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Not every wound is visible.
Some bleed only in thought.
It hurts,
but never as much as the possibility
that one day
this pain might become ordinary.
What terrifies me
is the day it stops hurting…
when the wound closes too cleanly,
when the scar forgets what cut it open.
That the heart, once feral with longing,
might learn to limp without screaming.
I fear becoming fluent in survival.
I fear waking up intact.
There is a violence in getting used to loss…
a slow, surgical removal of feeling,
layer by layer,
until the heart becomes a quiet room
where nothing echoes anymore.
I’ve tasted anguish raw,
and yet the terror is not suffering…
it is waking up one morning
and finding the suffering dull,
unremarkable,
no longer sharp enough to remind me I loved.
I have bled enough to know
that agony still speaks.
But numbness…
numbness is a grave with good manners.
I am not afraid of losing people.
I am afraid of losing the version of myself
who could still feel them
after they were gone.
I am afraid of the day
your absence no longer claws at my throat,
when your name no longer tastes like iron
in my mouth.
Because then it will mean
you have been metabolized,
digested into memory,
reduced to something harmless.
Even defeat,
when it still burns,
is proof that the heart resisted.
And love was never meant
to be harmless.
They say fear is cowardice,
but they have never felt this:
the trembling desire to be ruined again,
to ache so deeply
that even God has to look away.
Because what is love, really,
if not the audacity
to choose devastation
over indifference?
I have watched courage rot into habit,
watched passion decay into patience,
watched longing ask politely
before leaving the room.
And that…
that quiet erosion
terrifies me more than grief ever could.
I would rather my chest stay split open,
ribs pried apart like broken gates,
than have my hunger sealed shut
and labeled “maturity.”
I would rather burn endlessly
than become warm and forgettable.
I would rather bleed honestly
than heal into something hollow.
Because the greatest poverty
is not having nothing,
it is wanting nothing at all.
Poverty is when desire starves to death
without making a sound.
And if one day
this heart stops breaking,
if it learns the neat trick of survival,
if it no longer reaches for pain
like proof that love once lived here…
then that will be the day
nothing inside me
is alive enough
to hurt.
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Is Banff in September Worth It? Everything You Need to Know Before You Go
September truly delivers the “secret season” experience that locals treasure.
With accessible trails, reasonable prices, and natural phenomena like golden larches and elk rutting season, this month is uniquely rewarding for visitors willing to pack layers and embrace mountain weather’s unpredictability.
Is Banff in September worth the trip? The answer is a soaring yes. This month offers something special with daytime temperatures around 17°C to 18°C and cooler nights dropping to about 2°C.
The highlight is larch season, which peaks between September 20th and October 5th. These unique trees turn brilliant golden yellow during this time.
This blog covers everything you need to know about visiting Banff in September. You’ll learn what to pack, the best things to do, and practical tips to help you plan your trip.
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“Takimun Nima Dochi!?” Stage Play in September by F/ACE
“Takimun Nima Dochi!?” will be made into a stage play in September! F/ACE members announced, script written by Keita Kawajiri
Read more: https://myanimethoughts.com/takimun-nima-dochi-will-be-made-into-a-stage-play-in-september-f-ace-members-announced-script-written-by-keita-kawajiri
#TakimunNimaDochi #stageplay #September #FACEmembers #script
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I have a terrible habit,
the kind that tastes
like blood pressed between my teeth.
I bury words before they are born,
like locked birds fluttering in a coffin of bone,
so you would never have to find the weight of me.
I swallowed sentences whole
until their edges cut my throat,
kept promises folded inside my ribs
like contraband,
and smiled while their hunger hollowed me out.
It is not silence I worship,
but the fragile illusion of peace
that crumbles the moment a truth escapes my lips.
Do you understand what it is
to love someone as if you are starving?
To look at them
and feel the entire world narrow to a single animal ache,
and then to hide that ache beneath a practiced calm.
And yet, I let it rot in the marrow,
disguised as patience,
disguised as mercy,
so they will not stumble on the chaos of our truth?
I rehearsed the shape of your name on my tongue
until it bled.
I traced the map of you on the inside of my eyelids
and woke with bruises.
You will never know
how many mornings I trembled with the urge
to strip my heart bare in front of you,
to say, Here…
take this ruin, call it love.
But I folded that rawness inward,
wrapped it in excuses about peace,
and told myself quiet was kindness,
even if quiet also eats the heart raw.
I loved you with the cruelty of someone
who would rather be gentle to death
than honest to life.
I have a terrible habit,
and it wears my soul thin…
to be the graveyard of everything
I should have said.
I let you walk through my days
like sunlight through a locked room,
never knowing there was a man inside
whose hands were reaching for the door.
Now the silence has teeth.
It chews at the edges of me.
Now I am haunted by all that was unsaid…
my ribs are a cathedral of unfinished prayers,
and every silence I gifted you
has turned into a ghost
that touches me when I try to sleep.
So hear this,
even if you never turn:
I loved you until my voice frayed,
until the words wore thin like old rope.
I love you still,
halting and ragged…
a thing I should have given you whole,
years ago.
To love you in secret is to starve
while watching you feast on the ease of my quiet.
And one day,
when you turn,
when you see the hollows beneath my eyes,
you will know…
peace was a lie,
and silence was my slowest form of dying.
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I re-tidied myself at last, a neatness born of ruin,
brushed the hair of all my scattered promises,
folded the ragged edges of that old devotion
into a suitcase I could carry without limping.
The suitcase sits on the floor,
edges taped, neat as a verdict.
Inside: folded promises,
their corners burned to keep them light.
You would think that is victory:
the gentle closing of a door, the soft click of a lock.
But victory smells of iron tonight,
for I learned to say no,
the way a wound learns to breathe.
On the altar beside it: a shrine of refusals.
A glass toothpick, sharp as a bitten lip.
A folded scrap of paper, veins of ink
throbbing like capillaries under thin flesh.
The shadow of a laugh hovers above,
that cracks when touched by memory,
warm as breath against the ear,
a sweetness that hurts the mouth.
Mirror in the corner glistens
like bare skin after rain,
its frame soldered with the ash of burned letters,
its surface taut, aching to be touched,
yet it holds only the ghost of a body,
of the one who once stood before it.
“No,” polished until it hurts to look at.
Letting go is a wound sculptured in red clay.
It glimmers wet, as though still breathing,
lips sewn back with wire,
moaning in the language of hunger,
mouth unsure whether to kiss or bleed.
From it grows ivy, with waxy, sweating leaves,
tongues of ivy tasting salt,
hands of ivy strangling air.
Two hands stand in stone…
One open, palm curved like a lover’s back;
begging for flesh to fall into its hollow.
The other, clenched so tight,
the stone itself cracks at the knuckles,
a relic of possession, sanctified in fury.
They pulse together, pretending to be flesh,
aching for something to hold or break.
On the walls hang portraits of ruin.
Glass shattered and sutured with gold.
Each crack, a tooth. Each shard, a mouth:
dozens of them, parted, silent,
caught between begging and biting.
An empty chair sits at the table…
seat damp, as if flesh had been torn away,
a throne warmed by thighs moments ago.
It waits like a throat. It waits like a trap.
The candles ooze their spines,
wax spilling like veins emptied onto the floor.
The air tastes of iron and sweet smoke.
Letting go is thievery… I rob myself of you:
a sealed box, with breath fogging its glass.
Clinging is barbed roots curling deeper into bone.
This room does not mourn. It eats,
a reliquary where surrender
laps the same altar as possession.
Pain is a chalice, brimming with salt.
Pleasure and cruelty fold together.
I have become both the blade and the bandage,
the hand that releases
and the hand that refuses release.
Love taught me both, and I keep them close:
a paradox folded in the pocket of my chest.
Here, surrender moans like possession.
Here, cruelty breathes like devotion.
Here, ecstasy is indistinguishable from torment.
Love is not memory.
It is a collection of objects that keep hurting…
every relic a weapon, every weapon a relic.
Each object wants to wound.
They do not preserve love…
they devour it, they gorge on its ruin,
aching in their refusal to decay.
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When I’m watching one of those “your month your thing” vids on TikTok and September gets something really lame
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PlayStation’s Wolverine game hits PS5 in September
Marvel’s Wolverine, the next superhero game from Marvel’s Spider-Man developer Insomniac Games, will be released on PS5 on September 15th.
Insomniac announced that it would be making a Wolverine game way back in 2021, so it’s been a long wait in the leadup to an official release date. Sony gave a vague fall 2026 release window last year alongside a very bloody gameplay trailer.
“In this…