✿ Petals of Kamila

I didn’t vanish because the words dried up. I vanished because the body demanded its due—raw, unfiltered, alive beyond the page.

I haven’t posted here in days. Not because the well ran dry, or because some invisible force clamped my fingers shut. No. It’s simpler, more visceral than that: I chose to live the intimate instead of scripting it. Why spill ink on desire when you can drown in it? Why trace the edges of a lover’s skin with metaphors when your hands can do the work themselves? This post—finally clawing its way out—is about exactly that: the deliberate pivot from observer to participant, from chronicler to the one being chronicled in sweat and sighs. Let me back up, though I hate explanations that feel like apologies. I’m sorry for the silence—no, strike that. I’m not sorry at all. Silence here meant noise elsewhere. Meant tangled sheets and whispered negotiations in dim rooms. Meant my attention narrowing to the pulse under someone’s jaw, the way breath hitches when boundaries dissolve. For a few days, I let the unhinged part of me—the part this blog exists to unleash—run free without the leash of documentation. And god, it was liberating. Why? Because writing about intimacy is a kind of theft sometimes. It steals the immediacy, packages it into neat paragraphs, and hands it over to strangers. But living it? That’s pure possession. Mine, theirs, ours—undiluted. Think about it. In this space, where I’ve built a altar to no-secrets, no-boundaries truth, I’ve always leaned into the explicit. The way a touch can unravel you, thread by thread. The erotic as rebellion, as a fuck-you to the polished facades we’re supposed to wear. But even here, on WriteFreely—my skin, my raw underbelly—there’s a risk in over-narrating. I could have sat down each night and typed out the details: the curve of a hip under my palm, the taste of salt on skin, the polyamorous dance of consent and craving that defines my days. I could have, but I didn’t. Instead, I focused on the act itself. On being present in the body, not hovering above it like some detached narrator. And here’s the crux, the thing that’s been simmering in me during this hiatus: living the intimate life isn’t just about the highs—the orgasms, the connections that spark like live wires. It’s about the quiet refusals too. Refusing to commodify every moment into content. Refusing the pull of the screen when flesh calls louder. I’ve been in Spain long enough to let the sun-soaked laziness seep into my bones, working those half-shifts at the hotel desk, assisting my partner in ways that blur professional and personal. But intimacy? That’s the undercurrent. Polyamory isn’t a label I slap on for shock value; it’s a lived ethic, a web of relations that demands energy. Energy I redirected fully, for once, without siphoning some off for you, dear reader. Don’t get me wrong—this isn’t a manifesto against sharing. If it were, I wouldn’t be typing this now, fingers still faintly aching from... well, from living. No, it’s a reflection on balance. On how the unhinged blog thrives not from constant outpouring, but from selective floods. Imagine: I wake up, not to the glow of a draft in progress, but to the warmth of a body beside me. Conversations in Spanish-tinged English, negotiations that feel like poetry without the need for verse. The erotic truth of it all—explicit, yes, in the arch of a back or the grip of hands—stayed private in the moment, only to ferment into this post later. Ferment, like wine from crushed grapes: richer for the wait. There’s a slowness in this choice that I crave. In a world that screams for more-more-more, for endless updates and exposures, I paused. I let the boundaries (or lack thereof) breathe. And in that pause, I rediscovered why this blog exists: not to perform unhingedness, but to honor it. To say, here is my body as authority, unapologetic and unbound. But authority doesn’t mean exhibitionism every damn day. Sometimes it means closing the door, turning off the lights, and letting the senses take over. Touch over text. Sensation over sentences. Of course, the irony isn’t lost on me. Here I am, writing about not writing. Describing the indescribable pull of the lived over the logged. But that’s the loop, isn’t it? The erotic refuses full containment; it spills back into words eventually. Like now: recalling the way a lover’s voice drops low in consent, the poly threads weaving without jealousy’s snag. The no-secrets ethos means I can admit this—admit that living it fully recharged me, made me hungrier for this digital confessional. Maybe I’ll post daily again—or maybe not. The point is, I’m back because the living fed the writing, not the other way around. So, if you’ve been waiting, wondering where the unfiltered Kamila went—here she is. Not diminished by the gap, but amplified. The intimate life isn’t a story to tell; it’s a force to inhabit. And when I do tell it, like now, it’s because the overflow demands release. Bold, italicized, struck through where the hesitations creep in. No boundaries, remember? But with the wisdom to know when to dive in fully, words be damned.

Naked, I don’t try to be desirable. I just exist, and somehow that feels more dangerous than seduction.

There are things I only believe when I am naked and alone, when my body is no longer negotiating with the world, when nothing is shaping me into something useful, pretty, acceptable, or legible. Clothes feel like agreements I never remember signing. They ask me to perform coherence, to choose a version of myself that can be consumed without confusion. Sometimes I think I wear them to disappear. But when I undress, when fabric falls away and air touches places that are usually hidden or managed, something inside me exhales. My shoulders drop. My breath slows. My thoughts stop trying to be impressive. I become unedited. Nakedness isn’t about sex first, even though it is erotic in a quiet, honest way. It’s about confession. It’s about letting my body speak without translation. I start to trust myself differently. I start to believe that I was never meant to be efficient, never meant to be tight, contained, or perfectly resolved. I believe I am enough without being arranged. I believe softness is not a weakness but a state of safety, and that safety itself is one of the most intimate things I can give myself.

When I’m naked, I believe desire isn’t dangerous. I believe suppression is. I feel how my skin holds memory, how my hips remember being wanted, how my spine remembers being held, how my breath remembers slowing down in the presence of something true. Pleasure stops being a performance and becomes information. It tells me where I am alive, where I am closed, where I am afraid, where I am brave. My body knows things my mouth learned to lie about. My body forgives me faster than my mind ever does. There is something almost shameful indecent about how gentle I become with myself in those moments, how I touch my own arms, my stomach, my thighs not to arouse, but to reassure. To say: you are allowed to exist without explanation. You are allowed to want without turning it into a story that makes others comfortable. I believe I am not too much. I am just uncontained, and that has always scared people more than it ever scared me.

Alone and naked, mirrors change. They stop being judges and start being witnesses. I look at myself without urgency, without the need to improve or correct. I see a body that has carried curiosity, hunger, softness, stubbornness, longing. I see a body that has been brave in quiet ways, that has trusted, that has opened, that has closed again when it needed to. Shame gets quieter when I am undressed. It loses its language. It has nothing to cling to. I believe some truths only arrive when there is no audience, when there is no possibility of being interpreted too early, when nothing I feel has to be turned into a performance or a warning label. Being seen too soon ruins things. Some parts of me need darkness and privacy to stay alive. Solitude is not loneliness in those moments. It is where I remember my shape, not just physically, but emotionally, erotically, spiritually.

There is something deeply erotic about not being watched. About being so alone that desire no longer has a target and becomes a temperature instead. A hum in the body. A softness between my thighs that doesn’t need a story. A warmth in my chest that doesn’t need to be understood. I don’t touch myself to consume pleasure. I touch myself to stay present. Sometimes not even that. Sometimes I just let my skin feel air, let my breasts rise with breath, let my stomach soften without being pulled in, let my body exist without being arranged for love or lust. I believe this is my most honest form. The version of me that would never survive being explained. The version of me that doesn’t want privacy, but control. Control over what I give, when I give, how much of my inner world becomes visible.

Naked and alone, I believe I don’t owe anyone coherence. I don’t owe neat identities, clean narratives, or digestible contradictions. I am allowed to be unfinished. I am allowed to be sensual without being sexual, sexual without being available, soft without being small. I am supposed to make sense. I am allowed to trust my body more than my opinions, because my body has never tried to impress anyone. It has only tried to feel true. And in that truth, I feel more powerful than I ever do when I am dressed, composed, and understood.

I don’t want to be respected. I want to be understood — and those two things have never loved each other.

Respect has always felt like a polite distance masquerading as virtue. Like someone standing just far enough away to avoid being touched, nodding with approval, saying you’re impressive, while silently hoping I never lean closer, never let my voice crack, never admit how much of me lives below the neck. Respect is clean. It keeps its hands to itself. It doesn’t ask questions that might ruin the illusion. It doesn’t stay long enough to smell fear or desire or need.

Understanding, on the other hand, is invasive. It requires proximity. It demands that someone sit close enough to feel heat rise off my skin when I speak. It asks them to stay when I contradict myself, when I want tenderness one moment and intensity the next, when my body knows something my intellect hasn’t caught up with yet. Understanding means being willing to witness the unedited version — the one that doesn’t resolve neatly, the one that keeps changing shape mid-sentence.

And people say they want that, until it actually shows up.

I have been respected most when I was smallest. When my softness was ornamental, when my desire stayed symbolic, when my emotions were well-behaved and useful. I learned, without anyone ever saying it out loud, that approval came easiest when I translated myself into something legible. Something digestible. Something that could be admired without consequences. I learned how to sand myself down into coherence, how to sound profound without sounding needy, how to be sensual without making anyone uncomfortable, how to be honest in a way that never actually risked rejection.

For a while, I confused that with safety. I thought being respected meant being protected. I thought it meant I was finally doing something right.

But it doesn’t. It just means being managed.

Respectability is a cage lined with compliments. It tells you you’re doing so well, that you’re admirable, that you’re such a powerful woman — as long as you don’t lean too hard on anyone, as long as you don’t want too much, as long as you don’t bleed in public. It rewards restraint and calls it maturity. It praises composure and calls it strength. It flinches the moment a woman admits she is driven by appetite as much as principle.

And I am driven by appetite. For closeness. For sensation. For truth that lives in the body, not just the mind.

Understanding me would require people to admit that I am not tidy. That I can be reflective and impulsive, gentle and confrontational, deeply romantic and unapologetically physical. That my longing does not cancel out my intelligence. That my softness does not make me weak. That my desire is not a flaw to be outgrown but a language I speak fluently.

Understanding me would mean accepting that I don’t exist to be exemplary. That I don’t want to be an example at all.

So instead, people offer respect. They offer distance. They offer advice about tone. They suggest I’d be taken more seriously if I softened this edge, blurred that detail, kept certain things implied instead of spoken. They frame it as care, as concern, as guidance. But what they’re really asking is for me to make myself easier to consume.

Be less alive, they say, without using those words. Be less inconvenient. Be less felt. Be easier to digest.

I am done agreeing.

Here is the part that costs women the most when they finally say it out loud: I would rather be misunderstood for who I am than respected for who I am not. I would rather repel people with my honesty than attract them with a performance. I am no longer interested in dignity that only survives at a distance. I want the kind that can handle proximity. The kind that doesn’t collapse when desire enters the room. The kind that can hold eye contact when I say I am soft and hungry, emotional and lucid, loving and self-possessed.

I am not trying to be safe. I am trying to be true. And truth is rarely polite.

There is a specific violence in how women are taught to trade depth for approval. We are told, subtly and constantly, that our worth increases the more contained we become. That intimacy should be curated, that longing should be disguised as metaphor, that wanting too openly makes us unserious. We are praised for our insight as long as it never gets embodied. We are celebrated for our voices as long as they don’t shake.

The moment I speak from my nervous system instead of my strategy, the room shifts. The respect drains out like air. People get uneasy. They reach for labels — too much, oversharing, attention-seeking. As if there is something indecent about letting life show on the surface of the skin.

I stopped arguing with that reaction a long time ago. Now I treat it as information.

Because the truth is, respect is often just fear with better manners. Fear of being implicated. Fear of being pulled closer than planned. Fear of having to feel something instead of just agreeing with it. Understanding is riskier. Understanding asks people to stay when the image cracks. To sit with contradiction. To accept that a woman can be both deliberate and messy, thoughtful and impulsive, deeply ethical and unapologetically sensual.

I am all of that. I refuse to amputate parts of myself to make the picture cleaner. I refuse to self-edit into something survivable.

Some people will unsubscribe because of this. I can already sense them — the ones who enjoyed me as an idea, as an aesthetic, as a voice that said interesting things without ever demanding anything back. They wanted proximity without intimacy. They wanted truth without heat. They wanted me at arm’s length, beautifully composed.

This is me stepping closer.

If that makes you uncomfortable, you’re allowed to leave. I am not lowering my voice to keep you. I am not flattening my body into metaphor so you can nod along without feeling implicated. I am not interested in being palatable at the cost of being alive.

Because the people who stay — they don’t respect me. They recognize me.

And recognition is warmer. It’s messier. It’s dangerous in the best way. Recognition doesn’t clap politely from the sidelines. It leans in. It listens without flinching. It lets itself be changed.

I am not a lesson. I am not a role model. I am not a brand dressed up as a woman.

I am not here to behave.

I am a living nervous system with a voice. I write from inside my body. I choose understanding over approval every single time. And if that costs me admiration, followers, or respectability, so be it.

I was never writing to be kept. I was writing to be seen.

My body has never lied to me. It only waited patiently for my mind to stop asking for permission.

I learned desire before I learned guilt. My body reacted long before my mouth knew how to explain it, long before my thoughts were shaped into something polite and acceptable. There was a time when sensation was just sensation. Warmth meant warmth. Curiosity meant curiosity. Nothing needed justification. Nothing needed forgiveness. My body spoke in a language that didn’t require witnesses, and I trusted it without even knowing I was trusting something. It felt like breathing. It felt like being alive without commentary.

Then morality arrived. Not as wisdom, but as noise. As interruptions. As raised eyebrows and careful pauses. As that small tightening in the air when I spoke too freely. Suddenly there was a “should” where there used to be only a “feel.” Suddenly my body became something that needed supervision. And the strangest part is that my body never changed. Only the way people looked at it did. Only the way I was taught to look at myself did.

Morality always felt borrowed to me. Like clothes that fit well enough to pass but never belonged to my skin. My body, on the other hand, felt inherited. Something ancient. Something that remembered before I remembered. It knew when something was safe without a checklist. It knew when something was wrong without a debate. It didn’t scream. It withdrew. Or it opened. And I learned that this quiet intelligence was far more precise than any rule I had memorized.

I used to think trusting my body would make me reckless. That’s what everyone implied. That instinct was chaos. That sensation was dangerous. But the opposite happened. The more I listened inward, the more selective I became. My yes became rare and deliberate. My no became calm and unapologetic. Trusting my body didn’t make me wild. It made me exact.

Shame entered my life through commentary, not through experience. Through faces that shifted. Through jokes that landed a second too late. Through questions that weren’t really questions. My body had never felt wrong until it was narrated. Until it was explained to me. Until desire was translated into something suspicious. I didn’t discover shame. I inherited it from other people’s discomfort.

Morality loves absolutes. Bodies live in nuance. Bodies understand timing. Pressure. Breath. The difference between longing and readiness. The difference between curiosity and fear. Morality wants clear lines. Bodies speak in gradients. And I have always trusted gradients more than borders.

There were moments when my body said yes while my morals hesitated, and I followed the hesitation out of politeness. I followed it out of obedience. And those are the moments I regret more than any reckless decision. Because the regret wasn’t about what I did. It was about what I silenced. About how I chose permission over truth.

My body has never asked me to be “good”. It has only asked me to be honest.

When I fell in love with a woman, something in me stopped arguing. There was no internal negotiation. No convincing. No performance. My body didn’t debate. It recognized. It softened into certainty. And I understood then how often my morals had been louder than my knowing, how often I had treated instinct like a dangerous suggestion instead of a compass.

People think trusting your body is anti-ethics. I think it is the deepest form of ethics I know. One rooted in consent that isn’t theoretical. In respect that isn’t performative. In attention that isn’t taught, but remembered. My body does not want harm. It wants coherence. It wants alignment. It wants to move without splitting me in two.

Desire is clean before it is explained. Explanation is where it gets dirty. Where it becomes something that must be defended or justified. My body never asked to be defended. Only listened to.

I don’t want to be righteous. I don’t want to be admirable. I don’t even want to be understood. I want to be accurate. Accurate to the way my breath changes. Accurate to the way my skin responds. Accurate to the quiet yes and the quieter no.

Morality wants me polished. My body wants me present.

And if I have to choose between being good and being true, I will always choose the place where my body stops whispering and finally feels heard.

I didn’t close myself. I just stopped being reachable.

I learned the difference between being open and being available slowly, and then all at once. It happened somewhere between answering messages out of politeness and noticing how my body reacted before my mind did. I was still open — emotionally, sexually, philosophically — but I was tired in a way that desire alone couldn’t fix. Not a dramatic tiredness. A quiet one. The kind that settles in your chest when you realize you’ve been generous with access, not intimacy.

For a long time, I thought openness meant accessibility. If I was honest, liberated, sexually confident, then of course I should be reachable. Of course I should respond, explain, soften, make space. I confused consent with convenience. I confused freedom with being perpetually on offer. And I didn’t notice how much of my availability was fueled not by desire, but by habit — by the subtle expectation that if nothing was wrong, then saying yes was easier than saying no.

What changed wasn’t my sexuality. It was my nervous system.

I am still open in how I feel things. I still experience desire vividly, physically, sometimes intensely. I am open to connection, to curiosity, to pleasure that doesn’t need to justify itself. But availability is different. Availability lives in time, in energy, in the reality of my body on a specific day. Availability asks questions openness doesn’t. Am I here? Am I present? Do I actually want this, or do I just not want to disappoint?

Sexual openness doesn’t mean perpetual readiness. Desire has moods. It has weather. It has days when it’s sharp and days when it’s quiet, and neither of those need to be explained. I used to think narrowing my availability would make me colder, harder, less generous. Instead, it made me more precise. My yes became clearer. My no stopped trembling.

Some people mistake openness for invitation. They hear honesty and assume access. They see comfort with sexuality and imagine proximity. I don’t correct them anymore. I just step back and let the misunderstanding sit where it belongs. Not every assumption deserves clarification. Not every boundary needs a speech.

I don’t advertise my availability now. I let it be discovered. Slowly. Mutually. The way you discover whether someone can actually hold what they say they want. I’ve learned that availability drains faster than desire, and that protecting one protects the other. When I stopped negotiating my availability to appear kind, my relationships became quieter — and more real.

I can love abundance and still choose scarcity in access. I can be sexually open and emotionally selective. I can believe in freedom without offering constant entry points into my life. These things are not contradictions. They are distinctions I learned through exhaustion.

I am not hard to get. I am simply not always there.

Saying “not now” preserved more intimacy than saying yes ever did. And the strangest part is this: when I stopped being available by default, nothing collapsed. People adjusted. Desire didn’t disappear. My sexuality didn’t shrink — it settled. It stopped performing. It stopped proving. It became mine again.

I didn’t close myself. I just stopped being reachable in ways that cost me more than they gave. And that truth, once you feel it in your body, is impossible to unlearn.

“I don’t miss innocence. I miss privacy — the kind that lets desire grow before it gets named.”

I was never nostalgic for innocence. That word always felt borrowed, something people pressed onto me retroactively, like a label for a version of myself they wanted to believe in. What I miss is quieter, less flattering, harder to mourn without sounding ungrateful. I miss privacy. Not secrecy. Not shame. Privacy. The right to exist before being interpreted.

Growing up in a village, everyone knew where I was. Which path I took home. Whose kitchen I was sitting in. My body was never a mystery. And yet my inner life was untouched. No one rushed to narrate me. No one tried to explain my wanting before I felt it myself. I wasn’t interesting enough to be decoded. I moved through the world unarchived.

Back then, being seen didn’t mean being read.

That changed slowly. Not with one dramatic moment, not with a single violation I could point to. It happened through small permissions. A comment I didn’t correct. A story told about me that I let stand. A look that lingered too long that I pretended not to notice. Each moment felt harmless. Together, they rewrote the terms.

The internet didn’t invent exposure — it accelerated it. Suddenly it wasn’t just skin that was visible, but thoughts. Longings. Half-formed selves shared before they had the chance to grow edges. I learned quickly how to be legible. I didn’t learn nearly as fast how to be protected.

There’s a difference between secrecy and privacy that took me years to understand. Secrets shrink when you hide them. Privacy breathes. Privacy gives things time to become true before they’re shared. I didn’t lose innocence. I lost time.

Looking back now, I can see how this lack of privacy shaped my sexual life more than I wanted to admit. The clarity didn’t arrive with regret that screams. It arrived quietly, like something finally lining up inside me. I regret that I didn’t start with girls sooner. Not because sex with boys was violent or wrong — I’m not rewriting the past into a cautionary tale — but because it was misaligned in ways I couldn’t name yet.

With boys, sex often happened to me more than with me. My body responded. It knew how. But my emotional center stayed oddly offline. I mistook responsiveness for resonance. Availability for freedom.

Some of those experiences were fine. Some were even good. But good for them, not for me. Pleasure moved through my body without anchoring anywhere inside. There was no echo. No aftertaste that felt like mine. If it was good, it was good in theory, or good from the outside. It didn’t stay.

What I called curiosity was sometimes a detour. What I called openness was often convenience. Being desired felt easier than being met. Performance felt safer than presence. I didn’t yet know how to ask for the kind of intimacy that would have slowed everything down.

The regret isn’t moral. I don’t disown that version of myself. I’m not ashamed of her. I just don’t romanticize her anymore. The loss wasn’t sex. It was privacy. I made myself visible before I knew how to stay oriented toward my own desire.

With girls, everything asked something different of me. Desire didn’t rush me forward — it pulled me inward. It wanted slowness. Attention. Mutual orientation. Not parallel bodies performing proximity, but two people actually facing each other. Presence instead of efficiency.

That clarity didn’t come earlier because too many people were already listening. It’s hard to hear yourself when your wanting has an audience. It’s hard to know what you want when it’s already being named for you.

I know now that I can’t become unknowable again. That door closed without ceremony. But I can be selective. I can decide what earns daylight and what deserves lamplight. I can let some truths remain unnamed without calling it dishonesty.

I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to disappear.

I just want my inner rooms to have doors again — and to be the one who decides when they open.

I am not chaotic — I’m just allergic to cages.

People like that word. Chaotic. They use it when they’re tired of keeping up, when my movement stops matching their expectations, when I don’t behave in straight lines. It sounds almost generous, like a personality trait, but it’s usually a verdict. A way to say: you are difficult to contain.

What they rarely ask is what I’m reacting to.

Because cages don’t always look like bars. Sometimes they look like routines. Sometimes like praise. Sometimes like safety offered too quickly, with invisible conditions attached. You can stay — as long as you don’t move too much. You can be loved — as long as you don’t surprise me.

My body knows before my mind does. Restlessness. Tight breath. That familiar buzzing under my skin. The urge to touch something forbidden, or leave something comfortable, or say the wrong thing just to feel air again. People call that self-sabotage. I’ve learned it’s closer to somatic refusal.

I have tried to stay inside the lines. I have been good. Predictable. Grateful. I have swallowed impulses and called it maturity. I have stayed where I was applauded and quietly dried out. Nothing dramatic broke — something essential just went silent.

That’s the part nobody romanticizes. The cost. The misunderstandings. The people who needed me softer, quieter, slower, easier to explain. The opportunities I lost because I wouldn’t shrink fast enough. I don’t wear that like a badge. I carry it like scar tissue.

Movement, for me, is not rebellion. It’s intelligence. It’s listening. Leaving isn’t always escape — sometimes it’s recalibration. Sometimes staying would mean betraying something tender and unnamed that still wants to breathe.

Even love can tighten if it forgets consent. Even safety can become a trap when it assumes permanence instead of presence. I don’t fear closeness. I fear unquestioned enclosure.

I’m tired of the moral framing. Chaos versus discipline. Stability versus freedom. As if curiosity is a flaw. As if adaptability is immaturity. As if the only way to be trustworthy is to become static.

I don’t break things for the thrill of it. I leave when my breath gets shallow. I shift when my body says this is no longer alive.

And if that makes me hard to hold, maybe the question isn’t why I move — maybe it’s why so many structures demand stillness in the first place.

Some days I don’t want to be interesting. I want to be exact.

I’ve been feeling a quiet shift in myself lately. Not a rupture. Not a rebirth. Just a slow unhooking from urgency. From that old reflex that said if you don’t explain yourself now, you’ll lose the moment, the room, the right to exist here. I used to believe silence meant disappearance. Now it feels closer to a boundary. Soft. Deliberate. Mine.

There is something deeply intimate about not performing clarity. About letting thoughts stay slightly unfinished—like laundry still damp, catching air, refusing to be folded. I’m no longer interested in sanding myself down for readability. I don’t want to be coherent on demand. I want to write from the place that still smells like soil and heat and unslept nights.

I used to think I owed people a version of myself they could understand. I don’t think that anymore.

Lately I’ve been watching how often women are trained to translate their inner weather into something polite. Smile. Contextualize. Reassure. Explain the sharp parts away. I don’t want to do that today. I want my contradictions to breathe. I want to admit that some mornings I feel deeply rooted, and some evenings I want to burn everything down—not from pain, but from curiosity. From appetite.

There is love in my life that doesn’t need defending. There is desire that doesn’t need a narrative spine. There is a body I live in without constantly turning it into ethics.

And there is writing that exists simply because I need somewhere to put the excess.

The overflow. The wanting. The noticing-too-much.

Some thoughts don’t want an audience. They don’t want applause or agreement or reposts. They just want to be acknowledged and then left alone.

This isn’t me disappearing. This is me choosing what gets access.

And if you’re reading this with that same unshareable feeling sitting heavy in your chest—you’re not broken. You might just be listening more closely now.

I didn’t overshare because I wanted to be seen. I overshared because silence was killing me faster.

I used to think oversharing was a flaw, something loose in me, a seam that never quite held. I learned the word the same way you learn the word messy or dramatic — as a warning disguised as advice. Be careful. Maybe keep some things to yourself. Not everything needs to be said. And I nodded, every time, while my body did the opposite. Because my body has never understood restraint the way language pretends to.

There was a very specific feeling to it. The moment before posting, when my chest would tighten and my fingers would move anyway. The release right after — not joy, not pride, just air. And then the echo of shame, faint but persistent, like a bruise you only notice when someone presses on it. Not because what I said was untrue. But because it existed outside of me now.

What people call oversharing was never recklessness for me. It was breathing. It was the only way I knew how to stay upright when things inside me were collapsing quietly. Silence has always been more dangerous than exposure. Silence makes everything echo inward. Writing let it out. Writing gave shape to things that would otherwise rot unnamed.

There were moments when words quite literally kept me here. When the act of articulating what I felt stopped me from folding into myself completely. When being readable was the only way I could touch the world without flinching. I didn’t need applause. I didn’t need agreement. I needed witnesses.

Not the loud ones. Not the ones who demanded clarity or neat arcs or explanations. The quiet ones. The ones who never told me to calm down. The ones who stayed without announcing themselves. They know who they are. They always do.

Later, platforms taught me to be ashamed retroactively. Things that once felt honest were suddenly reframed as careless, excessive, too much. Context collapsed. Softness became suspicious. Vulnerability was fine only when it behaved. I learned how quickly the same openness that drew people in could be used to push me out.

And still — I survived it.

That’s the part I don’t say often enough. I should have known better. I should have protected myself more. Maybe. But I also know this: the version of me who shared too much did not abandon herself. She chose expression over disappearance. She chose language over numbness. She trusted that being real was worth the risk, even when it wasn’t rewarded.

Sometimes I want to go back and put my hands on her shoulders. Tell her she wasn’t naïve. She was alive. She didn’t overshare because she lacked boundaries. She overshared because she was building them in real time, with bare hands, in public.

I don’t regret being readable when I was breaking. I don’t regret letting my insides touch daylight. I don’t regret surviving loudly.

If anything, I regret the moments I tried to harden, to withhold, to perform restraint like maturity. That was never who I was. This is not a brand. This is a nervous system. And it learned how to speak by refusing to stay quiet.

I’m still here. Still writing. Still choosing words over disappearance.

And I’m not sorry.

The more I try to make myself legible to mainstream platforms, the more I realize I was never meant to fit inside their boxes.

Lately it feels obvious — almost boring in its clarity — that I should just stay where the ground is softer and the rules are written by people who actually believe in autonomy. Every time I step into a mainstream platform, I’m asked to sand myself down, to explain my body, my words, my intent, to prove I’m not dangerous simply because I’m honest. I don’t want to negotiate my voice with systems that reward blandness and punish vulnerability. Decentralized spaces don’t ask me to perform safety theater or obedience. They let me exist, publish, disappear, return, without begging permission. So yes, I’m done chasing approval from platforms that confuse control with care. I’ll take the quiet, resilient corners of the internet — and the rest can politely go fuck themselves, deeply and without my participation.