#nyxies emotional tangent

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sudden fulcrum
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“Thirteen to Fifteen”

It started before I had the words
to tell someone I was drowning.
Thirteen,
and the world taught me
that innocence is not a shield—
not when eyes turn into knives,
not when hands reach through glass
and take
what was never given.

They came through a screen.
Pixels and predators.
Smiles and sickness.
And I was still trying to figure out
who I was,
when they decided for me.

They stripped me of silence,
then blamed me for the noise.
Said I invited it.
Said I wanted it.
Like consent was written
in the way I existed.

I became a museum of bruises
no one could see.
I laughed in class,
but it echoed wrong—
a mimic of who I used to be.

Friends started vanishing.
Not into new schools
or different lives—
but into the air.
Gone.
No goodbyes.
Three funerals.
Three shadows burned into my chest
where hope used to sleep.

I stopped counting the times
I tried to leave too.
Not for attention.
But because living
felt like punishment
for a crime I didn’t commit.

I wrote notes
I never sent.
Tried pills,
tried silence,
tried rope in a dream I was glad I woke from.
I saw my name on a headstone in my mind
and it didn’t scare me.
It felt like rest.

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I hated myself so deeply
it felt like truth.
Like I was born wrong.
Like my body was a betrayal
and my mind an accomplice.

I hated the mirror
and every photo,
every reminder
that I existed
in a skin they wanted,
in a story I couldn’t rewrite.

Some days I’d smile
and mean it.
Most days I’d smile
because it was safer
than explaining.

The world likes tidy survivors—
ones who cry once
and get back up
with a clean face.
But that’s not how this works.
Not when the wounds are recursive.
Not when trust is a language
I forgot how to speak.

But here I am.
Fifteen.
Still breathing,
even when I didn’t want to.
Still writing,
even when my voice shakes.

They didn’t break me.
Not all the way.
I found the cracks
and planted seeds.

I hold the hands
of the ghosts I loved,
I carry their laughter
like talismans
through the nights I wish
I could forget.

I will not forgive what they did.
But I will live louder than their damage.
Not because I owe it to the world—
but because I owe it to the girl
who fought like hell
just to make it to this line.

And she did.
We did.

balmy fulcrum
left pythonBOT
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@sudden fulcrum has sent a notification! - @spring yacht

spring yacht
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The anger the hate

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And the way you held on, tighter

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May all things come the way you need them be

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🫂🫂

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Well penned