Lil Rabbits Echoes

It’s strange how pain insists   on being both a wound   and a teacher.   How it can hollow you out   and still claim it’s making room   for something else.   We spend years trying to outrun it,   as if distance could rewrite   what the heart already knows.   But suffering has a way   of sitting beside us   like an old, uninvited companion—   quiet, persistent,   asking questions we don’t want to answer.   Why do we break   in the exact places   we swore were unbreakable?   Why does healing feel   so much like learning to walk   on unfamiliar ground?   Maybe the paradox is this:   pain doesn’t just hurt—   it reveals.   It shows us the edges of ourselves,   the limits, the longings,   the truths we only admit   when everything else ...

Some nights I wonder   if the universe ever regrets   the things it creates—   storms that swallow towns,   hearts that bruise too easily,   people who love like open wounds.   Maybe even the cosmos   sits in the dark sometimes,   turning its mistakes over   like stones in a river,   trying to smooth the edges   of what it never meant to break.   If forgiveness is a lesson,   who taught it first?   Who whispered to the galaxies   that they could begin again   after collapsing under their own weight?   Maybe that’s all we are—   small echoes   of a universe learning   how to be gentle.   –LR 🖤

  It wasn’t anger   that changed me.   It wasn’t heartbreak.   It wasn’t betrayal.   It was clarity —   the kind that arrives   like a cold wind   through an open door.   I saw you   without the excuses.   Without the hope.   Without the softness   I kept wrapping around your name.   And once I saw you clearly,   I couldn’t unsee it.   I couldn’t unknow it.   I couldn’t pretend   you were anything   but the storm   I kept calling shelter.   So I walked away.   Not because I stopped caring —   but because I finally started   caring about myself.   -LR 🖤

People think the void is nothingness.   They’re wrong.   The void is full —   of echoes,   of memories,   of every version of me   that didn’t know how to keep going   but did anyway.   Tonight the void feels close,   like it’s breathing against my spine,   like it’s waiting for me   to fall into it.   But I’ve learned something   from all the nights that tried to take me:   the void isn’t here to end me.   It’s here to show me   what I’m made of.   And even in this darkness,   even in this ache,   even in this bone-deep sorrow,   I’m still here.   Still breathing.   Still refusing to disappear.   The void can watch.   But it doesn’t get to win. -LR 🖤 

I wish you could’ve met   the version of me   that existed before the breaking.   The girl who believed people meant their promises,   who didn’t flinch at raised voices,   who didn’t apologize for needing warmth.   But you met the aftermath—   the quiet storm,   the guarded heart,   the girl who double‑checks every smile   to see if it’s safe to trust.   You called me complicated.   You called me distant.   You called me hard to love.   But you never realized   you were holding the ruins   and blaming the wreckage   for not being a cathedral. -LR ❤️ 

I was born owing something no one explained. First breath? Put it on the tab. First cry? Interest accrued immediately. Life hands you a receipt you never asked for and calls it a gift. Food, love, laughter, loss— all borrowed. All keeping score. Every heartbeat is a loan extension. Every sunrise says, You still paying this back, champ. We spend years pretending we’re rich in time, burning hours like counterfeit bills, until grief audits us without warning and suddenly we’re counting moments like loose change on the floor. Death isn’t cruel. Death is patient. A quiet collector leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you live loud on borrowed breath. It doesn’t rush you. It lets you fall in love. Lets you build things. Lets you believe you’re winning. That’s the kindness—and the trick. Some pay their debt in pain. Some in service. Some in silence. Some in leaving the world a little less broken than they found it. And some— some run up the balance so high that when Death finally kn...

No one’s seen the full list, No one admits it’s real. But names disappear from conversations. Photos go missing. People are remembered… less. Not gone. Just… faded. As if something, somewhere, is editing reality with a careful hand— removing pieces that no longer fit. A teacher once swore one of her students vanished mid-semester. No records. No desk. No memory from anyone else. But she remembered the name. Wrote it down. Kept it hidden. Weeks later, the paper was blank. Except for one small mark in the corner— A symbol she didn’t draw. A quiet acknowledgment: Handled. -LR 🖤

Remember when we burned so bright the neighbors complained about the glare? What color was that flame— red like anger, blue like sorrow, gold like everything we thought we’d keep? I still smell the smoke in my hair on days I swear I’ve moved on. I ask the mirror: Was it worth the ashes? The reflection never answers. But my skin remembers heat, remembers how close we came to consuming each other whole. I don’t regret the burn. I regret believing fire could ever learn to be gentle. -LR 🖤

Not everything is meant to hurt you. I know— you’ve learned to flinch at soft voices and second chances. But somewhere, someone is holding the door open without expecting your heart in return. Somewhere, love still sounds like patience and not pressure. You are allowed to relearn gentle things. Slowly. Without apology. -LR 🩵

Draw a monster, they said—   as if monsters are born,   as if they crawl out of shadows fully formed   with teeth already sharpened   and names already cursed. But when you draw yours,   you realize the truth:   the monster looks familiar.   Too familiar.   It has your posture on the days you collapse inward,   your eyes on the nights you don’t sleep,   your voice when you’re trying too hard   to sound like you’re fine. Why is it a monster?   Because someone told you it was.   Because someone pointed at your fear,   your anger,   your softness,   your survival instincts,   and called them ugly.   Because someone taught you   that anything powerful in you   must be dangerous. Maybe the monster is just you   in a shape the world couldn’t handle.   Maybe the claws are bound...

Every seven years something in me breaks on purpose.   Not loudly.   Not beautifully.   More like a quiet snap in the dark   that I pretend I didn’t hear   while my whole body whispers   you did.   The seventh year always finds me softer than I meant to be,   like my edges got tired of pretending   and melted into something trembling and honest.   I hate it.   I need it.   Both truths sit in my chest like mismatched roommates   arguing over who gets to hold the steering wheel.   I swear the universe watches me unravel with a smirk,   like, “oh she’s entering her chrysalis era again,”   while I’m over here crying into my own hands   because growth feels like grief wearing a nicer coat.   Seven years of loving wrong,   of loving right but too hard,   of loving people who didn’t stay, ...

 Who does God pray to—   on the nights when even divinity feels thin,   when the silence in the heavens   rings louder than any hymn ever written? Maybe even gods have moments   where their hands shake   over the worlds they’ve made.   Maybe even omnipotence   has a pulse that stutters   when the weight of every unanswered plea   presses too hard against its ribs. Who does God pray to   when the universe won’t quiet down,   when every star is a responsibility,   when every life is a question   and every question is a wound? Maybe He kneels, too—   not above us,   but beside us,   whispering into the dark   the same way we do   when we think no one is listening. Maybe He prays to the part of Himself   that still remembers being lonely.   Maybe He prays to the first spark,   th...

Who prays for Satan   when the fire goes out   and the throne of ash   feels too heavy to sit on? Who prays for the one   everyone curses   but no one listens to—   the one who carries the blame   so the rest of us   don’t have to? Who prays for the fallen thing   that wasn’t born wicked,   just tired,   just angry,   just unheard? Who prays for the creature   who holds the world’s shadows   so we can pretend   we’re made of light? Who prays for the exile   when the silence gets loud,   when the crown of thorns   starts to feel like a noose,   when even the darkness   turns its face away? Who prays for the one   who was never allowed   to be forgiven? Maybe no one. Maybe that’s the tragedy. Maybe that’s why the flames burn—   not for punishment,   but...