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seeing myself through shifting glass
body dysmorphia is a quiet thief. it slips into the room without a sound, bending the light around every mirror until nothing looks the way it should. it does not announce itself with sirens. it waits in the reflection of a storefront window, in the accidental photo someone tags you in, in the pause between
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shrimp ramen and the space he left behind
today i opened a pack of shrimp ramen and thought of my oldest son. he moved out only nine months ago, yet his presence still hangs in the air like a familiar song. the moment the wrapper crinkled and the scent of shrimp rose from the pot, it caught me off guard. an ordinary act—boiling
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the wild garden of love
“beneath every scar, love still grows—untamed, unbroken, a fire that refuses to fade.” love has never been a clean-lined story for me. it is a wild garden, blooming where it wants, thorned and radiant all at once. it is the quiet thrum that wakes me before dawn and the electric pulse that refuses to let
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the myth of an infallible human
i am a constellation of mistakes, stitched together with curiosity. i misstep, i forget, i ache—and still i rise. every day begins with the same quiet truth: i will not get everything right, and that is the heartbeat of being alive. being human is not a vow of perfection; it is the art of bending
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who can you trust…?
who can you trust when the world softens to a hush and every sound feels like it echoes inside your bones. is it the friend who shows up at the door without needing an invitation, who knows the shape of your silence and doesn’t ask you to break it. is it the one who notices
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the ache to be someone’s everything
there is a certain longing that hums beneath our skin, a pulse we carry whether we speak it or not: the desire to be the most important person to someone else. not just liked, not just noticed, not just occasionally thought of, but truly seen as irreplaceable. to be the one whose name softens their
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the mirror we don’t expect
there’s a peculiar ache that comes when you meet yourself in another. not the glossy reflection in a bathroom mirror, not the polished face you curate for the world, but the raw version of you—unfiltered, unflinching—embodied in someone else’s actions. it’s startling. humbling. sometimes even painful. you see the quickness of your temper mirrored in
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Whispered Words | thtgrlinbloom, 🌻 