bone crush

There’s a lot of things. But then, there are three cakes. Each one baked with love, sprinkled with a bit of surprise. One cake brings trouble, while the other two offer a sweet realization.  But love lingered still. Chocolate and hazelnut. Creamy and cold. Dense and rich. It’s been a while since I let myself enjoy something so good, something that felt like a small luxury. I used to think it was too much, a little too extravagant for no reason. In a way, it still is. There’s something about it that feels a little over the top, a little more than I need.  And you don’t need that. I don’t need that. But the problem is, I only really understood it once it became clear, once it solidified in front of me. I hate that. I hate that it takes these things, these small luxuries, to bring out something I didn’t want to feel. I don’t want it to come from this, from something as simple as a cake. But it did, and now it’s there.

Apparently it has no meaning. Apparently, it’s trash. Apparently, no one believes in it.  This has turned into a diary, one that feels more like scattered thoughts than something worth keeping. I’m starting to think I might abandon it, the same way I’ve abandoned my other diaries. Maybe it’s weakness, or maybe I’m just tired. Vulnerability with bad writing feels like a dangerous mix right now, like I’m exposing too much without enough to say.  It’s strange how something can feel so heavy yet be so meaningless. I can’t let myself hold on to something that doesn’t seem to matter. It’s like pouring feelings into a blank page, but when you step back, you realize there’s nothing really there—just words that don’t connect, ideas that fall flat. I can’t let this much be attached to so little. But for now, I’ll leave it here, unsure, like everything else.

I thought I’d feel it when it was done. He saw through it. He saw what I meant, though I hadn’t expected that. It wasn’t perfect, not even close. It was full of flaws, marked by what it wasn’t—the lack of movement, the lack of love. That was all over it.  I raised my middle finger, but not out of anger. Their hands claimed me, and when they left me here, it was like the abandoned child suddenly became a genius, only recognized once the gold glittered. Only then did it matter. It was supposed to be about joy, but as I stood there, blindsided, taking every blow that wasn’t meant for me, I felt it. Just a little—the satisfaction. I had done it, but they refused to see it. My life has always been linked to death. Almost like a curse—someone important dies around my birthday. Coincidence, maybe, but the fear is real. I can see the preparation for what I walked into, but I see the love more. I should believe in it. I finally spoke of the emptiness. The hollowness that crushes me—it wouldn

They mustn’t feel it. They shouldn’t feel any of it. The belief—no, the lack of it, even as it beats inside me. It’s a belief of a belief, a fragility that’s always been there, or at least, I’d hoped until it was.  I tell myself it’s enough, that it matters, but the weight of their expectations drags it down. I don’t find value in it unless it’s cherished, unless it’s treasured just as much. They say, “Do more. Be more.”  But what more can I do than to put my heart and soul into everything I touch? What more can be asked of me? And yet, they still ask. I give and I give, as if nothing matters until it fits into their rigid, narrow notion of what’s good, of what’s worthy. I understand them, but I disagree.  My worth cannot be measured by their standards, and yet I find myself crumbling beneath the weight of trying to meet them. Their version of ‘good’ doesn’t resonate with the truth that I carry. So I wonder, when will they see that what I offer, this belief of a belief, is already enou

I would change a few things, but I wouldn’t change how it ended. My body wouldn’t be scared off so easily; it would wonder why the hurt didn’t cut deeper. But would it take more of it? A giver of something it would never receive, at least not from those ones. It hurt once, but it doesn’t anymore. I lose nothing, and it’s not for my gain that I give. I know this, but is there a limit? Maybe there is, but for now, I still believe no love is wasted. Even when love doesn’t come back, when it leaves me feeling hollow, it still isn’t for nothing. Maybe that’s why I don’t walk away. I keep stepping back into it, because there’s something about giving that makes it all worth it. You lose parts of yourself, but what you give remains.  I think about how love tears through you, leaves you raw, but I would do it all again. Over and over. No matter the price, because it’s clear to me now. I see it all—what I gave, what I lost—but I still don’t regret it. Maybe that’s why I stay, why I let myself fa

I don't feel it, but I do it anyway. It’s not about how I feel anymore. I just have to do it, day in, day out, no breaks. The heaviness, the sense of being overwhelmed – is this what adulthood is? It’s strange how everything can be both blurry and clear at the same time. There’s so much to handle, maybe too much, but you still wash the dishes, you eat, you sit. Nothing ever goes as planned. Even when things work out, there’s always something off. It’s not like things ever went perfectly before, but now it feels like everything is broken, and all you can do is either brace yourself or just let it be. There’s a space where you allow things to unfold for just a moment, and in that space, there’s the possibility of change. But I’m learning how to breathe through it. I’m trying to find my way, even when it feels like I’m drowning in the never-ending tasks. Even when things don’t go as expected, I’m still here, doing what needs to be done. And in that, there’s something. I keep going, le