#letters-to-the-void

1 messages · Page 1 of 1 (latest)

left needle
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📮 Anonymous Submission
Title: If I had 9 lives
🔖 Trigger warnings: grief, trauma, mental health, loss, loneliness

Here’s a letter that speaks in quiet storms — a raw, powerful journey across nine imagined lives. It reflects a soul laid bare, one that’s been through fire, flood, and finally… found something to hold on to.

The writer wants y’all to know:
“The entire poem is centered around myself as a person and therefore I don't expect anyone who doesn't know me to fully grasp the depth of each word but I believe it is accurate enough to describe my image of myself. Anyways I hope no one really hates it and gives an honest review”

Let it reach you in whatever way it does. Whether you respond, reflect, or simply read — your presence here matters. 💌

(Poem will be shared below)

|| <@&1183676133493973023> ||

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If I had nine lives,
I'd spend the first one,
Gutting myself slowly,
Feel the blood trickle down my fingers,
Familiarise myself with my organs,
Feel my heart's rough edges once,
Let my lungs breathe freely,
Before the last drop,
Of that accursed sap leaves my veins.

For my next life,
I'd drown in a lonely river,
Feel the water percolate in my lungs,
Feel the weight of my chest,
And finally know that it's real,
While I relax, finally weightless,
Knowing no one can change that.

One spent lighting myself aflame,
Feeling my skin burn away,
My muscles touching the air,
My eyes unable to close,
My strength leaving me,
As the heat bursts into my soul.

Then one spent recovering,
Looking after orphans and elders,
Each who have no where else to be,
Finding their refuge by my lonely soul,
With my cracked edges,
I shall take care of them,
look after them, as no one did for me.

Once I've passed that life,
I would spend my next 4 finding you,
Searching for your soul,
The cleanest one among the filth,
Which shouldn’t be so hard,
Where the diamond shimmers,
Inside the puddle of mud.

For my next life,
I'd spend it all with you,
Grow old together,
Knit useless sweaters,
Feed old and rude crows,
Groan about our creaking joints.

After that, for my final life,
I'd run from the despairing reality,
The reality of losing you,
Of finally having no one to live for,
I'd live on a lonely farm,
In a lonely cabin,
In a place far from man's reach

|| <@&1183676133493973023> ||

spare ridge
# left needle If I had nine lives, I'd spend the first one, Gutting myself slowly, Feel the bl...

The 9 lives actually seems to show the reality of one life a human.
The poem is extremely beautiful in its own melancholy.
The first 3 gives pain. Trauma. cleansing.
Then the recover. The healing and After, the beautiful romance you can truly commit to.
The last will be a huge ache. The one true love. Gone to dust. but the world needs to start living for itself too.
In a way that doesn't hurt or destroy the rest of the world. Not torture itself but find the peace of the find.

I can relate to the poem from afar. Not from experience but becuz It reminds me of someone else who has gone through hell and back. I hope you survive. I hope you truly life. I hope you find the one love that will heal and leave you with a truck load of memories. Not for the despair but for the better your life will be becuz of their mark.

I hope you have a great day stranger 😄

left needle
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”Athenian Titan” — a poem

”I am born,
From something greater than myself,
Something I hope, one day, to be greater than,
I cry as clear as the wail of a newborn bairn,
I am here, I am alive, and I will not be ignored”

Rooted in strength. Wrapped in myth. This poem echoes the bold, unwavering spirit of Athena — a voice refusing to go unheard. It’s fierce, it’s tender, and it reminds us that just existing with courage is a kind of rebellion. 💫

🕊️The writer shares:
This short drabble is inspired by the Greek goddess Athena, the goddess of wisdom, strategy and courage. In a world that often seeks to silence meeker voices, Athena's voice reminds me that our strengths do not merely lie in battle, but in standing tall in the face of adversity. Just something to keep us going in these trying times :)

Leave a kind reaction, or drop a thoughtful reply. Your words matter 🩵

|| <@&1183676133493973023> ||

dire pivot
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❤️

stuck rover
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Wow 😲

left needle
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🖤 Downhill

A haunting poem that echoes the ache of falling apart when no one sees it. “Downhill” speaks of the slow unraveling of a once “perfect” self — the kind that’s expected to smile through pain, achieve through pressure, and never crumble.

Every line walks a tightrope between silence and scream, between wanting to be seen… and wanting to disappear.

✉️ Trigger warnings: mental health struggles, loneliness, isolation

📌 The writer shares:
“It’s been published along with more of my pieces at blog.thybookbox.com. Find more on Instagram @thybook.box. Thank you for the platform :))”

🫂 They’ve been brave in sharing this with us, and they’d love to receive kind responses. Let’s meet this vulnerability with open hearts.

”It went downhill in the blink of an eye” — and sometimes, just knowing someone hears you can stop the fall

Poem will be shared below.

|| <@&1183676133493973023> ||

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I rocked back-and-forth. Both the walls seemed to tower around me, enclosing me in their cold, hard and lifeless embrace. Goosebumps rose on my arms and legs and I pulled my knees further into my chest: an attempt for warmth and disguise. The thin, white, cotton-soft curtains blew around the window, this way and that. The moonlight crept in to form ghostly, ever-moving shadows on the wall in front of me. I did not get up to close the window; I was done trying. Sharp slivers of moonlight glinted off the glass photo frames; it reflected on me, taunting me. The people in the photos -my loved ones- seemed to now mock me with the smiles I once used to love.

“Look what you’ve done to yourself,” they whispered cruelly. “Just look.” They seethed with disappointment.

I grimaced. Frantically looking around for some escape, I looked over to my messy bed. I’d thrashed the pillows on the bed, creasing the sheets. My blanket lay half on the floor after I’d flung it off me. Tufts of dry, black hair danced around in little tornadoes around the room. The gust of air was commanding; everything obeyed it.

Disgusted at myself, I looked the other way. My desk: stacked with failed tests, bad report cards and unfinished homework assignments. The open textbooks flickered loudly in the deathly silence. The moving pages seemed to ward me off. I continued to rock: back-and-forth, back-and-forth; a helpless, rhythmic heartbeat’s echo.

The day had gone by just like any other day and had ended the same way. The knives were never sharp enough, the razors never painful enough, the drink never strong enough. My ragged breathing did not stop. A spark of fury grew to an inferno in me. With a swift jerk, I grabbed the glass- it was intricately etched with flowery design. But dirt found its home in tiny, uncleanable places- I was one of those, apparently. Evidently.

Within a flash, the glass was not just shards.

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No, it still wasn’t enough.

I walked over the glass pieces scattered on the floor and towards the photo frames above my bed. One, two, three of them, now shattered. How was I not enough? Four, five frames: destroyed. Why was I never good enough? I am so sick of myself. Two months had ruined me. I was the perfect kid.

Six, seven frames.

Immaculate grades, the best daughter and the best student.

Eight, nine, ten frames: no. Still not enough.

I picked out a photo from the floor and shook it. Tiny pieces of glass fell down. Shiny drops of amber liquid dripped down from it. Arching my neck down, I relished at the sight before me. The amber was now mixed with the crimson of my blood. It pooled around my feet. The glass etched and stung and caved deeper still as I pushed my heels further into the ground. Hastily opening a drawer from my desk, I fished out a lighter; I always had one lying around next to my packs. Holding the corner of the photo lightly, I did the deed.

It was beautiful. Glorious. The flame- delicate, yet powerful- was so tantalizing. The bright yellow and orange waltzed and I let it drop. I cackled. It didn’t even take a second. The floor gleaned magnificently. The memories burned. The smiles that had turned to a sea of frowns around me were now ashes.

My feet stung maliciously, but what did it matter? I wasn’t going to be enough anyways. The perfect girl no more. It was amazing what two months could do to you. You would be done, dusted and trudged upon and you wouldn't even understand what was happening. It was a splendid fall until you felt your bones crush. What a laughable tragedy. I tried and tried and tried but who can write when your pen has run out of ink? I accepted- embraced- that and stayed. I stayed where I was, unmoving, smelling burned flesh; smoke of my cotton curtains now vibrant. I filled my lungs until I fade to black: it had gone downhill in the blink of an eye.

spare ridge
# left needle No, it still wasn’t enough. I walked over the glass pieces scattered on the fl...

I know the feeling. I hope you're okay.
My heart aches for you but there is nothing more I can give you.
What I do know is what if your goal changed? What if I was to be a better self, one you like more. To find yourself again.
Push back. There is A LOT more than perfect grades. Ever thought about when you stopped enjoying life?
When It started being a high pressured, highly critised chore. A do-or-deal-with-trauma sort of situation.
Death is a done deal.
What started the downhill? When did it start?
You don't need to give me an answer. But do it for yourself.
I know the feeling. More than anyone maybe.
3 years into knowing me one of my friends had a thought stream down the dark lane.
She told me I didn't understand and I showed her a poem, asked her to guess when I wrote that.
She said "A few months back"
The answer:2 Days ago
My happy smiling personality never gave away anything. My grades were one of the highest. NOT the best. I'm pretty much an avg. student with a sh!t ton of understandable pressure on her shoulder.
To everyone reading this:
You are NOT alone
Your situation may seem like it, Your feed may be filled with absolutely happy go lucky ppl or absolutely depressed ass humans. But both sides have its opposites. No one likes telecasting stuff that makes them seem out of their element.
Breath, relax. Start with a declutter. Clean that damn table for everything's sake.
START OVER
Surprise everyone. Start doing and finding things that make you happy to control and comfort the pressure.
We're all here to support you guys.
Good luck 🌠🍀💜💗
~A stranger who feels you from a million miles away

left needle
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🕯️Another letter in the Void
Title: TWO MONTHS
🚨 Trigger warnings: Grief/loss, mental health struggles, loneliness/isolation

“It’s been two months since he died…”
This letter arrives heavy with memory, wrapped in the ache of loss, love, and quiet survival. Through shifting seasons, closed-down tea shops, and whispered names to the wind, the writer carries us through their mourning — where grief lives in the smallest details of everyday life.

They share a story not just of death, but of everything that lingers after: the scent of flowers, the sound of a name, the weight of a promise broken and kept.

The writer would love kind responses from the community.
Take a moment. Sit with it. Send some warmth their way. 💌
|| <@&1183676133493973023> ||

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It's been two months since he died;
It's been two months since I last truly smiled.
I see his face in the clouds when I look up,
I see his favourite constellations spelling out his name; I'm awestruck
Not only by the beauty of nature when it lauds him,
But because it reminds me of his sincerity when he first told me it was me he loved and that it was my presence that he missed.

I smell him when I pass by the flowers on the sidewalk we used to walk through to get our weekly groceries.
Autumn was his favourite season, he used to say.
He said he could feel himself when the trees set the leaves free;
He could feel himself dancing inside as these abandoned leaves swayed in the wind.
Autumn was his favourite season, he always told me that-
because that's when he was able to write the best.
He died two months before that.

Today, it's been two months since he died.
It's been two months and exactly 3 hours since they found his dead body.
It was 8pm and his manager knocked on his door several times,
It was only then he realised something wasn't right.

The authorities were called and people had gathered.
They rushed him into the ER but the doctors knew as soon as they saw him.
And just like that, they had declared him dead,
"He has left this world," they said.
Scared and anxious, when everybody asked them how,
"It wasn't natural," they said,
"He took his own life.
We think maybe he was just depressed."

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Today, it's been two months since he died.
And since then, I don't know how I've survived.
It's so hard and long, like an autumn leaf,
barely floating on the river by the shop that used to sell his favourite kind of tea.
The shop closed down shortly after his funeral,
That took away one more thing from me out of the countless that had already been snatched away.
It was the shop where we first met,
It also happened to be the last shop that we ever visited.

It's been two months and not a day has gone by without me whispering his name and touching only air.
It's been two months since I've been living in the state that he lived in for years and nobody cared.
It's been two months and tea doesn't taste the same, the autumn breeze doesn't smell the same and the flowers seem remorseful because that friendly face they were so used to seeing doesn't pass by them anymore everyday.

The people that used to be around him have since long moved on.
Saying, "it's unfortunate, but I just can't keep holding on."
"His time on earth is over but you still have a life to live," they said.

Remember that night under the bridge when we were sheltering ourselves from the rain,
We made a promise that we would never leave each other to go our own ways.
That's a lie you told me, I feel it now.
Still, it's one promise I cannot break.
It's a fact that I loved you and I still so irrevocably do.
And so, when I die, I hope I find my place next to you.

dire pivot
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W

left needle
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🧷 New submission
💌 “I am the old, crumbled up photograph somewhere in the deep end of your denim pocket…”

What you’re about to read is more than a poem — it’s a voice from the past, echoing through pages never sent. It’s shared by someone who wrote it over two years ago during a time they were untangling themselves from an emotionally abusive kind of “love,” this piece sits right at the intersection of memory, regret, and quiet strength.

The writer says:
”Hey kiddos, i chose this poem because i felt it fit both the “To the me who…” and the “Unsent messages” prompt. This poem was written over 2 years ago by a version of me who thought the kind of emotionally abusive ‘’love’’ i received would be all i ever deserved. Moreover, I never showed this poem to the person it was written about because I was finally trying to regain my own autonomy from them. If this poem resonates with you in any way, I want you to know that from the perspective of someone who has survived through it, if you feel constantly hurt by someone in your life despite being in love, you deserve better, and you will get better, so choose yourself.”

No trigger warnings were given — but as always, read gently.
💬 Kind words and reactions are welcome and encouraged.

Poem will be shared below.

|| <@&1183676133493973023> ||

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i am the old, crumbled up photograph
somewhere in the deep end of your denim pocket,
two copies, mine framed and yours folded in half,
been in there a week, i know you forgot it.

i am the old, crumbled up picture
somewhere in the deep end of your denim pocket,
do you think we can remain what we once were,
with the weight of your suppression upon it?

i am the old, crumbled up polaroid
somewhere in the deep end of your denim pocket,
what once was us in hues of red and blue, left devoid,
neglect was only there cause you brought it.

i am the old, crumbled up portrait
somewhere in the deep end of your denim pocket,
spilling through the page, black ink inscribes the date,
you wouldn’t have thought to, so i wrote it.

i am the old, crumbled up page
somewhere in the deep end of your denim pocket,
my misery, you, unfazed,
we were both faulted, but was it the same, the way we fought it?

i am the old, crumbled up painting
somewhere in the deep end of your denim pocket,
you, me, and this pretty little thing,
all twisted and knotted.

i am the old, crumbled up image
somewhere in the deep end of your denim pocket,
try to reach me through a crumbled bridge,
before it collapsed, was it so hard to have caught it?

i am the old, crumbled up film
somewhere in the deep end of your denim pocket,
the things we did, at a whim, the line we walked, so damn thin,
what was and what is, you’re not the only one who lost it.

i am the old crumbled up print,
somewhere in the deep end of your denim pocket,
its not about what you did, it’s what you didn’t,
and you are the name i keep in my brass locket.

i am the old crumbled up photograph
you hold in the regret of your hands,
the gleam in us and
the love you never spotted,
what was it like remembering to take out your denim pocket?

sour turret
left needle
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📩 New letter received: “the pain of the perfect girl”
⚠️ Trigger warnings: Mental health struggles
🫂 Kind responses encouraged

In this heart-wrenching poem, the writer reflects on a version of herself who once radiated joy, now buried beneath the weight of emotional pain and silence. She writes from the perspective of a girl forced to grow up too soon — bruised by words, forgotten in her pleas, and left to navigate the shadows of her own mind alone.

Through raw honesty and powerful imagery, she speaks not just to her past self, but to anyone who’s ever felt broken by the world’s expectations.

Let her words sit with you — and if they resonate, let her know she’s not alone. 💌

Poem will be shared below👇

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A joyful girl smiling, playing , now broken.
What have people done to her?
She’s black and blue with tears straining her cheeks.
Did it make you feel better after bruising her?

She reached out for help yet no one came to her aid.
Now that she hides away you start to care,
Like the pain you gave her was nothing.

But you can’t go back,
can’t change what you said.
You have forgotten what you did to her
but she remembers everyday.
She hides and hurts alone,
weren’t you supposed to love her?

She gave the world to you but now
She prays for the day her misery ends.
Her pain leaves where she’s finally at peace.
She looks at the mirror and doesn’t believe herself,
where did the joyful little girl go?
She changed herself for you.
Why did you leave her to fend for herself.
A child forced to grow up faster.

Who is she now?
What has the world done to her?
She’s Lost and broken.

Living a delusion in where nothing is wrong,
A delusional that’s killing her from the inside.
She waits for the day someone pulls her out from her void.

Drowning in herself,
gasping for air trying to pull herself back up
But everyone keeps pushing her down.
Time is too fast for her to grasp it,
so she is left to live in the past,
To re-live her sorrow and misery just to find the missing piece.

spare ridge
zinc gull
edgy sluice
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No words could ever fully express pain or loss, but your words resonate deeply, and they not only express the pain but you can actually understand it in deeper ways. This is beautifully written, beyond words could describe, but it is beautiful, and I truly consider it a masterpiece. In fact, all the poems you have written are inexplicably beautiful, and i can relate to them deeply.

left needle
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📜 Another submission: Time to leave her
✍️ A typed poem | Trigger warning: loneliness or isolation

In this reflective piece, the writer captures the quiet weight of unspoken emotions — from a Zoom classroom to the aching silence of teenage confusion. ”Time to leave her” explores the clash between distraction and duty, longing and learning, and how youthful crushes can unexpectedly shift the emotional terrain of one’s academic path.

The writer says:
I started homeschooling to focus on me studies but i had a crush on a girl from me class. Then well, crisis occured in me brain. Anyhow, my point is loving a girl isn't like buying a candy. If you feel lonely, just talk with your homies. They understand you better than you actually do.

💬 They’d deeply appreciate kind responses.

💌 Dive in with gentleness, reflect, or simply read — your presence matters

The poem will be shared below.

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Poem:

Sat at the front of the desk
Covering boredom with mask
"Are you ready to answer the test"
The teacher asked
The sound of slience bonded the Zoom's connection
such like LaLaland's affection

Sun in the noon
Oh, how my life didn't bloom
words started to talk
books started to walk
the trusty-old pencil hawked

shifting days to dusk
USK, i realised
"teenage love" isn't truthful, youthful and strong
yet, tis eating the desk of a naive mind all along

left needle