Writing - InkyCapNip

Writing

Hi.

I don't know if you're real. I don't know if you're out there. I don't know if I should be directing this letter at myself. I don't know if these words could ever be about anyone else. There&

Poetry

I used to feel ashamed of this picture.

People would look at me with pity, but their kindness was nowhere to be seen. I turned from empty platitudes, seeking shelter through a screen. I stopped getting cat called at least, those same men now recoiled. I stopped hearing about how my beauty made me obnoxiously spoiled. Feeling unworthy

Writing

Dear younger me:

You don't know me, but I know you, though I've only recently gotten to a deep enough level to be able to understand you and the choices you have made. You'll never read this letter, though doing so would have changed the direction of

Writing

A letter I can't send

Dear mom: I miss you. It's so complicated, but right now that's the only thing I feel. The only thing I have space for. I want to cry, but I keep teetering on the edge. Admitting I love you feels like a bottomless pit I'

Writing

Cognitive Dissonance

The you in my head and the you in the flesh are entirely different people. But I can't speak to actions and intentions you refuse to tell me about. So this is what I am left with. I know you to be a violent person who would repeatedly

Functional Family

I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOUR MENTAL HEALTH

how could you say that to me? I have a really bad memory. He doesn't like to behave. He sifts and sieves through information I do not care about, but when it comes to everything I love, he turns into a steel trap. I still remember. The smell

Writing

My Worst Nightmare

TW! All the trigger warnings. Seriously. I've been thinking about this question for a really long time. What is my worst Nightmare? Cause I've been through a lot. Ostracized, exorcised, cast out, cat called, shunned, avoided, publicly humiliated. None of that was a nightmare. I'

Writing

"Tell me about the icicles"

Icicles cling, but they don't often stab. They hold on tight to tilted roofs and drip-drop their way to the ground. One drop at a time. Taking their time. What's the rush when the sun doesn't shine? I want to be an icicle. Maybe

Updates

Are you real?

It was hard to get out of bed today. The snow fell quite hard and I was shut inside by a blizzard. It stopped though. That snow is piled high on leaves that struggle to hold up the weight of so much icy water. They keep their arms and legs

Poetry

The Banging

I can feel all the things that used to paralyze me banging at my door. I am not answering. My back bows and threatens to break under the weight of their ceaseless—relentless—banging. Their voices are garbled, like ripped throats gesticulating sound pushed from lungs wrapped in barbed wire.

Writing

I really want to share what I wrote

Why do I feel like I can't? There's this pressure to understand it before I send it to anyone. New creations still make me feel kinda shaky, does that ever stop? What did I write? It's a stream of consciousness. It took almost 15