me&my

60 posts1, 2, 3, 4
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xxiii.

i used to think you’d forget i existed. periodically. so i thought i would lift it. the burden of reaching across all the distance. i would breach it for you.
obligation and love are a comic existence. can’t explain all the pain but i wouldn’t resist it. economically. it makes sense to do.
people say it’s both ways and i’ll always resent it. for 28 years you were always consistent. can’t complain like you never were there when you meant it and showed up to every big move just to lift it: the distance.
somewhere deep in my heart i learned loving is presence. you show up and do what’s required and offense is biding its time in the corner ‘til time heals all wounds. wish it healed all of you.
still i have no regrets for remembering you existed. you didn’t call me, i called you, but i meant it. with every pick up “i love you” was cemented, i’m hoping and praying you knew. cause i sent it in truth.
you didn’t say it often but you loved me too.
Last edited by soundofmind on Thu Apr 09, 2026 1:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.




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Gender Female
Points 8264
Reviews 192
poetry readings

xviii. - xix. - xxi. - xxii. - xxiii.
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.




User avatar
Gender Female
Points 8264
Reviews 192
xxiv.

Spoiler
things that are too fragile to name:

my longest standing friend lost his little brother three months ago to murder, and i’m watching him burn. i wonder if this was how it felt when i fell to the depths like a cliffdiver, into a shallow end first. i’m worried for my friend, but we’re both laying in lapping water, staring at each other states apart with no solace, and he’s covered in triggers that burst at any word: but there’s nothing else to offer from a distance. he says he notices he’s become cynical, and i’m one of several caught in the collateral damage, but i don’t know if we’ll survive this. water fills my lungs but his were already full, now he’s sinking, and i can’t reach him

my mother’s still grieving her mother, and i’m still grieving my grandmother. two years almost to date. she’s become a shell of herself, as of late, in body and in spirit, and she won’t say it’s because of my father. he died to her when they divorced but they shared 20 years. surely his absence means something, as she creates distance from both their four children, pretending not to know she’s self fulfilling. God willing, she’ll pull out of it, but i can see where it’s ending. isolation is a deadly snare i’m praying she’s escaping

my oldest sister doesn’t trust me anymore. when i sat on her couch and asked her what it’s been like for her, she gave me one sentence. and maybe it’s indicitave of needed repentance of my part, but she hasn’t told me anything. why her heart is held six states away when i’m beside her. i used to cry with her, and i don’t know what we did wrong. she said to my face she can’t handle anything but validation, and words of affirmation are a strength of mine, but i have to mean it, and i feel like a broken record she’s not hearing

my boyfriend says “i love you” and “i’m in love with you” mean the same thing to him. i’m afraid i can’t compete with his commitment. he wants to wait to say it but we both know he’s waiting for me to catch up. waiting for me to throw up and give up fighting. he’s waited for eight years while i was lying to myself and still i’m trying to go slow and steady. he says that he’s ready but he’ll wait, and i say i can’t anticipate my falling in love as an inevitability, afraid that will drive him away. when it doesn’t, i’m actually more afraid.

like my friend. like my sister. my mother. i’m not used to someone who stays, and i fear i’ll disappoint him. worse, break his heart all over again. i hold all of my loved ones like glass in my hands because my father shattered — so what if they do too?

too fragile to name, always something to lose

(The line between poetry and vomiting is incredibly thin. Spoilered because I’m fragile, and so is the poem.)
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.




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Reviews 192
xxv.

inconsolable, i cling to my only consolation at your feet. begging you to take me sooner. begging to see my faith made sight. begging to look with heaven’s eyes at this world of glass, crumbling beneath the severance between what i believe and what i see. a friend told me you were remodeling, gutting everything, scraping out the rot in my house of mirrors, leaving the foundation clear, back to square one. i hate that death to self is over only when you die finally. i’m losing everything hoping that you’ll make me less fragile. knowing, in my gut, one day i’ll break all over again. i still hold to your ankles and bury my face in your feet. fill the holes with my tears where they were pierced. kiss them dry, forgive my eyes for running out of water to wash you. Jesus, i need you. i love you, i love you, i love you. i wish you’d take me now. the agony of losing has left me on the rock but it’s so barren here. i don’t know how to build on stone. in my pride i built alone and forgot about your design. lament offers no structure but i keep saying i’m fine. God, help me through this. help me. help me. help me. i wet your feet with my tears, and if i saw you. if your eyes met mine. i think i’d beg to meet you sooner, but i’d accept your perfect time.
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.




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Reviews 192
xxvi.

i hit the loop pedal, on repeat
the same four chords drone over my weeping
hoping that music will soften the sight
and bring someone running to me and not send them fleeing
because i know how draining it is to sit in sorrow. i do it every day
i’ve spared myself the disappointment by turning some away
and tap the button twice to pause the melody that plays
to see who stays when the dirge becomes a groan, on repeat
begging behind my guitar for someone to see me


Spoiler
I feel like, when the grief hits harder, my poetry gets worse. Not that the quality makes the pain expressed more or less real. It just feels fruitless, in a way. I feel like I have to make something good. To have something to show for all of it. I don't know where that comes from... or maybe I do.
xxvii.

my heart was bottled with a cork ready to pop
on july 7th you shook it. erupt. full stop.

everything in me emptied, and all in one day
i had to start over, move back to your place
sit inside of your office and your private space

of all that i’d packed, in my housemate’s suitcase
my forgotten old bottle was never replaced
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.




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xxviii.

the first time someone cried at my pain,
i was sixteen, and — my mother,
too overwhelmed to hold my sorrow with her own
collapsed under its weight.
i sought her comfort, but i left with my arm over her shoulder
her bitter tears drowned out mine

the second: a stranger
leaving a church for the first time in two years
at a first service. i broke down in the doorway when the greeter pressed
seeing my tears, and forming her own
i said my father died a month ago
and she hugged me. didn’t know me
we parted and never spoke again

the third: a quiet, unassuming gaze
but you didn’t look away when you thanked me
for opening a window into my sorrow through psalms
my poetry moved you to tears as you said you’re sorry for all that i’ve suffered
and when i teared up too, you didn’t cry louder.
you quieted for me. making space for us to breathe

is this what love is supposed to be?
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.




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Points 8264
Reviews 192
xxix.

someone asked me what’s keeping me going today, and i filtered through all the right answers for one that felt honest. still, i felt like a fraud if, when talking to God, I hide more than I want even though I’m transparent. i wish i had said i don’t know but i know she was searching for help — an answer, an anchor outside of herself, but i think she forgot that i’m barely afloat. i’m shipwrecked and hoping that people still notice, but i think she only glanced at the surface. i keep up what i need, baseline responsibilities, and i worry i’m too good at hiding emotions. i’ve become my own shield — a result of my shame — of which there are too many i may never name — but i’m making a cage for myself, and a mask. painting over the canvas attatched so when someone looks back they’ll see camoflauge green. i’m a functional loser, a killer who’s seen too much heartbreak to cause it, too much hope to fulfill all the darkest impressions that lash on my will, but my body remembers behind every cringe is a buried self hatred suppressed by the hinges of time. i can feel it leak out when my mind lingers too long, the discomfort is strong and i don’t want to imagine living with myself any longer. i don’t want to survive me. and i know that there’s no option to escape that suffering. i have to wake up every morning, have to carry all this grief. i want to vomit at the mention of my name when others speak. i hate knowing others are watching not to draw near but to see; to observe and monitor my state just enough constantly because i do the same on the inside, forcing myself to grow. i don’t know if i’ll get through this, but getting through’s my only hope. i still can’t see past all the boundaries, where the sadness stops its reach. i wish i knew how to skip this, but i live it on repeat, and every holiday and special date brings back a memory. i wish i knew what kept me going, but i’m splitting at the seams. i fall back into coping mechanisms in my dreams and i’m losing, treading water, taking water, more and more. one day a future me will look back when i finally reach the shore and i hope i’ll have an answer, but i wait to have it then. for now i have no answers to offer my sailing friend
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.




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Reviews 192
xxx.

cystic acne; buried deep beneath the surface. dirt and oils and even worse, it’s inaccessible. i have to carve through every layer of dermis, but all i get is blood. scars, to show for the effort, never releasing the pressure, no topical creams to feel better. it’s an open wound. if i didn’t touch it, it would heal, but the process is long regardless. at least i can feel ownership for the pain: i made it worse. i played a part. i blame myself for this bloody part of my face now. no bandaids can erase how i’ve welled with infections. there’s no ressurections for dead skin, dead kin, no shortcut to the end of the office, find a cure with my dermatologist, she says time is healing. so my impatience is the only thing standing between me and my betterment — i made it burst. i’m going to burst. it will be my part to play. i wait for the day when one good squeeze empties every pus-filled sack and artery. i long for the release. i wait at rock bottom with only one dream to cave in to the pressure that’s building inside, blast like a boil, where my father died. i can’t picture what’s after. i just want to dissolve, and break. i don’t know how much more i can take
Last edited by soundofmind on Sun Apr 12, 2026 2:27 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.




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Spoiler

The line between poetry and vomiting is incredibly thin.

gosh, yes. </3

Your two list poems - "things that are too fragile to name:" and "times someone cried at my pain" are both very striking / devastating.

"things that are too fragile to name" the very fact of writing a poem about those things in a way ... naming them feels very powerful in itself. And the poem's interplay between grief and closeness / distance / pushing / pulling people away is just a very thoughtful observation on something that is by nature very difficult to put words too - the way sometimes grief and loss brings people closer and sometimes shoves them apart and sometimes both at once is something explored in some of your other poems too.

i hold all of my loved ones like glass in my hands


This line. !!

The other list poem too - you have these three vignettes that are so striking, but again the meaning / introspection you're pulling out of these beyond just describing the moment is so striking and moving. I've never really thought much about how when grief meets other grief it can choose pass on / overwhelm or make space - but the third example does strike me as Christ-like (and maybe that's exactly how you meant it to be read!) - reminds me of Jesus at Lazarus' tomb - meeting Mary, holding space for her outrage, but weeping too. The poem is personal to you - but invites the reader to hold space with the poem and people around them as well.

Looking forward to hearing the reading of xxix - the sound devices are so perfect in that one especially. This line -> " i’m shipwrecked and hoping that people still notice, but i think she only glanced at the surface." oof - what a perfect metaphor; this poem captures for me the uncomfortable mix of feelings of obligation / performance / need when responding to the surface level questions "How are you? / How can I help?" ... when it's not clear if they want to wade into that discomfort with you or just ease their own guilt - poem xix gets right at this too really well - and I absolutely love the final lines of that poem -
"because grief always comes. and the best friends beside me let me be undone
with a witness
maybe that’s what i need
just don’t make me invisible. sit with me while i bleed"


Again I feel like this is so perceptive. I've heard it phrased before "grief doesn't need a solution or a way out, it needs a witness" - and your poetry explores the reality of that so well.

There is so much here sound - you've written some really powerful poetry this month.

(Also I am illiterate in Roman Numerals, but I think you hit 30?! <333 Well done for reaching 30 before even half the month is through and congratulations!) Thank you again for posting these; they make my heart think deeply and feel deeply and I have a feeling some of these lines I will be returning to reflect on too.
you should know i am a time traveler &
there is no season as achingly temporary as now
but i have promised to return




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xxxi.

i’m too deep in denial that our walls are thin. i like to imagine the room that i’m in is a fortress, but i worry my housemates hear every breakdown. and i can never be sure that they’re not around when i wail. i don’t tell them about all the things that i think in secret. they hear moaning and groaning and weeping through creaking ceilings. i don’t lay out all my feelings, but they’re not asking. no one pushes past the space. we don’t invade. the illusion of privacy holds and i forget they can hear sometimes, when i snap at my mother or break down and cry on the floor. every phone call and more. do my doubts get muffled if i speak under my breath? do they plug their ears to listen to another indirect distraction. i don’t know. i never hear their shakes — murmurs through the hollow boards, but did they learn to take their troubles somewhere else, or does sound travel just a little less than i think? i am prone to second guess. i never know where knowledge goes and where that knowledge ends. i can’t repent for all the things i’ve said, no context for eavesdropping friends, i worry that the only safety’s found inside my car where no one hears me. i know i’m isolating, but who wants to hear me screaming? least of all, cursing at God, cursing at me, letting the bowels of my heart be unleashed to dead air. i know that he’s there, listening. and no insulation can or lack thereof stops him from leaning in to hear, even when all i have to offer are tears. i hate and love that i can’t escape; always before his eyes. no prayer is said too faint


Spoiler
@alliyah At the risk of sounding dramatic, your encouragement is fr one of the few things keeping me going through this month as I spew out poetry. ;-;;;; Thank you so, so, much for reading, engaging, hearing my heart, and sitting with it. It has likewise been such an honor to sit with yours, and where words fall short I hope you know my prayers are with you and so are my tears (without exaggeration).

It's funny that you mention the roman numerals because I'm not fluent either -- I relearn them every year when I use them because they look nice as lowercase letters, like everything else, and still help me to number things. (Yes... it's for the aesthetic. Lol.)

Also, for the list poem -- xxviii -- the last one is actually a recent experience with my boyfriend (whom I am so grateful for in this season). He's definitely been a representative of Christ in the way he's chosen to sit with me in my suffering. He's a really good guy. There is, of course, definitely a parallel to Christ in the value/behavior behind it -- and it helps that said bf is a Christian, so that's where it's coming from. <3

Also... lmao I hit 30 but it's likely I have way more in me. Lol @ me going "maybe I'll write one," and then my heart exploded with words. I unlocked pandora's processing box.

Thanks so much for reading <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 Insert heart-spolosion emoji (positive explosion)
Last edited by soundofmind on Sun Apr 12, 2026 12:16 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.




User avatar
Gender Female
Points 8264
Reviews 192
poetry readings

xxiv. - xxv. - xxvi. - xxvii. - xxviii. - xxix. - xxx. - xxxi.
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.




User avatar
Gender Female
Points 8264
Reviews 192
xxxii.

i keep falling into highway hypnosis on back roads
sure, i'm going — but i'm not going anywhere
and i wake up in the same parking lot every night
like the blockbuster film, groundhog day
except it all remains a summer morning, in the shadow of your urn

sometimes i wish we could've shared it
split your ashes five ways, had my jar where you'd stay
as a fraction of remains by my bedside — but i keep turning left at the stop sign
going in circles as i'm tracing back time and putting my radio on mute
i don't know what i'm supposed to do with no roadmap

i was already stumbling forward in the dark
always pressing the brake pads too hard, double checking the tires on my car
filling gas wasn't hard, but i had no destination and i still don't
now that i've finally hit this junction i don't know where to go
i just don't want to go without you

when i finally thought of graduating i pictured walking in my gown
looking out into the crowd, seeing you with your phone, honed in on me
proud: determined to capture everything, because you thought
i was worth the memory space on your SD card
worth the 30 minutes of other faces, until you saw your daughter shine

now i don't want to get there. i want to leave my car
in our covered garage and forget about it
i want to be irresponsible, and abandon maintenance
can i walk everywhere now? maybe i'll try biking
i say that while i still get up in the morning and go driving, because i have to

and i keep falling into highway hypnosis on the back roads
going somewhere — somewhere — anywhere but here
because "the only way forward is through" and people leave road signs
on every street corner, with mantras and advice
and i can't crash my car into the pole if i keep speeding with my foot on the gas
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.




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Reviews 192
xxxiii.

i think about the timing of murphy's law
when the driveway dissolves, the sub-pump explodes
and the car gets a new dent from my own inattention
everything you sustained gave up at the mention
of your absence, as if that broke the tension
between life and death itself
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.




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Points 8264
Reviews 192
xxxiv.

i have two more meetings of griefshare before the module ends, and i joke that i'll graduate from grief when it's over. like we're in elementary school again, and instead of passing a class we're passing a season, as if death can be rolled under a bridge, and you ascend into higher learning: learning how to cope with loss, learning how to be original, learning how to entertain in a room full of grievers, because when one person breaks it's a waterfall, and everyone goes down with you.

i say "maybe we should bring a cake," as if food is the only thing you can bring to a last meeting. as if food hasn't already been brought ad nauseam, because no one knows how to say anything after nine months — still doesn't — and everyone's drowning in casserole dishes. the church's greatest defense against the waves is waves of sustenance, and all of us have lived life with an audience at our door, hot food at the ready

no one wants to party, though, even if my jokes are funny. i can tell by the distant stares — losing a parent instead of a spouse. i could be anyone's child in that room, and when i enter, i feel it. they all want to parent me, but don't want to parent me, because they're not here to carry an orphaned child, and i'm not up for adoption. they're here to grieve their missing half, and i'm just the comic relief. pitiable, at arm's length

it's unkind to project onto them. i know people lose people at all ages, i just feel like when i talk everyone else talks to talk at me. making eye contact across the room when they give generalized advice, like they have one person in mind, and i want to receive what's well intentioned, i just feel like no matter what, at any mention of my sadness i end up taking up the room

i don't want to be larger than life. i wish that my grief wasn't larger than life. i wish i could leave and the shadow of death wouldn't loom over me when it's all "over." i say i might find another group to carry me another three months, hoping that a semester's guidance rehashed will fix me, or mix me into the cycle again. i don't know how this is supposed to end, and it never will, but i know it's not with cake and candles

that only happens in rebirth, and nothing's been born yet. the only thing living is dying, next to you, next to me. everything i wanted still feels out of reach and i don't know if i want it anymore. it's a strange sense of obligation: obligated to hope, because the only alternative is to self-destruct, and i know what it feels like to sit in someone else's rubble

maybe i'll make a scene. bring a cap and gown, walk in, bright green and budding, like the leaves at the bottom of spring's undergrowth. it's a better picture, at least, than deciding not to go — because goodbyes are getting harder. and i guess they always will. i don't know. i'm still not knowing. even with food, it's harder still
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.




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Points 8264
Reviews 192
xxxv.

my stepmother is going to sell your house sometime this year
i fear all the rooms will be empty the next time i see what remains of you
at her bedside
i've been thinking i'll fly in this summer, the same weekend you died
and help her sort through all your things so she'll cry a little less
sharing the overwhelm. bearing it for her

she fights to downsize all your debts, and i don't like to think about formalities
the drama that unfolds in families, when a home is in a will and trust
and family blends and bleeds outside of terms and conditions, no one gets to hold what we're losing
no one can carry forty years of buildup in your office. your garage. in your closet
with so much out of sight, you forgot it existed
sharing the overwhelm, bearing it together

except i can't be there unless i fly, and try to bridge the distance
memories can't be sorted over facetime, deciding who takes what, what's mine is mine
i dread all of the boxes that we're bound to find, of every card you kept
every father's day note, every sentimental gift, because you never let go
of those treasures. and i love and i hate that i'll see all the love found too late
in all you left behind. when your house is sold sometime this year
Last edited by soundofmind on Mon Apr 20, 2026 11:58 am, edited 1 time in total.
Pants are an illusion. And so is death.



Kindness is the language the deaf can hear and the blind can see.
— Mark Twain