grieve without your sudden tenderness

arriving every time I start healing.

Let me ache without your hands

reopening every wound

just because you miss being needed.

Do not call this love now.

Love would have protected me

from becoming this empty.

Just let me rest here—

in pieces,

in ruin,

in silence.

And maybe one day

these shattered parts of me

will stop reaching for the person

who broke them.

Maybe one day

I will remember

that I was never hard to love.

Just loved by someone

who only knew how to hold things

while crushing them.

​

Would you find it in your heart

to finally let me go,

or do you need one more piece of me

to drag behind you

like proof you were loved?

Because I have nothing left here

except smoke in my lungs

and your voice in my head

teaching me how to hate myself quietly.

I stayed long after love died.

I laid beside the wreckage

and called it commitment.

Called your cruelty confusion.

Called your distance pain.

Called your betrayal a phase.

I renamed every wound

so I would not have to admit

the person I loved

was destroying me on purpose.

You touched me

like someone trying to keep possession

of something they never respected.

And God,

I let you.

I let you hold my softness

with hands that only knew damage.

I let you return after every goodbye

because your apologies sounded so much

like hope

when I was starving for tenderness.

But apologies without change

are just rehearsed manipulation.

And I memorized your script

like it was scripture.

You would break me

and pull me close while I bled,

kiss my forehead

with the same mouth

that made me question

whether I deserved to exist gently at all.

Do you know what it does to a person

to beg for kindness

from someone who swears they love them?

Do you know what it feels like

to become smaller and smaller

inside your own skin

just to avoid another explosion?

I disappeared for you.

Piece by piece.

Friend by friend.

Dream by dream.

Until there was almost nothing left of me

except the version of myself

that knew how to survive you.

And the sickest part?

I still loved you.

I loved you

while flinching at the sound of your voice

While rehearsing conversations in my head

so I would not upset you.

While crying in bathrooms,

parking lots,

grocery store aisles,

pretending I just had allergies

because it was easier

than admitting love had turned me

into a ghost.

You were not a home.

You were a disaster

I kept trying to decorate

so it would hurt less to live inside.

And,

God, I knew.

Every time my stomach sank

when your name lit up my phone.

silence felt safer

than honesty.

Every time I had to convince myself

that being loved should not feel this lonely.

I knew.

But I kept choosing you

because losing you felt terrifying

and losing myself happened slowly enough

that I could pretend

it wasn’t happening at all.

Until now.

Now I look at whats left of me

and I cannot keep calling this love

just because it once felt beautiful.

Some things glitter

right before they destroy you.

So no

I do not hate you.

I hate what loving you

forced me to become.

Someone who apologized for crying.

who mistook survival for devotion.

who learned to break my own heart

just to keep someone from leaving.

I cannot do it anymore.

So let me fall apart without chasing me.

Let me grieve without your sudden tenderness

arriving every time I start healing.

Let me ache without your hands

reopening every wound

just because you miss being needed.

Do not call this love now.

Love would have protected me

from becoming this empty.

Just let me rest here—

in pieces,

in ruin,

in silence.

And maybe one day

these shattered parts of me

will stop reaching for the person

who broke them.

Maybe one day

I will remember

that I was never hard to love.

Just loved by someone

who only knew how to hold things

while crushing them.

Smile Now Cry Later

Smile Now Cry Later

Smile now, cry later

that’s what the mask meant

the first time heartbreak taught my face

how to lie.

So I learned.

I learned how to paint joy

across bruised mornings,

how to laugh with a chest full of funerals,

how to say I’m good

with tears sitting sharp behind my teeth.

Smile now

because the world loves a pretty survivor.

Loves the ones who bleed in silence,

who turn trauma into charm,

who wear gold over cracked places

and call it healing.

Cry later

in the shower where no one hears,

in parked cars at 2 a.m.,

in the quiet after everyone leaves

and the performance is finally over.

But somewhere between the smiling

and the delayed collapse,

I forgot what my real face looked like.

Was I the grin?

The grief?

The punchline?

The wound?

Maybe both.

Because some of us were raised

to make pain look beautiful.

To flirt with suffering.

To romanticize resilience

like it isn’t exhaustion in expensive clothing.

Smile now

not because you’re unbroken,

but because defiance has its own teeth.

Cry later

not because tears are weakness,

but because even warriors need sanctuary

And if the smile cracks?

Good.

Let them see

that joy and sorrow are not enemies

just two hands

painting the same face.

Smile Now Cry Later

Smile now, cry later

that’s what the mask meant

the first time heartbreak taught my face

how to lie.

So I learned.

I learned how to paint joy

across bruised mornings,

how to laugh with a chest full of funerals,

how to say I’m good

with tears sitting sharp behind my teeth.

Smile now

because the world loves a pretty survivor.

Loves the ones who bleed in silence,

who turn trauma into charm,

who wear gold over cracked places

and call it healing.

Cry later

in the shower where no one hears,

in parked cars at 2 a.m.,

in the quiet after everyone leaves

and the performance is finally over.

But somewhere between the smiling

and the delayed collapse,

I forgot what my real face looked like.

Was I the grin?

The grief?

The punchline?

The wound?

Maybe both.

Because some of us were raised

to make pain look beautiful.

To flirt with suffering.

To romanticize resilience

like it isn’t exhaustion in expensive clothing.

Smile now

not because you’re unbroken,

but because defiance has its own teeth.

Cry later

not because tears are weakness,

but because even warriors need sanctuary

And if the smile cracks?

Good.

Let them see

that joy and sorrow are not enemies

just two hands

painting the same face.

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Quiet Boundaries

I used to think silence meant surrender

a white flag lifted in trembling hands,

a quiet apology stitched into the air.

I filled every space with sound,

Just for proof

that I was still here,

still worthy,

still fighting to be understood.

But noise is exhausting.

And not every battle deserves a voice.

So I began to listen

not to the chaos outside,

but to the steady rhythm within.

The part of me that didn’t need to shout

to know what was right.

Silence, I learned, is not emptiness.

It is a boundary with no cracks.

A door that closes without slamming.

A choice made without explanation.

I stopped answering every call

to defend, to argue, to explain

my existence to those committed

to misunderstanding it.

Not because I had nothing to say

but because I finally understood

who deserved to hear it.

There is power

in letting words rest.

In watching storms pass

without stepping into the rain.

My silence is not weakness

It is deliberate.

It is the armor I never knew

I was allowed to wear.

And in silence

I am not disappearing

I am finally, peacefully,

undisturbed.

Quiet Boundaries

I used to think silence meant surrender

a white flag lifted in trembling hands,

a quiet apology stitched into the air.

I filled every space with sound,

Just for proof

that I was still here,

still worthy,

still fighting to be understood.

But noise is exhausting.

And not every battle deserves a voice.

So I began to listen

not to the chaos outside,

but to the steady rhythm within.

The part of me that didn’t need to shout

to know what was right.

Silence, I learned, is not emptiness.

It is a boundary with no cracks.

A door that closes without slamming.

A choice made without explanation.

I stopped answering every call

to defend, to argue, to explain

my existence to those committed

to misunderstanding it.

Not because I had nothing to say

but because I finally understood

who deserved to hear it.

There is power

in letting words rest.

In watching storms pass

without stepping into the rain.

My silence is not weakness

It is deliberate.

It is the armor I never knew

I was allowed to wear.

And in silence

I am not disappearing

I am finally, peacefully,

undisturbed.

I used to think silence meant surrender

a white flag lifted in trembling hands,

a quiet apology stitched into the air.

I filled every space with sound,

Just for proof

that I was still here,

still worthy,

still fighting to be understood.

But noise is exhausting.

And not every battle deserves a voice.

So I began to listen

not to the chaos outside,

but to the steady rhythm within.

The part of me that didn’t need to shout

to know what was right.

Silence, I learned, is not emptiness.

It is a boundary with no cracks.

A door that closes without slamming.

A choice made without explanation.

I stopped answering every call

to defend, to argue, to explain

my existence to those committed

to misunderstanding it.

Not because I had nothing to say

but because I finally understood

who deserved to hear it.

There is power

in letting words rest.

In watching storms pass

without stepping into the rain.

My silence is not weakness

It is deliberate.

It is the armor I never knew

I was allowed to wear.

And in silence

I am not disappearing

I am finally, peacefully,

undisturbed.

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This post contains content not supported on old Reddit. Click here to view the full post

This post contains content not supported on old Reddit. Click here to view the full post

You taught me

how to survive on almost.

Almost called.

Almost changed.

Almost loved me

the way a person should

when they know

what it means

to hold a heart in their hands.

And I let it happen.

God, I let it happen.

I turned inconsistency

into mystery.

Turned your absence

into something poetic.

Made excuses for silence

that should’ve told me everything.

You disappeared

and came back

so many times

I started mistaking instability

for passion.

I became fluent

in waiting.

Waiting for replies.

Waiting for effort.

Waiting for apologies

with no action behind them.

Waiting for the version of you

you swore was coming.

And every time

I questioned the pain,

you handed me just enough affection

to make me doubt myself instead.

That’s the cruel thing

about almost-love.

It starves you slowly

while convincing you

you’re still being fed.

But one day

I looked at myself

really looked

and saw a woman

shrinking to fit inside

someone else’s emotional limitations.

I saw how exhaustion

had settled into my bones.

How disappointment

had become routine.

How I kept begging for clarity

from people committed to confusion.

And something inside me

finally broke.

Or maybe

finally healed.

Because healing

doesn’t always look soft.

Sometimes it looks like rage.

Like blocked numbers.

Like unanswered texts.

Like crying while choosing yourself anyway.

Sometimes healing

is realizing

that accountability should never feel

like asking someone

to perform a miracle.

I wanted honesty.

Consistency.

Effort that didn’t expire

the moment things got hard.

I wanted love

that stayed.

And I finally understood

that asking for the bare minimum

from the wrong person

will make you feel

high maintenance.

So I walked away.

Not because I stopped loving you.

That would’ve been easier.

I walked away

because I started loving myself more

than I loved the cycle.

More than the waiting.

More than the excuses.

More than the temporary highs

followed by emotional withdrawals.

I loved myself enough

to stop calling instability

home.

And maybe that’s the saddest part for you

the version of me

that tolerated being half loved

doesn’t exist anymore.

You taught me

how to survive on almost.

Almost called.

Almost changed.

Almost loved me

the way a person should

when they know

what it means

to hold a heart in their hands.

And I let it happen.

God, I let it happen.

I turned inconsistency

into mystery.

Turned your absence

into something poetic.

Made excuses for silence

that should’ve told me everything.

You disappeared

and came back

so many times

I started mistaking instability

for passion.

I became fluent

in waiting.

Waiting for replies.

Waiting for effort.

Waiting for apologies

with no action behind them.

Waiting for the version of you

you swore was coming.

And every time

I questioned the pain,

you handed me just enough affection

to make me doubt myself instead.

That’s the cruel thing

about almost-love.

It starves you slowly

while convincing you

you’re still being fed.

But one day

I looked at myself

really looked

and saw a woman

shrinking to fit inside

someone else’s emotional limitations.

I saw how exhaustion

had settled into my bones.

How disappointment

had become routine.

How I kept begging for clarity

from people committed to confusion.

And something inside me

finally broke.

Or maybe

finally healed.

Because healing

doesn’t always look soft.

Sometimes it looks like rage.

Like blocked numbers.

Like unanswered texts.

Like crying while choosing yourself anyway.

Sometimes healing

is realizing

that accountability should never feel

like asking someone

to perform a miracle.

I wanted honesty.

Consistency.

Effort that didn’t expire

the moment things got hard.

I wanted love

that stayed.

And I finally understood

that asking for the bare minimum

from the wrong person

will make you feel

high maintenance.

So I walked away.

Not because I stopped loving you.

That would’ve been easier.

I walked away

because I started loving myself more

than I loved the cycle.

More than the waiting.

More than the excuses.

More than the temporary highs

followed by emotional withdrawals.

I loved myself enough

to stop calling instability

home.

And maybe that’s the saddest part for you

the version of me

that tolerated being half loved

doesn’t exist anymore.