Martytalks Daliy

Out of My League

(A Spoken Word Poem)

I got a crush like gravity —

pulling me toward someone I’ll never touch,

like the moon whispering sweet nothings

to the waves,

knowing they’ll never hold her.

You’re…

the type of beautiful that poems can’t hold,

the kind of smile that architects should study,

the kind of laugh that echoes in ribcages

like a home I ain’t got the keys to.

You walk like the world owes you sunlight,

and it repays you in golden hours.

And me?

I’m just a shadow trying not to trip

on the silence between your footsteps.

I see you.

And not just in the “I noticed your outfit” way.

No —

I see the way you touch conversations gently,

like they might break.

How your eyes soften when someone’s nervous.

How you say people’s names like a prayer.

Like they matter.

Like I matter.

But I don’t think you see me,

not really.

I’m background noise in the playlist of your day,

a bench you passed on the way to better views.

You talk about “your type”

and it’s never mine.

I ain’t tall enough, calm enough,

cool enough,

rich enough,

light enough,

loud enough.

You like poetry —

but not the kind that spills nervous ink

on the margins of notebooks

trying to spell your name without shaking.

I get it.

You want someone who walks into rooms

like they own oxygen,

not someone who hesitates

before they breathe near you.

But still,

I catch myself checking my phone

hoping you liked that post.

I rehearse hellos like monologues.

I write full symphonies in my head

and delete the chorus before you ever hear it.

I told myself,

“I just admire them.”

Then I told myself,

“It’s just a phase.”

Then I told myself,

“You’re over it.”

But lies sound a lot like lullabies

when you sing them long enough.

What would I even say to you?

“Hi, I like your laugh and the way your eyebrows move

when you’re trying not to laugh harder.”

“Hi, I memorized your favorite songs

just to imagine what it’s like

to dance in your thoughts.”

“Hi, I wish I could be the reason

you forget your phone for a while.”

But the truth is…

I think you’d laugh.

Not mean. Not cruel.

Just confused.

Like, “Wait — you?”

And I’d say,

“Yeah… I know.”

I know I’m not in your lane.

Not in your story arc.

Not in your plot twist.

I’m the background extra

who catches feelings in the middle of a monologue

that was never mine.

But here’s what I’ll say:

You taught me something without trying.

That hearts can still skip

even when the finish line is fantasy.

That sometimes,

the ache is worth it.

The wanting makes you human.

And that love — even unreturned —

still glows.

So I’ll keep rooting for you

from the sidelines of my own daydream.

Because even if you never look my way,

at least I know what it feels like

to see someone

and smile

and mean it.

“Still Rising (The Designer’s Confession)”

🎤

I am…

Designer by day,

Poet by heart,

Sketching dreams on deadlines

And bleeding truth into bars after dark.

I don’t just clock in —

I create in color

While the grayscale of my mind

Tries to pull me under.

But nah, I ain’t drowning —

I’ve learned to swim through the noise,

To sculpt the pain,

To paint with the broken pieces

And make beauty from the strain.

See—

I’m a first-gen soul,

Walking on sidewalks poured

By hands that never got to walk them.

I carry their hope in my stride

And their struggle in my spine.

I got scars you’ll never see,

But they taught me how to shine.

Anxiety?

We’ve danced.

Depression?

We’ve slow-dragged through sleepless nights.

PTSD whispered war songs

In moments that should’ve been quiet.

And bipolar?

He’s that old friend with mood swings

Who shows up uninvited.

But still, I rise.

Not because I’m unshaken —

But because I keep moving.

Still here. Still choosing.

Still bruised, but not losing.

I don’t numb no more —

I bake.

Pound cake, sweet like the prayers of my grandmother,

Soft like the hug I needed last week

But didn’t know how to ask for.

I write now —

Pain into poetry,

Mood swings into metaphors,

Bad days into blog posts

So deep they hit like gospel.

Movies, music, writing —

They ain’t escapes.

They’re life support.

Each song, a breath.

Each film, a mirror.

Each poem, a resurrection.

And my dog?

Yeah, he don’t judge when I fall apart.

He just lays by my side like,

“Bro, fall if you need to — I’m still here.”

That’s love.

No conditions.

No masks.

Just presence.

That’s something most people can’t give.

My heart?

She’s been cracked open and patched up with grace.

She forgives before she understands.

She feels too much sometimes,

But I’d rather bleed than be numb.

And church?

It ain’t tradition —

It’s therapy with hallelujahs.

It’s where I sit in the back row

And let God hold the parts of me

That I keep too fragile to share.

And when my voice shakes?

I speak anyway.

Because silence is heavy,

And I’ve carried enough weight.

I am rebuilding —

Not from rubble,

But from remembrance.

Every piece of me

Is a page in a book

I’m still learning to love.

Still healing.

Still here.

Still rising —

Not like smoke,

But like a phoenix

With ink on its feathers

And fire in its soul.

So if you ask me who I am?

I’m not a survivor.

I’m a creator.

A warrior with words.

A baker of comfort.

A son of struggle.

A testimony in motion.

I’m not perfect,

But I am present.

And that’s enough for today.

That’s enough to say —

I’m still rising.

Even on the days

I forget how to fly

“How Do You Escape?”: The Good, the Bad, and the Healing in Our Coping Mechanisms

We all want to feel good. To feel safe. To feel something other than pain, emptiness, anxiety, or exhaustion. And for many of us, that means we need a way to escape—even if just for a moment.

Some people retreat into nature. Some into Netflix. Others into a bottle, a body, or a perfectly curated lie.

I’ve done all of it.

There was a time in my life when my idea of escape was rooted in desperation—not healing. I didn’t want to deal with my thoughts, my shame, my history, or the ache that followed me from morning to night. So I reached for what felt good in the moment, not realizing I was creating a prison of habits that would eventually numb me more than help me.

The Unhealthy Escapes

Let’s talk about those first—the things we turn to when we just want to disappear or not feel for a little while.

1. Drugs and Alcohol

For a time, I used substances to quiet the storm in my mind. Whether it was to forget something traumatic, deal with loneliness, or just feel “normal,” drugs and alcohol were a kind of false peace. They gave me the illusion of control—until I realized I was completely out of control. They didn’t solve anything. They masked the problem while creating a dozen new ones: broken relationships, blackouts, addiction, shame, and emotional disconnection.

2. Sex (as Escape)

Let’s be honest—sex can feel like a release, and when it’s connected to love and trust, it can be beautiful. But for me, it became a way to fill the void I didn’t know how to name. I wasn’t looking for intimacy; I was looking for distraction, validation, and the fleeting feeling of being wanted. I used people and allowed myself to be used. Afterward, I often felt even lonelier than before. That kind of escape leaves you empty—every time.

The Problem With Escaping the Wrong Way

The truth is, unhealthy escapes aren’t real healing—they’re avoidance. They offer relief, but not restoration. The pain waits for you. The anxiety doesn’t leave. The trauma remains unaddressed. And over time, the cost gets higher—emotionally, physically, spiritually, and relationally.

Worse still, unhealthy escapes can become addictions. They change how your brain processes pleasure, pain, and connection. What starts as “just this once” or “I need a break” becomes “I can’t make it through the day without this.” And that’s a terrifying place to be.

The Shift: Learning to Escape With Intention

Over time—through healing, support, faith, and falling flat on my face more times than I’d like to admit—I started discovering healthier ways to escape. Not to avoid pain, but to move through it with grace and awareness. I still need breaks. I still have rough days. But now, I turn to outlets that feed my soul, not steal from it.

1. Writing

Writing has become one of my biggest lifelines. It’s not always pretty. Sometimes it’s raw, disorganized, even angry. But it’s real. When I write, I get to tell the truth—to myself, to God, and sometimes to the people who read what I share. Writing helps me process what I feel instead of stuffing it down. It turns the chaos in my head into something I can see and name. That alone is powerful.

2. Baking

Baking might seem simple, but it brings me peace in ways I never expected. It’s meditative. I follow a recipe. I focus on measuring and mixing. I create something sweet and nourishing. In a world where things feel out of control, baking gives me a tiny corner of peace and accomplishment. Plus, sharing what I bake is a quiet way to show love.

3. Movies and TV Shows

Sometimes, I still need to “get away”—but now I do it in healthier ways. Watching a well-written movie or TV show lets me step into someone else’s story for a while. I laugh. I cry. I reflect. Good storytelling doesn’t numb me—it moves me. It reminds me of the human condition, the beauty in struggle, and the fact that none of us are alone.

4. (Yes, Sometimes) Sex

Let’s be real—I still struggle. I’m not perfect. There are still moments when I fall into old patterns, especially with sex. But I’m learning to ask myself why. Why am I reaching for this? Is it connection or is it comfort? Is it out of love or out of loneliness? I don’t beat myself up, but I try to be honest. Healing is not linear, and grace is necessary.

The Power of Self-Awareness

The difference between healthy and unhealthy escape is often your intention. Are you using the escape to avoid your life, or to recharge so you can engage with your life better?

That question has changed everything for me.

Escape isn’t the enemy. In fact, we all need rest, breaks, and joy. But we have to pay attention to how we’re doing it. Are you escaping in a way that brings you closer to yourself, to God, and to others—or are you disappearing into something that numbs you to all of it?

So, How Do YOU Escape?

I’m not here to judge anyone’s journey. I’m still on mine. But I’ve learned this: how you escape will shape your emotional health, your relationships, your peace of mind, and even your identity.

If you’re in a season where your escapes are hurting you more than helping you, I get it. I’ve been there. You’re not broken beyond repair. You’re not too far gone. You’re not weak for wanting relief—you just might need a better path to it.

And if you’re discovering healthy ways to cope, celebrate that. Build on it. Share it. You never know who might need to hear that there is another way to live. One with beauty, balance, and boundaries.

You don’t have to disappear to survive. You’re allowed to rest, to feel, to heal—and yes, even to escape sometimes. Just choose the path that leads you back home to yourself, not further away.

Want to share your story? What helps you escape in a healthy way? What habits are you trying to leave behind? Let’s talk about it. Healing loves company.

When Everything Is Everything: Living with Anxiety, Depression, PTSD, and Bipolar Disorder

There’s no easy way to start a post like this, so I’m just going to say it straight: living with multiple mental health conditions is a lot. It’s more than a full-time job, more than a weight—it’s an entire storm system, and I live inside of it every single day.

Last night was one of the worst ones I’ve had in a long time. Anxiety didn’t just visit—it decided to unpack, rearrange the furniture in my brain, and stay for the night. I couldn’t sleep. My mind raced, my body ached, and all of it became too much. And it wasn’t just mental. This was the first time I can honestly say I got sick from anxiety. My body shut down. I felt physically drained, emotionally raw, and spiritually scattered.

And here’s the thing: when you live with bipolar disorder, PTSD, anxiety, and depression, no two days are ever the same. No two hours, even. What worked for you yesterday might not help today. One moment you’re okay, the next you’re swallowed by sadness or rage or fear and can’t even explain why. It’s like living inside a maze where the walls keep shifting—and all you have is a compass that only half-works on good days.

The weather doesn’t help either.

That might sound silly to someone who hasn’t been through it, but people who take psychiatric medication know: the weather can throw everything off. One minute it’s hot, then suddenly it rains, and now your body feels like it’s not even yours anymore. You feel tired, your stomach might act up, your mood spirals—and nobody around you understands how something as simple as a cloudy day can make you feel like you’re drowning in wet cement.

And the meds. Oh, the meds.

They help in their own way, sure, but they also come with side effects—drowsiness, headaches, dizziness, weight changes, emotional numbness. You take them because you have to, but they change you. They dull the highs and sometimes drag out the lows. And yet, even with them, you’re still dealing with the mood swings, the panic, the trauma flashbacks, and the emotional rollercoaster.

Last night, everything crashed at once.

I was mad. I was sad. I was annoyed. I was overwhelmed. I wanted to scream, cry, sleep, run, and disappear all at the same time—but instead, I just said, “I’m fine.” Because sometimes it’s easier to lie than to try and explain something you don’t even understand yourself.

I hate how hard it is to express myself in the moment. I can’t seem to find the words when everything is falling apart. That’s why I write. That’s why I’m here, blogging, typing out what I couldn’t say last night. Because this is the only space where I feel like I can be completely honest—where I can admit I’m not okay, that I’m struggling, that I’m scared, and that I don’t know what I’m doing.

But today… today I tried.

I’m with someone from my support team, and I’m trying to stay present. I’m trying not to ruminate, not to let my mind drag me back into the past or throw me into an imaginary future filled with fear. I’m trying to breathe. I’m trying to remind myself that right now is all I have.

It’s not perfect. I’m still tired. I’m still shaken from last night. I still feel like I’m walking on emotional eggshells. But I showed up. I stayed. I reached out. I didn’t isolate—at least not completely. And even though the day is almost over, and I’m scared of what tonight might bring, I have a little hope tucked away in the corner of my mind.

I hope I sleep.

I hope I wake up tomorrow feeling a little more balanced.

I hope I remember that it’s okay to not be okay—and that being vulnerable isn’t weakness, it’s realness.

If you’re reading this and you relate, just know: you’re not alone. This isn’t something we chose, but it’s something we live with. And surviving each day, especially the hard ones, is a form of bravery that the world doesn’t always recognize. But I see you. I hear you. And I’m right here in the storm with you.

Thanks for listening.

Sometimes that’s all we need—to be heard.

And maybe, just maybe, tonight will be different.

Maybe we’ll both find a little peace.

Maybe sleep will come like a quiet friend.

Maybe tomorrow will be a little lighter.

Here’s hoping.

While the World Sleeps

While the world sleeps,

I stay awake.

Not because I want to.

Not because there’s something grand to do in the dark.

But because silence won’t hush the voices,

and time won’t rewind the clock.

Streetlights flicker like nervous thoughts.

Even the moon seems tired,

but here I am—wired.

Heart pacing laps in a room that hasn’t changed,

while my mind runs miles in memories

I can’t rearrange.

See, it’s quiet outside,

but inside it’s a riot.

A war zone of what-ifs and I-wish-I-hads.

A battlefield where dreams fight doubt

and peace keeps losing ground.

I think about the bills,

the broken routines,

the promises I made to myself

in New Year mirrors and morning screens.

I think about the job I lost.

The friend who ghosted.

The love that almost bloomed

but withered before spring got close.

And I ask myself—

How did I get so far off track

with so much map in my hands?

Why do I keep building ladders

only to find they lean on the wrong plans?

I want more.

I want better.

I want to breathe without wondering

if the air is borrowed.

I want to speak without second-guessing

every syllable my heart has swallowed.

But something—

something—keeps getting in the way.

Not a wall I can climb,

not a person I can name.

It’s a shadow made of delay,

an echo of yesterday,

a fear in disguise

that knows how to play me like a song

I never wanted on replay.

And still…

I sit here.

With nothing but my heartbeat

ticking like a metronome in the dark.

Trying to write rhythm

into a life that’s lost its spark.

Because being awake

when the rest of the world is dreaming

feels like punishment some nights,

but other nights—it feels like prayer.

A confession with no altar.

A cry with no name.

Just a man

and a mind

and a silence that won’t play fair.

But maybe…

just maybe,

this is the soil where hope grows best.

In midnight hours and unrest.

Maybe the clutter in my head

is just the noise before the breakthrough.

Maybe the tracks I keep derailing from

are just detours to something truer,

something newer,

something stronger

than the lie I’ve been rehearsing

about not being enough.

So I breathe.

I pace.

I cry if I need to.

I shout into pillows that don’t talk back.

But I stay.

Awake, aware,

not giving up though everything cracks.

Because maybe—just maybe—

the race isn’t to the swift,

but to the stubborn.

To the ones who refuse to quit running,

even if it’s just in their mind at 3:14 AM,

with the moon as their only witness

and their shadow as their only friend.

So while the world sleeps,

I write my resurrection.

One thought at a time.

One tear.

One prayer.

One stubborn breath

against the silence

that dares me

to disappear.

Let Me Be Open

Yo…

Can I talk to you for a minute?

Not the polished version of me —

Not the highlight reel,

Not the “I’m good, just tired” lie I keep in my pocket

Like loose change I keep spending on surface conversations.

I mean the real me.

The me that hesitates before pressing “send.”

The me that drafts texts

And deletes them

Because maybe I said too much…

Or maybe I didn’t say enough.

See —

Vulnerability

Sounds like a big word,

But really, it’s just the quiet bravery

Of saying, “Here’s who I am… will you stay?”

It’s cracking the door to your soul

When your hands are still shaking on the knob.

I used to think that letting people in

Was an invitation for disappointment.

A trapdoor to betrayal.

A chance to give someone my truth

Only for them to weaponize it later.

So I built walls.

Tall ones.

Thick ones.

Strong enough to keep hurt out

But also strong enough to keep love out too.

I didn’t even realize how lonely it got.

I thought I was safe.

But safety ain’t the same as freedom.

And silence ain’t the same as peace.

Then one day —

Someone knocked.

Didn’t barge in.

Didn’t pry.

Just stood there and said,

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

And I almost didn’t believe them.

But something in me whispered:

What if… just this once… you try?

So I cracked open a window,

Let some air in.

Spoke a little softer.

Cried without apologizing.

Laughed without hiding it.

Admitted I was struggling —

Not as a confession,

But as a connection.

And you know what happened?

Nobody ran.

Nobody recoiled.

The world didn’t stop spinning.

My friends didn’t call me “too much.”

My people leaned in closer.

And I learned:

Letting people in doesn’t mean losing control.

It means gaining a tribe.

A circle.

A few people who don’t flinch when you’re not okay.

So here I am —

Still learning,

Still healing,

Still peeling off layers of “I’m fine”

Like old stickers on a lunchbox.

And if you’re anything like me,

I want you to know:

You don’t have to be loud to be heard.

You don’t have to be perfect to be loved.

You don’t have to be fearless to be strong.

You just have to try.

Open your mouth.

Open your hands.

Open your heart — slowly, if you must.

But open it.

Because real connection?

It’s on the other side of the risk.

And yeah, it’s scary.

But it’s also sacred.

So this is me —

Not polished.

Not scripted.

Just honest.

Saying:

Let people in.

Let yourself be seen.

You’re not a burden.

You’re a blessing

Still unfolding.

And we’re waiting to know the real you.

So take your time.

But don’t hide forever.

We need your story.

We need your light.

We need your voice.

So let it speak.

Today Was a Good Day: A Reflection on Growth, Grace, and Showing Up

Today was one of those rare days where everything feels aligned — not because it was perfect, but because it was real. There were laughs, deep thoughts, sun, food, and moments that cracked my heart open just enough to let some light in. It started off simple enough — church in the morning, which always helps to ground me, even when I don’t realize I need grounding. There’s something about being in that space — even if my mind is drifting — that still does something to my soul. Like God’s voice is quiet, but present, reminding me: Hey, I’m still here.

After service, I spent the rest of the day surrounded by people I care about — my sister, some friends, and my mom. We threw a little cookout and pool party, and the vibe was everything: ribs sizzling, laughter echoing off the water, and the sun deciding to be generous for once. There was this peace in the air, the kind you don’t always recognize until it’s gone.

In the middle of all that joy, I had a moment with a friend. A real one. We talked — like really talked. And that’s when something hit me: we’re getting close to the anniversary of my suicide attempt. I hadn’t realized how close until I glanced in the mirror and saw the note I once left — a reminder of a darker time, a version of me that almost didn’t make it. That note is still there. I haven’t taken it down. Part of me doesn’t want to — not because I want to stay in that place, but because it reminds me how far I’ve come.

Seeing that note opened up a flood of thoughts I hadn’t prepared for. I kept asking myself: Why do people show up for me? I’ve always been more comfortable on the sidelines, blending into the background, never wanting to be too seen. I like the shadows — not in a creepy way — but in a “let me process things in peace” kind of way. I find it hard to open up, not because I don’t want to be known, but because I’m afraid. Afraid that if I say the wrong thing or share too much, it’ll be used against me. That’s a fear I haven’t quite shaken yet.

But still… people show up. My friend showed up today. My family showed up today. And it made me realize: maybe I’m worth showing up for, even if I don’t fully understand why. Maybe being seen isn’t something to run from — maybe it’s something to lean into, little by little.

After all the deep conversations and emotional whirlwinds, something beautifully random happened: I played Fortnite for the first time. Now, let me be real — I was terrible. Like, “don’t even hand me the controller” terrible. But it was fun. I laughed at myself. I got frustrated. I got excited. And most importantly, I tried.

That moment — silly as it sounds — made me think. Life doesn’t require perfection. It just requires effort. You don’t have to be the best at everything. You don’t have to have it all figured out. Sometimes, just pressing “start” is enough. Sometimes, just being willing to play — even if you suck — is a form of victory.

So yeah… today was a good day.

Not because everything was flawless. But because I showed up.

Because others showed up for me.

Because I was reminded that I’m still here.

And maybe that’s more than enough.

My Body Won’t Let Me Die

Spoken Word by Marty

I’ve been lying in bed,

with the weight of the world pressing full against my chest—

not like Atlas carrying the globe,

more like being the pavement beneath it.

Cracked,

silent,

invisible until someone trips over me.

All I want to do is vanish,

fade like fog in morning heat.

Not with fireworks,

not with goodbyes—

just… disappear.

Leave the ache where it lies

and stop pretending my heart beats because it wants to.

Because it doesn’t.

Not really.

Not when the nights stretch longer than my reasons to stay.

Not when “I’m fine” is a foreign language I speak fluently but never believe.

Not when the mirror only reflects a ghost in rehearsal—

a face rehearsing smiles like lines in a play no one watches.

All I want is to die.

And that’s not poetry.

It’s not metaphor.

It’s not a craving for attention or applause.

It’s a whisper that repeats itself louder than any scream I’ve ever swallowed.

But here’s the catch:

my body…

keeps fighting.

Keeps breathing.

Like lungs are traitors

pumping hope I never asked for.

Like my pulse is a protest

against the silence I keep praying for.

I skip meals like skipping steps on a crumbling staircase.

I don’t answer texts.

I ghost myself.

I write “help” in invisible ink and wait for someone to decode it.

But my skin won’t open,

my wrists stay closed,

my soul stays tethered

to this flesh I didn’t ask for.

Isn’t that wild?

That I can feel so hollow

and still be full of life?

Still blinking.

Still…

blinking.

Some days, I think that’s divine cruelty.

Some days, maybe it’s grace.

That even when my mind caves in,

my heart builds scaffolding.

Even when my spirit taps out,

my bones say, “We’re not done.”

Even when I want out,

my breath leans in and says, “Try again.”

See, I haven’t written a suicide note—

but I’ve written sad songs and left the chorus blank.

I’ve walked to the edge,

and the wind whispered, “You’re still needed.”

Not in big, world-saving ways.

Not as a hero,

not as a legend.

But maybe just as me—

raw, trembling, unfinished.

Because maybe

my body knows something I don’t.

Maybe survival isn’t cowardice.

Maybe it’s defiance.

Maybe it’s my blood screaming, “You’re more than your darkness.”

Maybe the fight to live

isn’t about strength,

but stubbornness.

A refusal to let pain have the final word.

So yeah—

All I want is to die some days.

But every inhale

is a poem my body writes

without asking me for permission.

Every heartbeat is a drumbeat of resistance.

Every morning I open my eyes is a quiet revolution.

And maybe—

just maybe—

that means I still have something to give.

A breath.

A verse.

A step forward.

Even if I don’t want to.

Even if I don’t know how.

I’m here.

Still blinking.

Still trembling.

Still trying.

Still…

alive.

The Weight I Wear

I wake up

before the sun has even sighed,

and wear a smile

like armor—

not joy.

Just a habit.

A mask.

Another role

I didn’t ask for.

They call me strong.

Reliable.

“Solid.”

But solid doesn’t mean whole.

It means no room to fall apart.

I say “I’m fine”

like it’s a reflex,

like breathing.

But I don’t even know

what I’m trying to keep alive anymore.

Every day—

I show up.

For them.

For work.

For birthdays.

For broken hearts

that aren’t mine,

for people who never stop

to ask

how much I’ve bled

under the surface.

I don’t reach for the bottle.

I don’t light it up.

Not because I don’t feel the urge—

but because I know

how many would break

if I did.

And I can’t risk

disappointing

the people who need me

to be okay.

Even if I’m not.

Especially if I’m not.

I’ve mastered

self-denial.

I’ve learned how to fold my dreams

into napkins

and tuck them in my pocket—

quiet.

Forgotten.

Like they were never mine

to begin with.

Because when you’re the one

everyone leans on,

there’s no space

to lean back.

And truth is…

I’m tired.

Tired of saving spaces

for everyone but me.

Tired of pretending

this doesn’t hurt.

Tired of walking past mirrors

and not recognizing

who’s staring back.

I want to scream.

Not for attention—

for freedom.

For a day

where I can just choose

me.

Where I’m not afraid

that choosing myself

means losing everyone else.

I want

to fall apart

without apology.

To feel

without filtering.

To cry

without covering it up

in laughter and “it’s all good” lies.

But instead,

I stay.

Steady.

Smiling.

Silent.

Because that’s what they need.

Because that’s who I became.

Because sometimes,

being the strong one

means

never being seen.

But someday…

maybe I’ll speak louder.

Maybe I’ll step forward.

Maybe I’ll say:

“This is who I am. And I deserve to be here too.”

And that day…

will be mine.

How Boyfriend Material Wrecked Me—in the Best Way Possible

I didn’t expect to cry while reading Boyfriend Material by Alexis Hall.

Sure, I expected to laugh (which I did—loudly and often), and I expected some swoon-worthy moments (there were plenty). But what I didn’t see coming was how deeply this book would speak to the broken parts of me I’ve tried to keep hidden for so long.

This wasn’t just a fun, queer romcom with British sarcasm and a fake-dating trope. For me, Boyfriend Material cracked open something tender I didn’t even realize still hurt as much as it did.

Because, just like Luc, I know what it feels like to be shattered by someone who never saw me the way I hoped they would. To be left in pieces and told—through silence, through distance, through indifference—that I wasn’t enough. And after that experience, I didn’t just walk away hurt—I walked away convinced that love wasn’t meant for me. That I had to settle for half-hearted relationships or surface-level connections because deep down, I believed I didn’t deserve more.

Luc’s story is about someone who’s been burned so badly by past relationships and public humiliation that he’s built walls around himself so high, even he can’t see over them anymore. He uses jokes and sarcasm as armor, afraid that if anyone gets too close, they’ll see the mess underneath and walk away. Reading that was like looking into a mirror. I’ve done the exact same thing—pushing people away before they have a chance to really know me, because I assumed they’d leave anyway. Better to leave first, right?

And then there’s Oliver. Sweet, steady, structured Oliver, who on the outside seems to have it all together but is quietly wrestling with his own fears of inadequacy. Watching Luc and Oliver slowly, awkwardly, and honestly learn to care for one another felt like breathing for the first time in a while. Because for once, the romance wasn’t about two perfect people falling in love—it was about two real people, carrying real scars, choosing to show up for each other even when it was hard.

That part wrecked me.

There’s a scene (I won’t spoil it too much) where Luc starts to realize that maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t have to keep punishing himself for the ways he’s been hurt. That he can actually let someone love him. And not just tolerate him, but love him in all his messy, chaotic, vulnerable glory.

I had to close the book for a second after that scene. Because I’d never really let myself believe that was possible for me.

This book made me sit with feelings I’ve buried—how I’ve convinced myself to expect less so I wouldn’t be disappointed, how I’ve guarded my heart so tightly that love couldn’t even get close. And most of all, how I’ve confused being strong with being closed off.

Boyfriend Material reminded me that it’s okay to be soft. That it’s okay to want to be chosen. That love doesn’t have to be earned through perfection or performance—it can simply be given. Freely. Gently. Willingly.

It reminded me that maybe I don’t have to settle. That maybe—just maybe—I’m worthy of the kind of love that doesn’t leave when it gets difficult.

So yeah, I came for the fake dating and witty banter, but I stayed for the healing. For the truth it whispered into the quiet corners of my heart.

To anyone who’s ever been broken by love, who’s learned to shrink themselves out of fear, who’s convinced themselves that closeness is dangerous—I see you. And I think you’d see yourself in this book too.

And who knows… maybe we are boyfriend material after all.