#vent story

[subeteanatanoseidesu]

is it normal to find trauma "embarassing" in a way?

ive written vent stories/fics in the past centered around my trauma. ive always wanted to post them to make myself feel better, but im scared they'll never look at me the same way again, knowing i had to go through that

i know i shouldnt be so ashamed of it. it was their fault after all. but i still cant convince myself it wasnt mine.

#trauma #trauma survivor #tw csa implied #vent #vent story

[waywardwritesstuff]

The Arrows

The girl cried out as she sunk to her knees at my feet

"What's wrong?" I cried

Sobbing she pointed behind her and I could see an arrow sticking out from her back

Acting quickly I look her in the eyes and say "Don't worry it's alright, I know it hurts but I'm here for you"

I do everything I can to help this girl and eventually I get the arrow out of her back, I tell her how to care for it and how to keep away the infection.

Standing up, now no longer in pain from the arrow she thanks me and walks away.

Once she is gone I reach behind me, trying again to remove my own arrow. Just one, at least one. I would ask for help but I know that no one will, not even the girl I just saved.

As I try to wiggle the arrow out I feel another sharp pain in my back and a thunk.

"It's not even that bad, you'll be fine. Just stop complaining and it will hurt less. The arrow will go away with time"

So I let go of the arrow.

It still hurts and some of those arrows I've been carrying for years. But I'm sure it will go away eventually, right?

Right?

#vent #vent post #vent story #writing #write #writers #poem #kinda #creative writing #this is a story i wrote after seeing an image on pinterest #this is how i feel about my realtionship with most people i know #especially my parents

[leahs-workshop]

I wake up to an empty bed. It's barely bright outside, just the early morning. You can hear birds happily chirping outside, delighted to announce a new day. They shall keep me company while you're not there. Already feeling it's not gonna be my day, I stay in bed a little longer, noticing your side of it is already cold. While it is depressing to wake up like that, if you leave while I'm asleep, I get fewer hours of worrying about you.

I feel like I need you right now, and I know I have to find something to take my mind off of it. Still, I'm so tired that there's no way I'll do anything. I roll over onto my back and sigh, staring at the ceiling. I feel as though the light is mocking me by shining brightly down on me when I don't even want any. A thought starts running through my head. The first person who could be good at distracting me with something else comes into my mind, and of course, it's you. Unfortunately, you're busy. That's your line of work, I guess. Day or night, you gotta be ready to both kill and die. At least that's the easiest way to describe it.

But sometimes I wonder if that's all there is to your job, if there really is a goal, or if you actually just enjoy doing this. I mean, it is what you do best.

You're always on edge, never taking time off from killing, plotting, arranging and... whatever else. It scares me to think about what might happen if someone else got the upper hand. I can't bear the thought. While I accepted the gamble, that fear still hunts me. Either way, I'd rather not know all the details. So I'm stuck wondering. What happens when I'm away and you have full freedom to do anything? When you can take as much time as you want or come back covered in blood? How bad does it get?

#vent story #short story #vent #better call saul headcanons #breaking bad headcanons #better call saul x reader #better call saul #breaking bad #breaking bad x reader #gus fring #gus fring headcanons #gus fring x reader #gustavo fring #lalo x reader #lalo salamanca #lalo salamanca x reader #lalo salamanca one shot #lalo salamanca angst #gus fring angst #gustavo fring x reader #gustavo fring angst #one shot #gustavo fring headcanons #crime #angst #short angst #better call saul one shot

[mylittleventbook]

Mommy

Thrown in the arms of my birth giver

But forever remembered was the

Disappointment in her creation. A child

Of Satan I was labeled because i

Was insufficient for her expectations.

I can't protest nor wear my criticism

Resistance shield , "Your the child

I'm the parent you must obey as I say! "

Fingers couldn't count the amount of times

I've heard these gut knotting phrases.

Just because of our age difference

How does that cage my emotions from

Yours?. Mine kept behind my smile,

Inside my body was the same that

Listen to yours when nobody didn't.

But how could I be so selfish to have a daughter like me

If i didn't follow your rules who knows what you'll do.

Every Friday is an excuse to parade and escape from

Your " hectic " life, beers and cigarettes and a bag load

Of regrets. Mommy blames me for her self destruction

As a child a couldn't help but feed on those moments.

Its never mommy's fault because she says so otherwise

You don't want her to rumble and have you feel crumbled.

It's all vanished in the morning's sun rays what's

Happened yesterday is simply just a mistake of the past she says .

All the words that is now attached to me, my mind

My body , how am i supposed to feel?

Dear Mommy, when I'm all grown u should i continue your legacy?

Not a day sweeps by that i don't weep away to sleep

From all the horror stories you said to me "How terrible it

Is to own a child like me".

#parent issues #mommy issues #emotional abuse #mentally exhausted #mental abuse #verbal abuse #actually abused #drug abuse #drug addikt #alchohol addiction #tw sui vent #vent story #writblr

[fearofahumanplanet]

D.N.R. (short story by me)

I've been just venting with this blog lately and that's kinda cringe so I'm going to compensate by venting with a story instead, something I wrote a long time ago to help cope with my BPD and process it. I hope it can help someone understand people with this condition or help those with this condition find something to relate to or smth.

I'm okay right now, I'm just really proud of this story and wanted to actually share some of my work to maybe cope with how I've been feeling today better. I wrote this story a year or two ago and I'm doing a lot better now - I have a therapist, treatment, a small support system, etc. I don't want this story to prompt worry, I just want to share for anyone who needs it. It's dark, but it's how I heal.

TW: Suicide references/suicidal thoughts, self-harm, BPD symptoms & references to unstable relationships, light blood, self-hatred (lmk if I should add any more). If you're in a bad place, I would not advise reading this (unless raw emotion like this helps you personally).

General Taglist: @aohendo, @athenswrites, @impaledlotus, @bardic-tales, @carefulpyro

I live my life in a waiting room.

I wait, they wait, we all wait. It’s supposed to bring us together. It’s supposed to make some sort of fucking team out of us. That’s the funny thing about people, really. You could glue us together, and we’d tear ourselves in half just to get away.

Don’t take that as a criticism free of hypocrisy.

With that thought in mind, I can only thank the heartless gods above for sentencing me solace, over and over and over, and I’ve never been so compliant and happy with a decision I loathe and regret.

My name doesn’t matter, never has. I’m a therapist of sorts. Real funny, I know – People can always tell, even past the pessimism that drenches every word, the agoraphobic misanthrope at my core.

You wouldn’t think I’d manage it, but it’s fascinating, how far you can get with a broken smile.

I mean, it’s a broken smile – Of course it’s a lie. Of course it’s a fallacy, of course it’s forced, fit for a fiend. But no one’s noticed yet. That’s the strength of a well-timed joke, one calculated mask. You hide everything you are, and you find something that’s real likeable. A real people person, someone sent to save.

And I save. Some days, I don’t feel I can manage that, but they tell me so. In this room of four walls, of a blank floor and ceiling, of nothing but a clean, inviting chair – I find the writings on the walls, the notes in the margins, little hopes from the haughty heavens.

You’re not alone. You are loved. You are valuable. You save so many. You are funny. You never run out of things to say. You are loved. You have saved lives. You have redeemed every sin. You are loved. You know how to bring a smile. You aren’t going to die alone. You won’t ever be alone again.

The angels of my idyllic fantasies surround me, chanting, touching, holding.

You are loved. You are loved. You are loved. You are loved. You are loved.

And every day, I remember to stop slamming my head into the wall with every recitation. Every day, I lean down low, where all is familiar. I soak the blood in my fingers, let it run down the skin, let it fill out the cracks in my psyche. And when it’s all buried, when it’s all swept out of sight…

I slap on my broken smile, and greet the droves devouring.

It’s another broken woman, meek behind a mismatched mask. Her smile is broken, and I’m the only one who sees. They never mean to find their way to me, but they do.

It’s the same game every bloody time. I say hello. They say hello. They wonder how I got here. I just tell them I have a knack for showing where I’m needed. They don’t think about it. They never think. They don’t even know who I really am, my mask a memorable masterpiece. It’s always small talk at first. Music, video games. They tell me they don’t understand, my compassion, my kindness, my understandings. I shrug, and flash another humble, hollow smile.

Why wouldn’t I be this way, I say. Every damn time. I never need to adjust the script. There are no plot holes to cover, no rusted gears. The system grinds on without deviation.

I try not to let them in. I try to keep them above surface level, make sure they only meet the mask. It never works, but I’m going to try again. Spin the hamster wheel.

It’s not that I wish to keep them away, you see. I’m only an isolationist by incident, a misanthrope by mistake, a pariah by punishment. I’m sick, hopelessly sick. It seeps out from beneath my skin, hiding behind my sunken eyes, lurking under my serpent tongue. I try to swallow it down, treasure the venom. No one needs to know, no one that doesn’t already. No one I’ve yet to fail.

And this woman, like every one before her, she doesn’t know a thing about me. But the venom is alluring, and I know everything about her. I see it in her lying eyes, and she breaks down and spills her guts out on the floor. I just mop them up and listen, cradle her when she cries, pet her hair when she can’t spit out any more. And I just smile and embody the angels.

It will be all right. You are loved. You are not alone. There is someone out there for you. You will not die alone. You are loved. No one is beyond redemption. No one is without hope.

And I can say every word with absolute belief, every scene in my script without error. I have had thousands of years to practice, and I will have thousands more.

This next bit always happens. Actually, I could say that about everything here, but this I resent the most. She thanks me, and tells me she’ll be back tomorrow. I smile and tell her I’d love that. She says she will never abandon me.

I keep the smile on, let loose no levity. And I tell her, like I told all the others. These things never last. She will grow to hate me, and I tell her so. She will grow to loathe the mere thought of me, and I tell her so. She will grow to rue my name, to curse the ground I walk on, to panic and stab and burn until there is nothing left of me before her.

And I tell her so.

And without a waver, taking no time for hesitation, she just says she’s not like the others. That she isn’t going anywhere, this time. That there is hope this time. And not once she wonders why the theoretical therapist is the one breaking down every fucking night. Why would she? It’s all out of sight.

And she’s gone, away from me, and I know she will spend every minute thinking about me. And I know I will spend every one of those minutes regretting them.

This pariah paces her pen, praying for a pale horse.

The silence overwhelms. The silence snuffs, the silence sneaks in when you think you’ve found a sure fate.

I contemplate, turn and roll over in mud and dirt. The day slips away, and night nuzzles in. I think about my newest woman. I have seen it happen so many times, over thousands of years, hundreds and hundreds of times.

But I am naught but a full circle, and I allow myself hope again. I allow myself one more forsaken breath.

The silence slips down low, rejuvenating my venom, strengthening my sickness. I try to eat, and I vomit it up, hoping my heart will come up with it. The thought is fast and sudden, just like that. It no longer shocks, no longer ignites alarm. I cannot fathom concern.

I rock back and forth in the dark, empty room. I put on one of countless records, watch movies of malicious murder and horrific hatred, write another story no one will ever read. I pace the room, I kick the walls, I scream my lungs out to the tune of my favourite song. With every meaningless minute, I forget myself. With every severed second, I lose track.

And it always hits me, every night, the same sudden thought, the same onset of dread. Isn’t that funny?

Every night, I feel I’ve lost my mind.

I can’t lose it over and over, of course. It must have left me long ago. But if I’m going to lose my mind, couldn’t it take all of its malignant maladies with it?

The second thought is always the same too. This fate feels like forever.

And that’s even sillier than the first. Of course it’s forever. It will always be forever. There is no escape.

There is a third thought. Don’t worry, this is the last one, and it too, happens every night.

It’s that this thought should be the last one.

So, I make it so. I take the knife, and I try to find out what makes me tick, scout out a new avenue, plot out some new elaborate method I have yet to attempt. Every night, that is how I go, cradling the knife like a stuffed teddy, showering myself in a bottle of vodka, popping my pills like candy.

I find every way to numb my nagging nuisance of a mind, and it still keeps coming. Because I know, deep down, this new hope is nothing new. It is a resurgence, a repetition of centuries past. It is a false flare, a lost lighthouse. And I swim and I swim, even as I tell myself to sink. And every night, I do. I sink, drenched in my own blood, seeping out through freshly torn slits, the aroma of alcohol affecting every word I regret. I spend minutes debating, searching, no inch of skin untarnished.

It comes to something when you run out of room for scars.

I’ll say not a word, not to the aiding angels, not to the compassionate client. I am alone, I have always been and always will be. I was born and thrown away without the aid of another, abandoned with abject apathy, and I am content with my lot.

I am not content because I am happy, but I am content for I know there is nothing better.

Sometimes, if I���m particularly unlucky, the angels will hover in, finding my bloodstained, drunken corpse stretched out across the floor. They will tug the bottles from my hands, hide the knife somewhere else, knowing I will find it again. I am determined, I am without limit, waning in this war simply for a will without want.

If they’re there, they always tell me. I am loved. I am wanted. I am needed. I am of worth. I am of benefit. I have saved. I have redeemed. I am not alone.

The angels smile around me, fading with every flicker of the candle. They are real, but they don’t know a thing. They are so far away, holding me to their chests.

They are scared. I am loved. They are scared. I am loved. They are scared. I am loved.

They need me. They can’t live without me. They can’t. They can’t imagine a world without me.

It’s a shame I have proven to be so uselessly useful. It is a shame I have found a way to chain worthy souls to my empty body. It is a shame I always manage to find a new person to save, when I can’t even save myself.

It is a shame they can’t imagine a world without me, because I no longer want to imagine a world with me.

Every time I die, I fear at the fall. Not for my soul, for the promise of hell is a welcome relief. Not for the ones left behind, because I know they’re better off without.

And every night, I write it on my neck, over a thousand purple scars.

D.N.R.

Instructions no one will abide by. I hope they do this time. I hope they abide. I hope they forget. I hope they respect.

Tonight is like every night. I pass away and fall, embrace the empty, find there is nothing beyond the void, realize the devil below or the salvation above are simply manufactured dreams.

There is nothing, and I am nothing.

Every morning, air ambushes my ambivalence. I remember to live again, remember I have a job to do. I roll out of bed, stitch the wounds, pry shattered glass loose of skin. I feel for my heart without hope, and see with no amount of surprise that beats once more.

I loom over the mirror, and search the dirtied floor for my abandoned broken smile.

I stitch on my savior’s smile.

And I meet the woman again, the name of who matters not. They orbit my ouroboros, like every one before her, and they are identical in naught but function.

Like all the others before her, I embody her anchor. She comes to me, day in, day out. She sees the fresh scars and beating bruises, but I tell her to worry not. I reassure her with promises and encourage, and I get closer and closer.

And every time I learn to love again, I forget why I chose to let that knowledge go.

The longer we lay together, the less she’s convinced. As weeks whistle by, I have to let my mask slip, loose my serpent’s tongue. The venom crawls down her skin, and I can see what I am doing, but I am too selfish to care. With every drop, my scars and sins come clearer in view, like blurred photographs rendered in clarity.

And I can see her eyes break with every passing month, but I am too selfish to care, too lonely and lost to let her go.

I tell her of the ocean, of my wistful love for the waves. I tell her of beaches, of abyssal depths only I know. I tell her I will take there, I tell her I will never let her go. And I know I never will.

And with my hand in hers, every longing lie is a cross easier to bear. My will wears away with every passing night. Every moon, I re-iterate my instruction.

D.N.R.

Because maybe they’ll listen.

D.N.R.

Maybe someone above will practice mercy.

D.N.R.

And with all this hate I’ve spread, this venom I’ve made a virus, you’d think one victim would find a way to strike me down.

Tonight, months into this ouroboros, she joins the angels, the hundreds of angels. She is still solid yet, not like them, fading and translucent, hazy and flickering. She has found me with a fallen mask, met me in my correct configuration.

I always want to tell them not to lean on me. Because when they do, I lean on them, and I know the disease will spread.

But she joins the angels, like all the real ones did before, pleading with me, making me promises I know will fade away. She fails to see them around her, crowding, begging.

I am loved. I am wanted. I am needed. I am valuable. I am of worth. I am helpful. I am funny. I am the highlight of your day. I am clever. I am insightful. I am a blessing.

And you are lying. And you are lying. And you are lying. And you are lying. And you are lying.

And I wish you fucking knew that.

And I beg her not to leave me, as the blood fills my lungs. And she says she never will.

Not like every love before her, not like every ally before her, not like my mother before her, not like my home before her.

And the promise is a cushion, even as I know she’ll change her mind. But I hold onto hope. Because that’s what the angels tell me every day.

There is hope. No one is beyond saving. You still have time.

Time is not a comfort. Time is a sentence. Time is the promise of life. Time is something I do not wish to handle.

And I scream out every one of these words, roar out many more.

Because when the mask falls, I am the venom. I am sick, I am violent, I am overcome, I am lashing out.

And no matter how hard I try, I find no healthy option to shuttle it all away.

How do you help someone hidden away in the waiting room? How do you help someone buried from birth, silenced from the start?

Why do they tell me they want to hear my words, when every single letter leaves a scar?

I am never alone. My shadow hangs over me, and it never leaves me a moment’s peace.

And so I die again, choking on my own poisonous bile.

This is not the first incident the woman sees. It happens again, two weeks later. Again, four days after. Again, two days after. Again, three hours after.

Because once the mask drops, I can never seem to find it again, and I fail to dig up another broken smile.

The sickness wears on her, paling her skin, bags beneath her eyes, cold resignation beneath more and more words. And I have seen it happen a thousand times, and I cannot help but remind her that it is my fault she grows sick. I remind her that I am at fault for my contagious nature.

And it takes so long. It takes months, and months. But she finally lets go.

I hold her all night long, and we talk of the ocean. I hold her, and she tells me of the places we’ll go, and the things we will see. And I dream of broken promises.

I dream of the ocean.

I wake up, and she is gone.

I scream and I thrash, and I drench her side of the bed with my blood.

The sun comes and goes without care, hidden out of sight. I shiver and vomit, cradling my broken body, tracing every well-deserved scar. And I wake up dead that morning, once more, routine inescapable.

I stare my newest angel in the eyes, pale and flickering like the rest, a ghost to the reasonable soul.

A mangled memory.

I am loved. I am needed. I am wanted. I am helpful. I am clever. I am helpful. I am a blessing. I am-

I shoot the angel, knowing she will return, knowing the ghosts of my criminal past are this pariah’s penance. I take another drink, gulp down another pill, come up with another broken smile.

I know not whether this will ever end. But this is my lot in life, and I have learned to welcome my lonely road.

I hear the chime of the bell, another clueless client, the ouroboros coiling anew.

I consider my options, consider the dead woman, staring back at me from the mirror with empty eyes.

And I know I will keep fighting. I know this is a war I will always wage. It is not out of want, nor out of will. Not out of spite. Not out of hope, not out of hate. Not out of love.

I stand up again, and again, and again, because I have nothing left to fear. I continue to fight because there is no terror found in a predictable cycle, no horror in a novel with a spoiled ending. To want to live, to want to die, I’d have to care.

And if I cared, I’d collapse under the weight of every single thing I’ve ever done.

So I stare down these sunken, apathetic eyes, resigned in their duty. I carve the instructions in my forehead once again. Not out of hope, but out of habit.

D.N.R.

Do not resuscitate.

Maybe one of these days, lightning will strike.

If not, I am content with waiting.

#writing #writeblr #bpd #vent story #short story #personal work #old shite from my archive #it's a lot better than i remember

[andromedalupus]

The inner core of my being is screaming.

The Solstice body of the mind has slowly eradicated itself into an ever-growing void of pain that has been hidden out of sight and out of mind of the body. The pain will never go away from this Godless earth. The world has turned its back on this poor creature, so the soul of this being that was once pure, will now be tainted with the scars of the past, present and future of all that is unholy. This being is a sinful beast that will burn in the fiery pits of Hell.

THIS creature, that was once an angel was torn to shreds by the godless beings that were called to arms to help this once innocent creature. This same creature that had tried for years to get over its fears and challenges was succumbed to the drowning red waters of the sinful pieces of its torn body.

It begs for forgiveness, yet the beings around it see the prayers going on deaf ears, for they bashed the beasts head with a metal slide. The beast tried to walk it off as if it was nothing, but the blood and scars littered the poor creatures skull as it grew.

The creature has cried for years. It needs a home. it begs for a family. It is so tired of the stress that the world has placed upon it.

The creature is still crying. Please, anyone can you hear my screams.

#httyd #vent art #vent post #vent story #truama mention #childhood truama #mspaint art #wierdcore story

[ephemeralleviathan]

Like a Dog

A vent that covers the sad feelings with metaphors so I don’t have to feel them.

TW: sad, lonely (other feelings along those lines), excessive metaphors, repetition

I love like a dog. I love like a dog in that I’ll always come when you call. It doesn’t matter how far I am, or what I’m doing, I will always come at your call. My favorite toys don’t stand up to even being around you, even thought they’re my favorite, you my favorite of all.

I love like a dog. I love like a dog in that I’ll play whatever games you want to play. You want to play fetch? Throw me something, I’ll bring it right back just so you can throw it again. You want to teach me a trick? I’ll learn anything as long as you show me, as long as it’s you. You want me to stay while you walk away? I can do that. I can do that if it’s you.

I love like a dog. I love like a dog in that I’m loyal to my own detriment. If someone’s talking and about you, I chew them up and set the record straight. If you make plans with someone else at the same time we have plans, that’s okay! Go hang out! I love making friends! I love you! I’ll see you when you get back. Why do you always make plans so that you don’t have to hang out with me?

I love like a dog. I love like a dog in that even if you accidentally hurt me, I’ll still love you. You stepped on my tail? That’s okay, I still love you, it still wags for you. You trip over me because you didn’t know I was there? That’s okay, are you okay, you fell kinda hard. You keep doing things with other people that you had already promised to do with me? I guess that’s okay, I still love you, even if it keeps happening after you promised you’d do better.

I love like a dog. I love like a dog in that I’ll always wait for you. You already made plans with someone else, that’s okay! I get to see you later. I’ll even wait at the door for you to come back! I saw your car pull in, let me unlock the door for you! You don’t want to hang out. You’re tired? Oh, okay! I can make food! We can watch your favorite show! I’m sorry I’m so exhausting to be around.

I love like a dog. I love like a dog in that no matter how many times I get hurt, I still come back to you.

I love like a dog.

#vent post #vent story #short story #poem? #writing

[insert-funny71119]

Soft Warmth

TWs: Suicidal ideation, sexual assault

CWs: Mentions of age regression(?), lots of use of petnames, mentions of sensory overload, emotional exhaustion

Word count: 982

“Such a good boy…” he whispered, pulling me into a tight, loving hug. “So sweet, so smart too…” he murmured, his voice dripping with nothing but love for me.

I had been so stressed and in (desperate) need of something soft and loving lately, just a day without lust. One day where it was just the two of us, loving each other’s presence. We both knew I couldn’t sustain this, constantly overwhelming myself by going haywire with excitement was taking its toll on me. I tried my best to keep calm but everything was just so exciting causing me to inevitably lose control, going feral and exhausting myself. Today however, had been slightly different, I had put all my energy into screaming at a rather volatile group of boys and eventually, the insults and the noisy environment all around had caused me to go into sensory overload and end up crying in a hot and stuffy bathroom.

“My sweet little baby…” he continued, cradling me in his arms, as if letting go would kill me. “My fluff ball, all mine…” he smiled softly, peppering my face with kisses as he spoke to me sweetly.

He was the only one allowed to touch me. At first, the only reasoning was sensory issues but as of recently a secondary reason has come into the picture. I had been sexually assaulted, a trio of girls approaching me before school, one of them walking up and getting into my personal space, alerting me of something on my shoe only for her to lift my face and tell me I looked sexy that day as the other ones were giggling profusely with their phones out, filming the entire interaction. I cried at the thought of anything sexual after that incident. I tried my best to handle it for him, but I couldn’t. Everything was so overwhelming to me, any time I had tried to do anything sexual I ended up crying. I had ugly sobbed because I felt gross and it was as if I could feel her hands on me still.

“My petite chére…” he pulled me in closer, allowing me to bask in his warmth. “Such a sweet little thing..” he complimented under his breath.

I soaked in all of his warmth, nuzzling into him. Purring almost. I got as close to him as physically possible, enjoying the rare moment when I felt soft and happy. Content, without fear of groping or being in a position that made me easy access to whatever was wanted of me. Sleepiness without fear of what would happen while I was unconscious. True happiness. I was constantly a hysterical mess, needing reassurance and attention and spiraling quickly without any of them. It was rare that I let my emotions spill without fear of hurting him. It was quite frequent that my emotions brought harm, whether it be myself or to others and if it was physically or psychologically. I didn’t like hurting people. I hate it. I don’t have the right to hurt people when I am not a person.

“My baby… my sweet little boy…” his soothing voice snapped me out of my thoughts. “I love you so much, fluff ball..” he whispered sweetly, smiling softly as he gazed into my eyes lovingly.

“I love you too, mi amor..” my voice was a meek, squeaky little whisper. My eyes were watering and I was on the verge of tears.

“What’s wrong, pumpkin?” He queried, stroking my hair softly.

That was when I had begun to ugly sob in his arms, incoherent babbling and sniffling escaped me, the things that were coherent were me begging him not to leave me. My parents had been threatening to get rid of me, they had no use for me anymore, why would they want me around? I was scared. I wanted comfort. I needed it. I needed someone to soothe me and treat me like glass. To love me and protect me. To treat me softly and with special care to my delicate parts. To treat me like they knew I couldn’t sustain myself if I kept continuing like this. Someone who knew how to handle people like me who often slipped into the mindset of a small child as a defense/coping mechanism.

“Oh.. my sweet baby…” he held me closer, rubbing my back up and down to comfort me. “I won’t let anyone take you, you’re my little one..” he whispered to me, wanting to keep as quiet as possible in order to not scare me with his volume.

I sobbed harder, I felt so tiny in his arms as I curled into his chest, my breaths sharpening, growing fast and shallow. “D-don’t leave me…” I sobbed, clinging onto him like a pathetic, abandoned animal. “…I-I’ll be good…” I whispered weakly.

“Mon amour…” he began. “I wouldn’t ever leave you, not for a million years.” He hugged me tightly, rocking me back and forth as I shook with each and every sob wracking my frame. “You’re always so good, I promise, you’re my good boy.” He murmured soft praise, welcoming me into the warmth of him.

I needed this. I needed the love, comfort, and safety he was providing me with. I was scared, tired, and emotionally exhausted. I didn’t know how much longer I could sustain myself, being an overly anxiety ridden, energetic, volatile thing had its toll on me and it was NOT doing me any good at all. To be quite honest, I was having thoughts of straight killing myself. I couldn’t do it anymore, I was so tired of life, it’s not like anyone would notice me gone.

My thoughts were interrupted with a hand being placed in my hair, slowly stroking it. The action soothed me enough to nuzzle into him, close my eyes, and slowly drift off into a semi-peaceful sleep in his arms.

If anyone asks, no I am not okay.

#vent stuff #vent story #vent fic #vent post #tw vent #tw sex mention #tw sex assault #tw self destructive behavior #Spotify

[m00nsz]

sometimes when a needle is put into a strawberry, it squirts its juice, and it seems to go on and on, as if it were a pain deep inside him. But little by little the strawberry realizes that these needles just keep going, more and more. and when they looks in the mirror, realizes how much of scars have, and they cries juices out of their eyes for years and years.

#vent #vent story

[atlas-liv-crain]

Christmas for a mouse in a vacant lot isn’t much of a celebration — empty bellies, shivering winds, and uncertainty as their ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future.

“Simply the act of loving,” one mouse said to another. “Does not mean one is worthy of love in return.”

The house creaked ever present around the two of them. No one stirred, not even the old spiders high up in the rafters. However, even the house’s movements fell unnoticed by all who could hear it.

“It is like this moment here. Have we not done enough to secure our place? Have we not found our shelter in the storm, have we not found each other? And have we not found that not even that means anything.”

He continued, his tired eyes wide with all the answers in the universe, at least if he gazed into his own reflection… that’s what he would see as he looked back at himself.

“Insignificant efforts to go on and matter.” Only then he fell silent.

His companion looked on at him in devastating awe as his friend finished announcing his most melancholic revelation yet, but somehow it didn’t truly feel done. His words didn’t feel ready to venture out and they felt too raw for it to be all.

His companion looked into his friend’s eyes and he knew them well… they were the same eyes he had seen in his father’s, as he lay on his side, stuck in that dusty glue trap.

Was that not where they were now? They’d never been meant for this life, and yet here they were. They’ve known the comforts of man, the luxuries of community. They’d served their captors — an exchange of mind, body, and soul, swallowed whole… for warmth and food.

But when their purpose died, so too did their future, at least prematurely. Tossed away, tossed out, left in the cold and laughed at when they said they hadn’t the tools or wits about them to make it to spring.

Insignificant life so easy to mock, so disposable… they gave everything, loved deeply, and even had attempted to truly live and genuinely love, but they would never be enough and such efforts of love would be wasted on something so fleeting.

#I’m 14 and this is deep #short story #writing #writing with no editing #vent story

[heyitsnyixie]

Short horror? story/vent (tw's: Mentions of suicide, figurative yet very apparent body disphoria)

Intrusive thoughts

I woke up infront of a familiar building. An unremarkable house in the middle of a poor neighborhood. "Is this my old-" I think aloud as I reach for the knob. The building reminds my of my childhood home. One of the places I felt safest.

I opened the door, the inside of the house was lit by the soft blue of daylight. Out of the the corner of my eye I see a figure, sitting on the couch. The figure smiles wide, eyes lighting up,

"Welcome home, son" the figure said. It was my father. My father. My father?

"wh-what did you just say?" I said in complete shock, not fully processing what was going on.

"I said, welcome home, son, I've missed you." He turned to look at me. "I was worried I'd never see you again. I realized that I was wrong, that I was hurting you." He said, standing up and reaching out to give me a hug.

"No." I said firmly, shrinking away from 'my father'.

"Stay away! You aren't my father, he would never say something like that!" I got louder and more defensive. The thing dropped it's arms to it's side, it's face becoming a nameless visage of dark color, interrupted only by two glowing white eyes.

"what's the matter?" The creature taunted, it's body loosing my father's form and slowly turning into something else. "Isn't this what you always wanted? More than anything? Even more than not looking like this?" The beast exclaimed taking the ugly, distorted form of-

Myself.

The thing that keeps me from mirrors. The bastard that parades my brain around like it has the right. It's ugly human proportions, the ones I would never pick had I designed the flesh suit myself. All of it's disgustingly fake features.

The creature spoke again, "You would rip and tear every part of this if you weren't such a coward." It started to pace around me, it's distorted echoing voice continued, "Every day you walk around like you attempt to take care of it but can't. But you can. You can take care of yourself. But, if you did, you'd have to live with it."

It stopped infront of me. "You pretend to be inept so no one notices you're trying to kill yourself. You want the sweet release of death but you're to afraid to do it yourself. You're just going to run on empty until you stop running at all."

It puts it's hand on my shoulder as I flinch. "You could pretend to be happy here. You could pretend your hero was a considerate man who made an effort to respect you." It drops it's hand again. "Or you could suffer some more," it shrugs, "come talk again when you've made up your mind."

Then I see a computer screen with an empty document open. The cursor blinking expectantly awaiting my input. I sigh,"better get started on this essay."

I turn on the loudest song I can. I don't think about that again.

#this was longer then i thought it would be #cw vent #vent story #psychologically deconstructng myself at 12 in the morning #cw mentions of suicide #gender dysphoria #trans #trans masc #ftm #trans ftm #dissasociation

[jacksons-poetry]

I’m not even sure what this is. A story, prose, free verse, etc. Perceive it however you like.

A bird sits in a tree

singing his little songs,

happy as can be.

People say he’s happy,

he’s singing after all.

They don’t know he’s crying

for help, for someone to notice

him, for someone to care about him.

They don’t care if he sits all day

waiting, waiting,

waiting,

waiting,

for something he knows will never come.

They say

“sing for us, little bird, for

that is all we love you for!”

“Sing for us, little bird, for

your songs are worth more than you are.”

“Sing for us, little bird, for

you have to work for happiness in life.”

“Sing for us, sing for us, sing sing sing.”

And the little bird tries his best.

But he’s so tired that he cannot sing anymore,

throat sore and tongue numb,

he cannot even shed any tears.

And he is just a bird.

No one cares about his words.

They just want to use him.

#original poem #poetry #poems on tumblr #rough draft poem #free verse poetry #vent poem #poem #poetry on tumblr #free verse #poems and quotes #spilled ink #poems #poets on tumblr #rough draft #spilled poetry #spilled thoughts #spilledink #my poetry #spilled words #vent #vent poetry #vent story

[leahs-workshop]

I miss your smile. With each day you become more and more fatigued. I watch you wilt, unable to do anything about it. My one and only wish is to "fix" you, but how can I do that when you'd rather stay that way? You refuse to let me help you and it feels like all my energy is going to waste. I love you beyond what one can imagine, but I'm growing tired too. The scars you left me aren't healing when you keep on putting your fingers in them. Please, apologize, so I can enjoy your touch once more. At least then, everything would be easier.

My mind has been occupied with trying to heal you, trying to figure out what could have caused such a terrible illness, or if something was even wrong at all. I spend so many nights staring at you, wondering whether this would change how things ended up between us. It's the one thing I hate most about this disease of yours, but it seems that no matter how hard I try to cure you, you'll just get worse and worse until the only thing that remains will be a shell of what you used to be.

At night I go and sob over of what seems like a dead body of yours. I feel the mental damage you've done to me while you yourself were suffering. I know deep down that this isn't your fault. It's just the way things have turned out, but I know you had the power to at least let me help you. Still, no matter what I'll forever reminisce about your touch, voice and the sweet nothings we've exchanged

#short story #one shot #poetry #writing #angst #vent #vent story #depression #mental illness

[pale-flowers]

when things get bad i gaslight myself into believing that my life is just a dream, and i will wake up one day in a perfect world without war, terrorism, unfair distinction and stuff like that.

#funny #lol #vent #personal vent #vent stuff #vent story #gen z mood #gen z kids #gen z experience

[leeshiesstuff]

Wounds, Grief, and Healing

What does one do when they've finally started taking steps into the light, only for dust, debris, and clouds from raining bombs to come at them from someone they held dear?

Time spent becoming a fuller happier person, rattled, second guessed, agonised over... and the person beside them is the closest to warmth they have. They stand strong feel the fear and pain with you... They are all you've ever dreamed of in a partner, and they prove it with each step taking you through the battle into the light.

It was a bluff. The damage was done, and you know the person you once held dear... why did they aim for you without a word of warning? Or even talking to you about what aggrieved them?

"Get rid of him. It's clearly unhealthy. It's me or him. Get away, don't come closer, you disgusting thing. You caused such trouble for me when you met him. He's not for you, you're too old and broken, you'll corrupt him. He resembles my brother, you can not be near him. Cut him from your life, rip his soul from yours because I still want you. But you can only have one."

You look back to the one beside you. They hold your hand, terrified and filled with guilt. They hadn't meant to be an obstacle. They don't want you to grieve, only to live a life free and happy in the light again...

They aren't an obstacle.

You reflect on all the wounds and fleeting love given to you by the assaulter. How many times have they left you wounded, have you left only to be pulled back in to discomfort and misery, and oh how you loved them...

You were almost in their grasp, to be bound, bonded, and stuck within the spells he casts.

The mind games are so clear now. So simple.

You stay silent. He doesn't ask for your side. He was your closest friend, your confidant, a voice of reason for nearly a decade of life in the dark.

You cast a sorrowful look at those that stand in the shadows closer to him, not bound but there by choice. You nod, they nod back.

"We understand why you're doing this even if it pains us too."

He screams one last time. A churning, blood curdling, stomach chilling cry.

And you turn away into the arms of the one who is there for you.

The grief of letting go of one so dear to choose your own life and happiness above the bonds you shared.... it weighed heavy on you but there wasn't much anyone outside your head could do to cut the strings.

You shred your ropes, eliminating the last frayed strings to toss to the wind.

You are free.

And his hand is so warm. His eyes sparkle as you stand on your own, love, respect, admiration... Feelings you never thought you'd feel coming your direction from someone you have grown to cherish...

And you make a vow, to give back to him as he gives to you, so help him grow as he has for you, to love him as he loves you.

And you do.

He is your fated mate. Your souls will live lifetimes together again and again, each life rekindling the last.

#miscecanis #self love #i love him #loveislove #vent story #finding real love #recovering from abuse #letting go #about me #my post

[snowfall-runewriter]

Drifting farther from the ship, the astronaut watched in silence. His cable trailed behind him, clearly sawed in half. He attempted to use his radio, but the only thing he could hear was static. Still, he screamed into it. Begging for someone to hear him, someone to save him. Nobody replied. Nobody saw. Nobody cared. Tears streamed from his eyes, clinging to the glass of his visor. 6 hours left of oxygen? He had been drifting for too long, alternating between sobbing and quiet contemplation. The ship wasn't visible anymore, long gone. They had left him, unaccounted for. He had known that nobody wanted him on the ship, but to go this far? He was seriously considering ripping out his oxygen tube, just for a quicker death. Was it really likely they'd find him again? He only had about 5 hours of oxygen left, if he had counted correctly. He was nearly drowning in his tears, and starving too. He hadn't eaten when they left the moon, because he thought there would still be time, thought he would still be on the ship. There was only 4 hours left. It was almost peaceful, really. Dying among the stars? Was he the first? Really, it was beautiful. Stars shining in the distance, the moon gleaming brightly behind him. Spinning was starting to take it's toll on him, even if it was slowly spinning. 3 hours of breathing left. Why was the universe so indifferent? Aren't we just reincarnations of the universe itself, an attempt to understand itself? We are all made of the same things, the same matter, the same atoms. Why is everything so different then?! If I were the universe, I would want to save myself! is it really so hard for an asteroid to safely draw me into orbit, then land on its surface? Is it really so hard for that asteroid to actually be a spaceship, with breathable oxygen? 2 hours... "If I live, I will kill you, if I die, you are forgiven." Oh, what has been wrought for thirty pieces of silver... The astronaut started reciting songs to himself, wishing he had memorized more of his favorites. One hour of life, precious and fleeting. Staring blankly into space, I cannot find emotions or the energy to even think anymore. My brain knows what comes next, I know what comes next. Death. What is death? Am I truly dead, unless I am buried? Is the vast blankness of space my grave? Perhaps it would be better to fall asleep, to never wake up again. Would I be a ghost, wandering the whole universe for eternity? I would go crazy, or maybe I already am? Crazy people don't know they're crazy. I feel normal though, but is it "normal" to accept death? There's nothing I can even do to save myself, stuck, lost, and alone with my thoughts. Thinking never saved anyone, so why should it save me? It won't, Death will arrive all the same. I really wish I had done more, met more people, wish I didn't care what people thought of me. Again, what did thinking ever do for anybody? Nothing, It never saved, helped, killed anyone. Are thoughts just a nuisance? Nothing, that's what they are. So why have I been cursed with these thoughts, these terrible realizations? Maybe... Ooh, it's getting hard to breathe. My oxygen is failing. Goodbye, Goodbye cruel universe. Perhaps I'll fuel a star somewhere, or make a big crater on a planet nearby. Maybe my body will even... make it out of the solar system... Ha, that'd be nice... First human to leave our system... Death isn't what I thought he'd be like... I can almost see him, extending his hand... How... Pleasant... Hello, Mr. Andrew... Goodbye, Life...

#vent story