Bailey

Joined December 2020

18 stories

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Just processing things.

Stories (18)

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Static
I learned early that love has a sound. It is doors closing softly— or more often, slamming shut, wrapped in chains and barbed wire.
By Baileyabout 8 hours ago in Poets
Almost
I haven’t met him, and still my eyes ache like they’re remembering something they haven’t touched. I move through rooms with a quiet pressure in my chest, as if I’m carrying a question that refuses to be asked.
By Bailey16 days ago in Poets
The Hour That’s Alters You
We learned love early— the kind that grows beside you, built from shared streets and futures assumed before choice had language. He loved me with certainty, the way you do when staying feels the same as forever.
By Bailey19 days ago in Poets
What He Polished
He loved the idea of perfection— how it looked from a distance, how carefully it could be arranged. He was always already finished, always intact.
By Bailey19 days ago in Poets
The Monster Who Wore A Crown
You arrived like something borrowed from a story—clean boots, practiced smile, eyes that knew how to look enchanted. I thought enchantment meant safety. I didn’t yet know the difference.
By Bailey19 days ago in Poets
What Didn’t Happen
Nothing changed. The moment stayed itself. Silence did not tilt. No meaning was added to it. I was not corrected for being slow. I was not pulled back into conversation.
By Bailey21 days ago in Poets
Before the Sentence
Before anything is said, my body adjusts. Not noticeably. Just enough to register the room as if it were weather. My jaw sets— not in defense, more like recognition.
By Bailey21 days ago in Poets
After the Monster
The glass is still there. Untouched. Once, a voice taught me how quickly warmth could turn. How sweetness was not softness—it was warning.
By Bailey21 days ago in Poets
Let’s Call This My Sweet Revenge . Content Warning.
The sky splits open like it remembers. Lightning snaps to attention across the plains, sharp as an order no one questioned. There’s a storm in me tonight— one trained to wait, one taught endurance by slammed doors and swallowed screams.
By Baileyabout a month ago in Poets
The Space Where Hope Used to Be
I don't stand at the edge anymore. I step back. Distance has become an instinct, a habit that keeps me breathing. Wanting something more feels dangerous- like striking a match inside my chest and pretending I won't feel the burn. Every maybe sounds like a warning.
By Baileyabout a month ago in Poets
Built for Desire, Unfit for Reality
They imagine me in fragments- a mouth without a voice, eyes emptied of history, a body pared down to surfaces. They linger longest on what shines and glows that can be stripped of weight. They focus on what can be smoothed until it no longer resists and names it lovely.
By Baileyabout a month ago in Poets
Ken and Barbie. Content Warning.
This is a different story, one not told before because the old ones sounded too clean. They named them Ken and Barbie to keep the edges smooth. Names are good at that.
By Baileyabout a month ago in Poets