Lil Rabbits Echoes

The impossible thing about me is that I am made entirely of opposites. I want to be understood without being exposed. I crave intimacy while fearing dependence. I love deeply, yet spend half my life planning emotional escape routes. Somewhere along the way, survival taught me that vulnerability and danger often arrive wearing the same face. So now I stand at the edge of connection, wanting desperately to jump and desperately to run. And maybe that's the real tragedy. Not that I've been hurt. But that I've become a battlefield where tenderness and self-preservation fight for territory every day. -𝕃ℝ 🖤 

Some people are built like wintered forests— no matter how much warmth you offer, the cold inside them never thaws. You pour steadiness into their shaking branches, but the wind they fear is the one they carry in their own ribs. They call it reassurance, but what they’re really asking for is a cure for a storm that was born long before you arrived. And there’s a quiet ache in realizing you can be the lantern, the hearth, the whole damn sunrise— and still never reach the place where their shadows begin. —𝕃ℝ 🖤

I argue with my past   the way philosophers debate death—   not to win,   but to understand   the architecture of the wound.   Every memory presents its thesis.   Every scar offers a rebuttal.   And somewhere between   the premise and the ruin,   I discover a truth   I wasn’t ready to hold:   I didn’t survive   because I was strong.   I survived   because I refused   to agree to my own ending.   -𝕃ℝ 🩶 

I no longer worship permanence.   Everything holy I’ve ever touched   has rotted in my hands—   not from malice,   but from the simple truth   that nothing built of flesh   is built to last.   Decay is the only doctrine   that has never lied to me.   And yet,   I keep offering my heart   like a sacrament,   knowing full well   it will be consumed   by the very mouths   I prayed would spare it.  -𝕃ℝ 🩶 

“You’re too good for the world,”   they murmured—   and it sounded like benediction   until I recognized benediction   as a polished synonym for solitude.   They hoisted me upward,   out of reach of my own pulse.   Called it praise.   Called it protection.   Called it devotion.   But a pedestal is merely a prison   with better lighting.   A compliment becomes a tether   when it keeps you luminous   only in the places they can monitor—   admired, immobilized,   curated for their comfort.   I am not too good for the world.   I am composed of it—   salt, bruise, marrow, want.   Let the dome fracture.   Let the myth collapse.   Let me return to the earth   as something human enough   to remain.   -𝕃ℝ 🩶 

Some of us weren’t raised—   we were carried   by things that should’ve broken us.   And somehow,   we learned to walk anyway.   Grief wasn’t an event for me.   It was an inheritance.   A language I understood   before I ever learned my own name.   People talk about healing   like it’s a destination,   a clean horizon you eventually reach   if you just keep moving forward.   But I’ve learned this instead:   some wounds don’t close.   They become architecture.   They shape the way you stand,   the way you love,   the way you brace for impact   even in rooms where nothing is falling.   I used to think that made me broken.   Now I think it makes me honest.   Because the truth is—   grief doesn’t leave.   It just learns to walk beside you   with...

There is a certain kind of mercy   that ruins the one who gives it.   You learned this young—   that some souls arrive fractured,   and some arrive hungry,   and some arrive carrying a silence   so heavy it needs a body to collapse into.   Yours was always the nearest body.   You became the place where storms broke.   Not because you were strong,   but because you never stepped aside.   You let people shatter against you   as if your ribs were a shoreline   and their grief was the tide   that believed it had the right to return.   Every life you stitched back together   left a seam inside you that never closed.   A private fault line.   A quiet, widening ache.   The kind of wound that doesn’t bleed—   it thinks.   It remembers.   It keeps score in the dark.   H...

They say if you want peace, you have to prepare for war,   but nobody mentions how exhausting it is   to carry both a shield and a soft heart   in the same ribcage.   Some days I’m a battlefield.   Some days I’m a blanket.   Most days I’m both,   which feels like a cosmic joke   with suspiciously good timing.   I don’t want to fight.   I just want quiet—   the kind that feels like warm rain   or a room where no one expects me   to be sharper than I am.   But peace never arrives politely.   It shows up like a stray cat   with attitude problems,   demanding food, affection,   and a place to sleep   even though it claws the furniture.   So yes—   I prepare for war.   Not the dramatic kind.   Not the cinematic kind.   The emotional kind,   where...

I think some people are born with static in their bones. No matter where they go, something always feels slightly wrong. Too sad for happy people. Too hopeful for the hopeless ones. Like a radio station that almost comes in clear before the signal dies again. -𝕃ℝ 🖤 

Sometimes I think we were written   long before we were born —   two sparks pressed into the same page,   waiting for the right lifetime   to recognize each other.   There’s something ancient   in the way you look at me,   like you’re remembering   instead of discovering.   Like you’ve stood in my shadow before   and called it home.   It’s not longing.   It’s alignment.   A quiet click in the soul   that says,   oh… there you are.   You move through me   like a prophecy unfolding,   soft and dark,   with that feral certainty   of something that was promised   long before it arrived.   I don’t question it.   I don’t analyze it.   Some connections aren’t meant   to be understood —   only obeyed.   You’re the flame that does...

I’m not the kind you settle beside.   I’m the kind you survive. I’m the cracked glass on the counter at 4 a.m.,   the one you keep drinking from anyway.   I’m the quiet that turns feral when you look away too long,   the storm that doesn’t wait for permission to break. I’ve loved people like a burning house—   doors unlocked, windows open,   smoke curling out like a warning no one listens to.   And still, I keep striking matches in my own chest   just to see who notices the light. If I tell you I want you,   I don’t mean it in the soft-focus way   people pretend love feels.   I mean I’d bleed out every lie I ever told myself   just to hand you something honest.   I mean I’d sit on the floor with you   while everything you built collapses,   and I wouldn’t flinch at the dust in your lungs. I’m the bruise you press twice   because ...

I wasn’t hired by heaven or trained by hell. No orientation packet. No scythe warranty. Just a quiet understanding with the dark— walk softly, leave truth behind. I don’t reap the innocent. I reap the tired. The ones who stayed too long in rooms that kept stealing their oxygen. The ones who smiled until their teeth hurt and called it strength. They say I’m a monster because I don’t follow the rules— because I cut chains instead of throats, because I escort souls out of burning houses instead of watching them earn their ashes. I don’t wear black. I wear the color of last chances. Of cracked halos and bruised courage. Of people who survived things that should’ve ended them but didn’t. Sometimes I sit at the edge of a bed at 3 a.m., when grief is loud and God is on airplane mode, and I whisper, You’re allowed to rest now. Not everyone wants saving. Not everyone wants dying. But everyone wants peace— even if they pretend they don’t. So call me rogue. Call me broken. Call me wrong. I’ll sti...

I’ve learned to look composed,   even when my thoughts are sprinting in opposite directions   dragging my chest behind them.   I can be laughing with someone   while a whole other version of me   is curled up in the corner of my mind,   begging the noise to stop.   It’s strange—   how I can feel abandoned in a room full of people,   how I can feel too much and not enough   in the same breath.   I keep my voice soft,   my hands still,   my expression gentle—   because if I let even one feeling slip,   the rest will flood out   and drown the floor.   No one ever suspects the quiet ones   are the ones holding back a tidal wave. -𝕃ℝ 🖤 

I think about how mushrooms don’t ask   for perfect conditions—   they just take what life rotted out   and turn it into something   that can stand again.   And it hits me   how human that is.   How most of us weren’t raised in sunlight,   weren’t handed soft soil,   weren’t given a map   for how to become anything at all.   We learned to grow sideways,   through pressure,   through silence,   through whatever broke before we got here.   Maybe that’s the real philosophy of it—   not blooming,   not shining,   just quietly refusing to die   in places that were never meant   to hold us.   Some things rise tall.   Some things rise true.   I’ve always been the latter.   -𝕃ℝ 🖤