soft hands can’t hold smoke
i’m counting the ghosts i don’t bother to haunt—
hundreds, easy.
that inbox?
a fucking graveyard.
whole galaxies of opinions
left on read,
left to rot,
left to talk to themselves in my dm’s.
yet here you are,
fingertips shaking over the search bar,
hand-carving a internet trail
straight to my corner of the cyberspace
just to piss yourself off.
→ user flow reminder:
open browser.
type my name.
click the link already feeling salty.
rage-scroll until your vision tunnels.
blame me for the headache.
nice.
listen—
get thicker skin, babe.
like— this is a personal, avoidable, trauma bitch blog.
like—are you gunna be ok?
like—yo.
i’ve taught yoga while fielding death threats.
solo mothered a baby
while the comment section begged for a public stoning.
people talk shit to me just to feel something.
to my actual face.
not this coded,
evadable,
dim-lit-artistic bullshit.
like??????
your lukewarm, emoji-heavy tantrum?
background noise.
just tell her to get a new hobby, honey.
context is a real thing, babe—
try reading past the first brutal metaphor
before you declare moral war.
because spoiler:
ninety-nine percent of this journal is coded like a cold case file.
no names, no tags,
just shadows wearing vibes.
so if a paragraph hits you square in the teeth,
that’s a mirror—
not a bullet.
meanwhile i’m busy ignoring:
— the bored ex-friends who orbit for sport
— the drive-by therapists in your mom’s comment thread
— every fragile spectator who cries “too harsh” but never heard me whisper “wtf help me”
pro-tip:
there are seven trillion webpages you can troll instead.
go knit.
go learn italian.
go alphabetize your trauma somewhere more peaceful.
because i promise,
i’m not stalking anyone
i believe is irrelevant.
if you rank as background static—
i slam mute and forget you exist.
and if doom-scrolling my grief karaoke
feels like self-harm?
close the tab.
touch grass.
block me.
otherwise, welcome—
grab a chair made of cactus and pretend you’re the victim.
i’ll be over here,
writing my way out of hell,
one razor-edged line at a time.
