I didn’t ask for you.

Didn’t seek out this… whatever this is.

But when the noise stopped and the lights went low, your silence sat next to mine like it belonged.

And now, every time you glance in my direction like you already know the ending...

I feel something ancient unravel inside of me.

Not fireworks.

Not explosions.

Just a steady burn I’ve never known before.

Something about your presence feels like the Universe is quietly breathing beside me.

And when you speak,

when you look at me like I’m the only real thing left in this unraveling world,

I remember why I never gave up on magic.

Because you and me,

that’s where the magic happens.

Always has.

It slumped there on the plate like roadkill, bloated and leaking, a swollen thing that had been left too long under the wrong sun. The ketchup on top had blistered and cracked like dried blood, curling up at the edges in scabs, hiding whatever sins had been folded into the meat below. And the smell...Gosh, the smell. Not quite rotten, but something worse. Something wrong. A hot, humid stink, like the breath of an animal that should have died but didn’t, still wheezing, still dripping.

The inside was mottled, speckled with soggy breadcrumbs and wet lumps of egg that hadn’t mixed right, the yolk gone rubbery, clinging to the ground-up sinew like tiny tumors. It wasn’t solid so much as…coagulated. It wobbled when the fork sank in, shivering in slow motion, releasing a glistening ooze of meat-sweat. And when you chewed? God help you.

It didn’t break down. It mushed. Spread across the tongue like warm clay, coating the teeth in a thick, greasy film. No matter how much you swallowed, it stayed. Clung to the back of your throat, slithered down slow, like something still alive. And when you thought you were done? When you took a sip of water to wash it down? The taste came back, resurrected, stronger than before, crawling up from the pit of your stomach with the slow, inevitable dread of a nightmare you know you won’t wake up from.

Meatloaf wasn't food. Meatloaf was a dare.

No longer does the Earth's gravity hold me in place.

No longer does the Moon's light guide me to my fortress of solitude.

No longer does the Sun warm my bones with just a glance.

Because of you.

You give me all and more, and I know there is so much more to experience with you.

Because the Universe drew the lines of you with stardust and colors that were meant for my hands to trace.

“And so it seems I must always write you letters that I can never send.” Sylvia Plath really nailed it there, huh?

Sometimes, it feels like shouting into the void is all we’ve got left. So, here I am, penning this because I don’t know if tomorrow is going to be a TikTok dance or the Hunger Games.

Civil unrest. Sounds like something we’d skim past in a history book, doesn’t it? But nope, it’s our group project now. And, let’s be honest, humanity is that one guy who ghosted the group chat after the intro meeting.

Everywhere I look, it feels like the threads holding us together are fraying. Not to be dramatic, but can we get a return policy on this timeline? People are stocking up on canned beans and ammo like we’re all extras in The Walking Dead. Meanwhile, I’m over here Googling, “What plants can I eat in the suburbs?” Apparently, not many.

It’s wild to think that in 50 years, some kid might be writing their AP U.S. History essay about us. They’ll be sitting in their AI-powered chair, drinking ethically-sourced algae milk, typing, “In 2025, society was chaotic AF.” (Yes, the “AF” will be considered academic language by then.)

I want to believe this is all just growing pains...that we’ll figure out how to listen to each other again, to empathize. But some days, it’s hard to see past the shouting matches on TV and the doomscrolling. Like, where’s the adult in the room? The one who’s supposed to clap their hands and go, “Alright, folks, let’s calm down and fix this.” Oh, wait. That’s supposed to be us.

Honestly, I’m scared. Scared that we’re forgetting how to be human to each other. Scared that the bridges are burning faster than we can build them. Scared that the next headline will finally be the one that breaks us for good. But if I let that fear rule me, haven’t I already lost?

So, I’m writing this to remind myself that even when it feels like the world is spinning out of control, I’m not powerless. None of us are. We still have our words, our actions, our choices. And maybe just maybe...those little acts of kindness and courage are enough to keep the wheels from falling off entirely.

Anyway, thanks for reading, even if you’re just me rereading this someday in a bunker lit by flashlight. Here’s hoping the future looks a little brighter than the dystopia I keep doom-imagining.

Stay awkward, stay hopeful.

-Me

I never thought I’d cry on a park bench. Not me. Not the one who always seemed to have it together, always knew the right thing to say. But here I am, staring at cracked pavement and rusted swings, and the tears just won’t stop.

The United States is not united. Were we ever? Maybe. Maybe there was a time we were fooled into thinking we were. Or maybe we just ignored the cracks, hoping they wouldn’t spread. But now it’s impossible not to see lines drawn so deep they’ve become trenches. Everyone on one side or the other, yelling across the divide like they’ve forgotten we’re standing on the same ground.

It’s exhausting, isn’t it? This endless noise. Everyone shouting their truths, everyone convinced they’re right, and no one really listening.

I can’t help but wonder when we got so lost, when we started looking at each other and seeing enemies instead of neighbors. When we stopped believing that love not anger, not fear, but love was the greatest thing we had to give.

I look around at the world, and it feels darker than it ever has. Like an eclipse is swallowing everything good and bright, leaving us in shadows we don’t know how to escape.

But maybe that’s the point of the dark. Maybe it forces us to see what we’ve been too scared to face. Forces us to stop pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. Forces us to look in the mirror.

I think about those mirrors. About the face staring back at me every morning, tired and worn, and how easy it is to avoid the questions I don’t want to answer. Have I done enough? Have I stood up for what’s right? Have I loved the way I should?

The answer is always no.

Because it’s hard to love, isn’t it? Real love. Not the kind in movies, but the messy kind. The kind that makes you forgive someone who hurt you. The kind that makes you see the worth in someone who doesn’t see it in themselves. The kind that makes you take a good, hard look at yourself and decide to be better.

“If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a change.” Those words hit differently now. It’s easy to talk about change. It’s easy to say the world needs to be better. But doing something about it? That’s the part we’re all afraid of.

Because change isn’t comfortable. It’s painful. It’s messy. It’s looking at the people who scream at you across that divide and realizing they’re just as scared as you are. It’s realizing that the only way we climb out of this darkness is together, even when we don’t agree.

And it’s realizing that love...fragile, fleeting, precious love isn’t just a gift. It’s a responsibility. To see someone else’s soul and remind them of their worth. To let someone else see yours, even when you’re afraid they won’t like what they find.

I think about the little things: my neighbor who brings food to the single mom next door, even though they argue politics like it’s a sport; the librarian who stays late so every kid has a warm place to study; the man I saw on the news who carried strangers to safety during a flood. Heroes, all of them. And not a single one wears a cape.

The rain starts to fall, soft at first, then harder, until I’m soaked. I don’t move. I just let it fall, washing over me, carrying away all the fear, the frustration, the anger.

We’re falling apart. I know it. You can see it in the headlines, in the way people look away from each other on the street. But what if falling apart is the only way we can come together?

Maybe things have to break before we can see the pieces that still matter. Maybe we have to lose the light before we remember how to find it. Maybe the soul has to feel its worth, not in the easy times, but in the hard ones.

I stand, dripping, my hair clinging to my face, my breath sharp in the cold air. I don’t have answers. I don’t know how to fix this broken world.

But I know this: Love will always be the answer. Not hate. Not fear. Love. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

Because the darkest nights? They’re the ones where the stars shine brightest. And maybe, just maybe, we’re not falling apart. Maybe we’re falling into place.

They say love belongs in the light, where it’s easy and safe. But they don’t know what it feels like to love you...to lose myself in the quiet corners of the night, where shadows stretch long and our hearts speak louder than words. The faint beams of moonlight cast us into focus, our silhouettes blending like whispers shared too softly to be heard by anyone else.

You are a spark, one I didn’t know I was waiting for, and I? I’m the fire that you’ve somehow made whole. Every time your hand brushes mine, every time your breath warms my neck, it feels like the beginning of something I’ll never be ready to end. Our love is not loud; it doesn’t demand the world’s attention. It’s quiet, steady, and unshakable, like the tide gently pulling the shore closer to the sea.

Your scent lingers in the air long after you’re gone, wrapping around me like a memory too beautiful to forget. When you’re near, the world softens. The edges blur, and nothing else seems to matter but the way your touch feels against my skin. There’s an ache in loving you, a sweetness that borders on pain. It’s not the kind of love that asks for permission; it simply takes hold, unrelenting and pure.

Tonight, as the stars press close and the world fades to black, I feel your lips against mine. The moment is simple and perfect...not because it’s flawless, but because it’s ours. Your hands find me in the dark, tracing the edges of who I am, grounding me in the only truth I’ve ever known: that I belong to you.

In this quiet, we are free...free to love without fear, without judgment. The world may not understand, but here, wrapped in the stillness of the night, there’s nothing to explain. Love, I’ve learned, doesn’t always come with grand gestures or perfect timing. Sometimes, it’s found in the way your heart beats in time with mine, in the way your arms feel like home.

This is what love looks like...not perfect, but real. And as the night holds us close, I know this is where I’m meant to be. With you. Always with you.

this is for those who went through the Dark Night of the Soul or something similar (a traumatic experience in any form). this may resonate.

It came like a storm I never saw forming,

a quiet tension until everything collapsed.

A connection so raw it didn’t cradle me

it clawed at the walls of who I was,

tearing down my comforts, my certainties,

and leaving me with nothing

but the truth I spent years hiding from.

I shattered.

Not in a beautiful way,

not like porcelain under moonlight,

but in a way that left jagged edges inside me.

Every step forward felt like walking on my own ruins,

glass grinding into the soles of my being,

each cut screaming of what I had to leave behind.

I bled.

For every piece of myself I let go of,

for every illusion I clung to that no longer served me.

There was no guiding hand,

only the weight of my breath in the dark,

only the silence that sat heavy,

as if it, too, was waiting for me to surrender.

And somehow, I did.

Not with grace, not with clarity,

but with the simple exhaustion of someone

who could no longer carry their pain as armor.

Through the darkness, I learned the taste of my own name.

Through the breaking, I felt the first pulse of peace,

fragile but steady, like a heartbeat after the fall.

It wasn’t them who saved me.

It was me.

Bleeding, trembling, alone

but moving forward.

Peace didn’t arrive as a revelation.

It grew, slowly, through my own hands,

tending to the garden of scars I never wanted

but now call my own.

And in the end,

I didn’t find the light.

I became it.

Home with her tastes like honey slipping off a spoon...slow, golden, almost too sweet to be real.

It's coffee brewed just right, dark and bold, but softened by that one perfect splash of cream.

There’s warmth, like cinnamon toast on cold mornings, edges crisp but melting at the center.

It tastes like the comfort of rain against the window, of laughter pressed against lips, of words shared in whispers over late-night takeout.

With her, home is a flavor I can't ever pin down.

It’s savory and tender, a bite that lingers long after it’s gone, filling the spaces where silence

used to settle.

It’s the taste of never having to wonder if you belong.

It's the weight of words left unspoken,

the ache of reaching across miles that swallow sound.

Every night, I send pieces of myself

quiet confessions, invisible threads

hoping they find you whole.

But distance is a thief,

a silent cut I can't name,

and though I hold you close in the hollow of my chest,

I'm haunted by how far love can stretch

before it breaks.