Skin Deep Enough, Ch 11 through 14, 24 Jul

Stories about girls getting pantsed, stripped and humiliated by anyone or anything.
Danielle
Posts: 76
Joined: Sat Dec 23, 2023 11:15 pm
Has thanked: 1 time
Been thanked: 207 times
Contact:

Skin Deep Enough, Ch 11 through 14, 24 Jul

Post by Danielle »

Chapter 1: The Skin I Didn’t Choose

Do me a favor—don’t blink. Don’t scroll. Don’t breathe too easily. If you’re going to look at me, really look. You already know what they did to me. Or maybe you don’t yet, and you’re waiting for some cute, slow-burn setup like, “My name is Amara, and everything changed one day…”

No. Screw that.

Everything didn’t change. Everything was ripped. Off me. In front of everyone.

So yeah. This is where we’re starting. Not in my bedroom with a sappy playlist and a slow pan across teenage angst posters, but in the nurse’s office, sitting on that awful paper-crinkled cot, in nothing. Not a sock. Not a thread. Not even a hair tie.

Just me. My skin. My breath. My shaking fingers curled around my knees like they could turn back time. Spoiler: They can’t.

"You're lucky you're not being suspended," the nurse said, her voice colder than the metal tray she slapped down beside me. "Disrupting the school day, causing a scene…"

Oh, I’m sorry, was my assault disruptive? Did my humiliation inconvenience the morning announcements?

I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. I just stared at the blue veins on my wrists and tried not to vomit.

"You should’ve been more careful," she added, arms crossed over her boxy scrubs. "Honestly, the way you were carrying on during Spirit Week—"

“I was wearing jeans and a hoodie.”

"Well," she snapped, like my voice had scratched her, "you didn’t guard yourself."

Guard myself.

You hear that?

I should’ve walked around with duct tape wrapped around my waist. Or maybe a chain-mail onesie. Maybe I should’ve seen it coming—that four girls would pin me down behind the bleachers and strip me like a game.

They thought it’d be funny. They thought it’d be viral. It was both.

The nurse wouldn’t give me a blanket. Or a towel. She said if my "choices" led to this, I could sit in it until my ride came.

So I sat.

Naked. On paper. In fluorescent light.

And I want you to imagine it, really imagine it—because the worst part isn’t the cold. Or the itch of the vinyl against your thighs. Or the fact that your goosebumps feel like betrayal.

The worst part is when the door opens, and it’s your mother.

Not with clothes. Not with a hug. Not with a whisper. Are you okay, baby?

With fury.

“What the hell, Amara?”

She doesn’t look at me. She looks at me like I’m not her daughter but a crime scene. Her eyes are knives and shame and disappointment all sewn into one glare.

“I told you to stop making yourself a target,” she hisses, yanking the oversized purse strap off her shoulder like it’s a weapon. “And now this? What, are you trying to get expelled?”

I try to speak, but my voice is hiding in the back of my throat somewhere. Probably under a pile of memories it wants nothing to do with.

She grabs my arm. My bare arm.

“Mom—!”

"Get up. You’re coming with me."

“I don’t have anything on—”

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.” Her laugh is made of glass. She doesn’t let me cover up. Don't let me linger. Just pulls, like I’m her broken doll.

In the hallway, I hear gasps. One teacher mutters something. A kid drops their phone in shock.

And suddenly I’m outside, skin to sunlight, walking barefoot across cracked pavement to her car like it’s normal.

Like, this is my fault.

Like I deserved it.

Like I wanted it.

She unlocks the passenger side with a sharp click and gestures.

“In. Now.”

I hesitate for half a second. Just half.

“Unless you’d prefer to walk home like this?”

So I climbed in. I fold my body into the seat and let the seatbelt cut into my chest like I deserve it. And we drive. Not a word between us for the first few blocks.

Then she starts.

“You think this is how girls get respect? Parading yourself in front of a gym full of people?”

“It wasn’t—”

“Spare me. You knew this would happen. You tempt them. You push and you push and then act shocked when they snap.”

“I wore jeans and a hoodie.”

"You wore an attitude. You wore rebellion. And now you’re wearing nothing."

I don’t cry.

I stare out the window at the trees whizzing past and think about how bark is stronger than skin.

When we get home, she storms ahead, unlocks the door, and throws it open like she wants to shatter it off the hinges. I follow, silently. Raw.

She points to the laundry basket.

“You have two choices,” she says, voice level now. Controlled. Scarier. “Put on some damn clothes, or pack every piece you own into garbage bags and commit to this. Live without them.”

I blink. “You’re not serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious.”

Maybe you’re screaming at me through the page. Telling me to just put something on. Just grab a t-shirt. Just cover up. Save face. Be normal.

But I don’t.

I walk to my closet.

And I start packing.

Tops. Pants. Socks. Hoodies. Underwear. All of it. Into the black plastic bags that smell like dust and finality.

I don’t do it because I’m brave.

I do it because I’m already naked, and the idea of pretending I wasn’t feels like a lie I can’t survive.

Are you still with me?

Because this is the part where you’ll have to choose, too.

You can close the book and decide I’m damaged. Or you can follow me.

Barefoot. Bare-skinned. Unflinching.
Last edited by Danielle on Fri Jul 25, 2025 12:12 am, edited 18 times in total.
Chiloneb
Posts: 2
Joined: Wed Apr 30, 2025 12:30 pm
Been thanked: 1 time
Contact:

Re: Skin Deep Enough, Ch1, 12 Jul

Post by Chiloneb »

Wow what an interesting start. I'm thrilled for the next chapter
Somebody
Posts: 96
Joined: Fri Oct 11, 2024 10:18 pm
Has thanked: 85 times
Been thanked: 59 times
Contact:

Re: Skin Deep Enough, Ch1, 12 Jul

Post by Somebody »

I love it when people bust out the really good writing. Can't wait to see what the hell is going on.
Danielle
Posts: 76
Joined: Sat Dec 23, 2023 11:15 pm
Has thanked: 1 time
Been thanked: 207 times
Contact:

Chapter 2: The Quiet That Stings

Post by Danielle »

Chapter 2 – The Quiet That Stings

Thanks to everyone who read my first posting on this site. 

Do you know what happens when you pack away your last pair of socks?

Nothing.

No trumpet sounds. No gasp from the heavens. The world doesn’t stop spinning. You just… stand there. Cold floors against bare feet. Garbage bags sagging like dead bodies on your carpet. And something inside you that used to feel like "you" starts to crack.

I stood in my room for a long time. Just me and the silence. Not even the air dared to touch me too hard.

There’s something brutal about the quiet after a scream. The way it presses in, not to comfort, but to accuse.

This is your fault, Amara.

You did this.

You chose this.

The voice in my head sounded suspiciously like my mother.

She didn’t come in. Not to check on me. Not to see if I needed dinner. I heard her downstairs once, talking to someone on the phone, low and furious.

“… No, she’s refusing. Bagged them herself… I don’t know, Carol, maybe therapy, or something stronger…”

Something stronger.

Yeah. That’s the ticket.

Maybe there’s a pill for surviving a full-body punch of humiliation. Maybe there’s a bottle labeled For Girls Who Got Stripped and Now Sleep in Their Skin. Take it twice daily. With water and silence.

Anyway,

I lay on my bed without sheets. I couldn’t handle the feel of cotton just yet. Every texture was too much. Too much against me. Against this, my skin, still pulsing with memory.

I bet you’re wondering why I didn’t cry.

But crying felt like giving the pain another voice, and I was already drowning in the one inside my skull.

Instead, I talked to you. Yeah, you. The invisible reader I made up. Because even pretending someone’s listening is better than being alone with this echo chamber of shame.

Let me tell you what no one warns you about when you lose your clothes, your control, your illusion of safety: everything becomes weaponized.

The breeze from the ceiling fan?

Weapon.

The curve of your reflection in the mirror?

Weapon.

Even your shadow looks at you like it’s disgusted.

The next morning, I didn’t come down for breakfast.

I wasn’t hungry.

Well, that’s not true. I was starving. But not for eggs or toast.

I was starving for softness. For the version of my mother who used to hold me after nightmares. For the sound of laughter that didn’t end with a shove. For normal.

But normal had been peeled off me like a sticker, and the sticky part left behind? That was all mine now.

“Amara!” she called from the kitchen. “Come downstairs!”

I didn’t move.

A minute later: footsteps. Measured. Heavy. She was coming. I sat upright, spine straight, hands folded on my thighs like I was in church.

She opened the door and stopped. I didn’t look away. Neither did she.

She scanned me. Her face was tired. Lined not with age, but with disappointment.

“You’re going through with this.”

“I already did.”

“And what, you think this makes you strong?”

“No. I think it makes me honest.”

She flinched. Just barely. But I caught it.

“You think walking around like that is going to make the world take you seriously?”

“No,” I said. “But maybe it’ll make them look. And keep looking. Until they realize what they’ve done.”

She crossed her arms. “You’re just giving them more ammunition.”

“They already fired the shot.”

A pause.

Then, she turned and left without another word.

That was our rhythm now. Her silence, my defiance. Rinse. Repeat.

I spent the next few hours drifting from room to room like a ghost.

Have you ever tried watching TV when your whole body feels like a bad dream?

It doesn’t work. Every commercial is too loud. Every laugh track feels like it’s aimed at you.

Eventually, I gave up and opened my laptop.

And there it was.

The video.

It had a title now: Spirit Weak: Amara’s Breakdown.

Funny, right?

Thousands of views.

Hundreds of comments.

Some laugh. Some call me brave. Some are just gross.

I clicked one.

“Is this even legal? She’s naked.”

“She’s got issues. But lowkey respect for not crying.”

“Amara Delane? More like Amara Defamed.”

I closed the tab.

But it was too late. The words had already crawled inside me.

I curled up on the couch—still unclothed, still exposed—and I whispered to the walls:

They can’t take anything else. Not if I take it first.

And maybe that sounds like power.

But it was grief. Dressed up as strength.

I wasn’t reclaiming anything yet.

I was still bleeding.

But at least now, I knew what kind of war I was in.

Are you still here?

Still watching me fold in on myself like laundry?

Good. Because it gets worse before it gets anything better.

Just promise me you won’t look away.
User avatar
barelin
Posts: 246
Joined: Tue Apr 12, 2022 2:07 am
Has thanked: 402 times
Been thanked: 352 times
Contact:

Re: Skin Deep Enough, Ch2, 13 Jul

Post by barelin »

The author's deliberate shattering of the fourth wall in this narrative isn't merely a stylistic flourish; it's a potent narrative engine that fundamentally transforms the reader's experience and the story's thematic resonance.
Danielle
Posts: 76
Joined: Sat Dec 23, 2023 11:15 pm
Has thanked: 1 time
Been thanked: 207 times
Contact:

Chapter 3: Sidewalk Shame and Sky

Post by Danielle »

Chapter 3 – Sidewalk Shame and Sky

I didn’t plan to go outside.

I swear.

It just… happened.

One minute I was staring out the window, chewing on the inside of my cheek like it might give me answers, and the next, I was twisting the lock on the front door.

Why?

I don’t know. Maybe to prove to myself I still existed.

Maybe to make the silence hurt less.

The knob was cold against my palm. The sun leaked in through the glass like it knew I didn’t belong out there anymore. Like it was daring me.

I stepped onto the porch.

Still barefoot. Still bare everything.

The wood beneath my feet was warm from the afternoon heat. I could feel each grain, each knot in the plank. My skin—my traitorous, hypersensitive, unforgiving skin—seemed to scream with the intimacy of it.

But I didn’t go back inside.

Instead, I stood there. Eyes closed. Letting the sun do what it wanted with me.

It was strange, feeling light without the filter of fabric. I mean, feeling it. Not as warmth through cotton or denim, but direct—solar exposure on shoulders, thighs, the backs of knees. Every inch of me carried memories of judgment, but soaking up heat like it was mercy.

Then I heard it.

A click.

No, not a click. A camera shutter.

I opened my eyes.

Across the street, Mr. Pendell—our next-door neighbor with a gardening obsession and binoculars he claimed were for “birdwatching”—was on his porch, phone in hand, mouth halfway open.

I didn’t flinch.

I just stared at him.

For five full seconds.

And perhaps that was the moment I made a significant decision.

I can’t stop them from looking.

But I can stop shrinking.

He scurried inside. Slammed the door like I’d cursed him.

I wish I’d cursed him.

But instead, I just breathed.

I made it to the end of the driveway.

I stood there like I was in line for something—judgment, maybe. Or absolution. The pavement was hot under my feet, tiny pebbles pressing into my soles like they wanted to remind me of gravity.

Then I heard the car.

A white sedan rolled past, slowly. Too slow.

Teenagers. Two in front, one in the back. Windows down. Music thumping.

They saw me.

They slowed down more.

The girl in the passenger seat gasped. The guy driving grinned.

“Holy shit.”

And then the one in the back—he held up his phone.

Record. Always record.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I just stood there.

He hesitated.

And then they drove off, the girl’s laughter trailing like smoke behind them.

Back inside, I sat on the tile floor, back against the door, heartbeat hammering in my throat.

What had I done?

What the hell was I doing?

Why didn’t I just… put something on? A towel. A robe. A sheet. Anything.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t explain it.

Putting on clothes now felt like surrendering to the lie that this was all my shame to carry, like I had something to cover up.

And maybe I did.

But not this.

Not my body.

Not my skin.

Later that night, my mom knocked.

For once, she didn’t just barge in.

“Can I come in?”

I hesitated.

“…Yeah.”

She entered with a basket of laundry and set it down without looking directly at me. Her mouth was tight, her eyes shadowed by something I couldn’t read.

“I washed your bedsheets.”

“Thanks.”

A beat.

Then: “Did you go outside today?”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

“You can be arrested, you know.”

“I was on our property.”

“It’s not about property. It’s about decency.”

I looked at her then. Looked.

And she looked back.

Two people. Two different kinds of naked.

I am in my body.

Her fear she won’t admit to.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she said, softer now.

“I’m not doing anything,” I whispered. “I’m just not hiding.”

Another pause. Then she turned to go.

“Don’t be surprised,” she said over her shoulder, “when people stop treating you like a person.”

The door clicked shut.

And I whispered to the walls again, like they were the only things still listening:

“They already did.”

Still with me?

Still watching me strip away every layer that wasn’t mine to begin with?

Good.

Because this isn’t the part where I fall.

This is the part where I learn how to stand.
computerphoto
Posts: 241
Joined: Sat Oct 12, 2019 2:12 am
Has thanked: 382 times
Been thanked: 155 times
Contact:

Re: Skin Deep Enough, Ch 3, 14 Jul

Post by computerphoto »

So what happen to the trash bags full of her clothes ???
Danielle
Posts: 76
Joined: Sat Dec 23, 2023 11:15 pm
Has thanked: 1 time
Been thanked: 207 times
Contact:

Chapter 4 – Viral Girl, Ghost Girl

Post by Danielle »

Skin Deep Enough

Chapter 4 – Viral Girl, Ghost Girl

The internet is a cruel kind of immortality.

You’d think being half-naked in front of a school gym would be the most exposed a person could get.

You’d be wrong.

There’s a deeper nakedness that comes when your humiliation loops endlessly in 480p across the entire goddamn planet.

I opened my laptop again.

I knew I shouldn’t.

But you know that urge? The one where you have to touch the bruise to make sure it still hurts?

Yeah. That.

The video had spread wider. Someone had clipped it into a TikTok remix, layered with cartoon sound effects and a caption that read:

“When Spirit Week gets a little too spirited 💀💀💀

It had 92,000 likes.

The comments?

Worse than I remembered.

“Someone get her a therapist AND a stylist.”

“Plot twist: she was into it.”

“This is not even bullying, it’s evolution.”

I felt my stomach churn, like shame was trying to vomit itself out of me.

But I didn’t close the tab.

Not this time.

I scrolled.

There were YouTube reaction videos now. Think pieces on Reddit. Some idiot even used my photo as a thumbnail for a commentary about “school culture breakdown.”

Everyone had something to say about my body, my face, my stillness, my lack of fight. Not a single one had asked me anything.

They narrate my trauma like it’s free real estate.

They write my story without my name on it.

I’m not sure what broke me more: the cruelty… or the fact that some of it was from people I knew. People I’d shared a table with in biology. Girls who used to laugh at my jokes. One of them had commented, “Kind of iconic though??” and added a fire emoji.

Iconic?

You strip a girl in front of 400 students and call it “iconic”?

Would it still be iconic if I didn’t survive it?

I shut the laptop.

And I just sat there.

The house was quiet again.

My skin prickled—not with cold, but with heat. Humiliation has a temperature, and mine was starting to boil.

So I stood.

I walked to the hallway mirror. Full-length. Unforgiving.

And I stared.

You want me to tell you I felt powerful? Reclaimed? That I looked at my bare reflection and saw a warrior?

No.

I saw a girl who didn’t recognize herself.

Who looked like a rumor?

But I didn’t look away.

Not this time.

I let my fingers brush over the stretch marks on my hips. The tiny scar on my ribcage from that tree branch in seventh grade. The faded outline of a rash I had last month.

Proof I’ve lived in this body. Weathered it. Bled in it.

I suffered for it. And still standing.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

So I opened my notes app.

Blank page.

Blinking cursor.

They called me a joke.

So I wrote the punchline first.

Note 1:

To the girl who filmed me while I screamed—did you feel brave?

To the boy who laughed the loudest—do you remember what my face looked like, or just my skin?

To the teacher who looked away—how long did it take to forget?

And to the part of me that wanted to disappear, you’re still here.

You still have a voice.

Start using it.

I pressed save.

Then I stared at it again.

My first word. After silence.

Still reading? Still breathing with me through the ugly parts?

Good.

Because the next part isn’t silent. It’s the beginning of the noise I make back.
Danielle
Posts: 76
Joined: Sat Dec 23, 2023 11:15 pm
Has thanked: 1 time
Been thanked: 207 times
Contact:

Chapter 5 – The First Step

Post by Danielle »

Skin Deep Enough

Chapter 5 – The First Step

I didn’t mean to leave the house again.

Not at first.

I told myself I was going out to the porch, like before, just for air. Just to feel the sun on my shoulders, because something about that still made me feel more human than any pair of jeans ever had.

But there’s a difference between standing in the doorway and taking a step off the porch.

A big difference.

A dangerous difference.

The kind that changes everything.

Let me rewind.

That morning, I woke up hungry again, not food-hungry. Something has to happen. Like my skin couldn’t take another day of being still.

I sat in my room. The garbage bags full of my old clothes were still lined up against the wall like silent protestors. I thought about opening one. Just grabbing a sweatshirt. Just enough to blend in. Just enough to stop being the freak.

But my hand didn’t move.

Because I knew if I went back—if I put something on to make other people comfortable—I’d never stop.

I’d vanish right back into the person they wanted me to be: covered, quiet, apologetic.

So instead, I picked up my phone and opened the Notes app again.

I started typing.

Note 2:

Today, I don’t apologize.

Today, I don’t cover up their cruelty with my shame.

Today I am skin and breath and breath and skin.

And if that makes you uncomfortable, maybe you should ask yourself why.

I hit “save” and held the phone in both hands like it was the only thing connecting me to gravity.

Then I walked downstairs.

My mom wasn’t home. Work, probably. Or gone out of disgust. She wasn’t speaking much lately—just the occasional grunt or clink of a plate.

The house felt hollow without her anger bouncing off the walls.

So I opened the front door.

And stepped out again.

This time, I walked to the edge of the driveway and kept walking.

The sidewalk was warm beneath my feet. The wind was gentle. The sun didn’t flinch.

And neither did I.

There weren’t many people out yet. Morning was still stretching itself awake. A jogger passed on the opposite sidewalk, headphones in, eyes locked on the ground. A mom with a stroller glanced at me, paused, looked again—but didn’t speak.

I walked past my old bus stop.

Past the corner store.

Past the tree I crashed my bike into in fourth grade.

And for the first time in days, I didn’t feel like a victim in a horror film.

I felt… present.

Visible.

And yes, people stared.

Yes, a car slowed down.

Yes, I felt my cheeks burn red and my spine stiffen.

But I didn’t stop.

Still here? Still watching me wander into the world in nothing but a pulse and a name?

Good.

Because I need you to see this part.

Because this—this—is where the reclaiming starts. Not with a speech. Not with a revolution. But with a single step in the wrong direction that suddenly feels like the only right one.

I turned the corner and saw someone I hadn’t expected: Lena.

She was sitting on the curb in front of her apartment, earphones in, backpack beside her. She looked up. I froze.

Her eyes widened, scanning every inch of me like she was trying to find the punchline.

I stopped.

We stared at each other for a long moment.

Then she pulled out one earbud and said, “You’re doing this.”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“You walked here like that?”

“Yeah.”

Another beat.

She stood up slowly. Her expression wasn’t disgusting. It wasn't a pity. It was something else.

Fear? Awe? A little bit of both?

“You’re going to get arrested.”

“Probably.”

“You don’t care?”

I shrugged. “I care. But not about that.”

She looked at me, like she didn’t know whether to hug me or run.

Then she said, “You want to come in?”

I hesitated.

Then I shook my head. “Not yet.”

She nodded. Didn’t push it.

As I turned to leave, she called after me:

“Amara?”

“Yeah?”

“I think they’re scared of you now.”

I paused.

Then smiled.

Good.

Back home, I typed again.

Note 3:

Today I walked.

And the sidewalk didn’t shatter beneath me.

The sky didn’t fall.

And someone looked at me and didn’t flinch.

They saw me.

Not my shame.

Just me.

You're still here, aren't you?

I can feel it.

You and me. Page by page. Step by step.

I won’t stop walking.

Just don’t stop watching.
Danielle
Posts: 76
Joined: Sat Dec 23, 2023 11:15 pm
Has thanked: 1 time
Been thanked: 207 times
Contact:

Chapter 6 – Seen, Not Spectacle

Post by Danielle »

Skin Deep Enough

Chapter 6 – Seen, Not Spectacle

Certain people in this world live like shadows—quiet, careful, never the center of anything. You know they’re there, but you forget about them until they move.

Micah Thorne was one of those people.

I think I talked to him once in ninth grade. Maybe twice. He sat in the back, always sketching, always wearing that threadbare army jacket like it was a second skin. People said he was weird, but that’s just what people say when someone doesn’t play the game.

I didn’t expect to see him today.

But there he was. Sitting alone on the back steps of the library, knees up, notebook in his lap, pencil flicking back and forth with slow, deliberate strokes.

And me?

I was walking home the long way again.

Still bare.

Still skin.

Still burning in places I didn’t have names for.

I almost turned back when I saw him. Almost.

But something in me was tired of almost everything.

So I walked up.

Didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Let the moment sit between us like a wild animal—skittish, but watching.

Micah didn’t look up right away. He finished a line, paused, then tilted his chin and looked me in the eye.

Not at my chest. Not at my scars. Not at the parts that the internet had paused and replayed.

My eyes.

He blinked.

“You always walk around like that now?” he asked, calm.

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

He shrugged. “Not for me.”

I waited. People always followed that with a joke, or a stare, or a poorly disguised moral opinion.

Micah didn’t.

He just scooted over and patted the step beside him.

I sat.

Stone cold on skin. No barrier. No buffer.

But I didn’t flinch.

I just sat.

“I saw the video,” he said after a while.

Of course, he had.

“So did everyone.”

He nodded. “Didn’t watch the whole thing.”

That surprised me. “Why not?”

“Felt like… watching something sacred get violated.”

I turned to look at him, but he was staring ahead, into the trees. His hand was still moving across the page.

“What are you drawing?”

He flipped the notebook closed before I could see.

“Nothing yet.”

We sat in silence again. But it wasn’t the kind that punishes. It was the kind that lets you breathe.

After a minute, he asked, “You scared?”

I wanted to say no. I wanted to be bold and fierce and poetic.

But I’m not here to lie to you. Or myself.

“Yeah,” I said. “A lot.”

“Good.”

I frowned. “Good?”

“Means you haven’t gone numb. That’s how they win—when you stop feeling anything.”

Feeling.

Funny how one word can gut you and stitch you up at the same time.

He stood and offered me a hand.

I didn’t take it at first.

Then I did.

His hand was warm. Calloused. Steady.

“I've got to go,” he said. “But… you’re not crazy.”

I snorted. “That’s exactly what a crazy person wants to hear.”

He smiled.

“You’re just braver than they’re ready for.”

And then he was gone, walking down the path like he hadn’t just rearranged my entire nervous system with ten words and a half-smile.

I didn’t go home right away.

I sat on those steps for a long time.

Thinking.

Burning.

Breathing.

And for the first time in days, the fire inside me didn’t just feel like destruction.

It felt like heat.

Like life.

That night, I wrote again.

Note 4:

Today, someone saw me.

Not the viral girl. Not the shame.

Just… me.

And he didn’t look away.

Are you still watching?

Still breathing with me through every cracked rib and held breath?

Good.

Because the world’s about to push back harder.

And I need you here when it does.
Post Reply

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: Aredas, Bing [Bot] and 13 guests