typical-introvert

[typical-introvert]

There’s something undeniably poetic about destruction. The way it mercilessly tears down what was once beautiful, reducing it to rubble and chaos. It strips away the veneer of perfection, leaving behind something raw, something honest. In the ashes of what once was, lies a brutal truth—destruction is not the end, but a transformation. It reveals the core, the bare bones of existence, where nothing can hide. It’s in this raw aftermath that true beauty is found, unpolished and unapologetic.

[typical-introvert]

Not everyone deserves the title of parent. Bringing a pure soul into this world is a privilege, not a right. Those whose own souls are tainted with bitterness, selfishness, and unresolved darkness have no place shaping the life of an innocent. The burden of their sins should never be passed down to a child, whose only fault would be being born to someone unworthy. The purity of a new life deserves to be nurtured, not corrupted by the shadows of a parent’s their past.

[typical-introvert]

Sometimes love wasn't enough to heal the scars of the past. It was just another lie, another empty promise. Every "I love you" felt like a knife, twisting deeper into old wounds. Love became a weapon, used to control and manipulate, leaving behind a trail of shattered trust and broken hearts. In the end, love wasn't the cure—it was the poison.

[typical-introvert]

She reached out, her hand lingering just above his shoulder, a calculated gesture. "I came to talk," she said, her voice dripping with feigned softness.

He flinched at the contact, his body stiffening under her touch. "Why?" he whispered, his voice barely escaping his lips. "Why are you here?"

She withdrew her hand with a practiced indifference, her expression a mask of cold detachment. "I wanted to see you," she said flatly, devoid of any trace of remorse.

He finally met her gaze, his eyes hollow, stripped of all emotion. "See me?" he echoed, his voice hollow and empty. "Or see the wreckage you've left behind?"

Her eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation momentarily breaking through her facade. "Don’t be so melodramatic," she snapped, her patience wearing thin. "You knew what you were signing up for from the start."

He shook his head slowly, a harsh, bitter laugh escaping him. "Love," he spat out, the word tasting like ashes in his mouth. "You called it love."

Her jaw tightened, frustration morphing into thinly veiled anger. "It was," she insisted, her voice defensive and sharp. "In our own twisted way."

"In your way," he corrected bitterly, his gaze becoming distant and cold. "Not mine."

[typical-introvert]

Right now, I don't want anything or anyone at all. I just want to be completely alone with myself, to understand every twisted, dark corner of my being. I need to dive into my own chaos, free from any outside influence or distraction.

[typical-introvert]

I'm just so exhausted right now. I don’t know what to do with myself. I've always been a mess, but what I’m feeling now is beyond anything I’ve ever known. It’s not just a mess—it’s emptiness. A cold, suffocating void that I can’t escape. It’s too frigid for me to bear, and it's consuming every part of me.

[typical-introvert]

"Someone once told me, 'You deserve all the best things. And if you think I'm one of them, then you damn well better believe you deserve me too. I'll always be here for you, whether you want me or not. Always.'"

[typical-introvert]

Yes, that's exactly what I need from you! I want you to hold me so tightly, like you’re afraid to lose me. I want you to stand right in front of me, blocking out the world, making sure no one else can intrude. I want your gaze to be so intense, as if I'm the sole person in this universe that matters to you. I want you to claim me, to make me yours in every way, to control and possess me. I want you—only you, entirely and completely.

[typical-introvert]

It hurts to know that you can't move on and he won't come back.

[typical-introvert]

Don't bother wishing me a happy birthday if you never wanted me in the first place. Spare me the hollow words of celebration when your resentment was there from the start. I don’t want your insincere well-wishes when you’ve always seen my existence as a burden.

[typical-introvert]

People don’t love me; I’m unlovable. They run away, and honestly, I prefer it that way. Their departure doesn’t soften the jagged shards of my heart—it only sharpens them. Their absence keeps my wounds raw and exposed, and I revel in the pain because it’s the only thing that feels real.

[typical-introvert]

I like to hold hands or when someone initiates it. It feel like there is someone with you. Neither ahead, competing with you nor behind, pushing you to go ahead. That feeling of holding hand brings comfort to me.

[typical-introvert]

My scars aren’t physical. They’re the kind that gnaw at your soul, hidden beneath a façade of normalcy

[typical-introvert]

I'm exhausted by your presence. Every moment with you drains me, leaving me hollow and empty. Your constant demands and disregard have worn me down. I'm sick of the way you manipulate and control, twisting everything to fit your needs while I’m left shattered and spent. Your toxic behavior suffocates me, and I’m done with the endless cycle of pain and frustration.

[typical-introvert]

Feel special, if you have someone who listens to every single one of your endless rants, even the ones that drone on about nothing but everything. Feel privileged if someone is willing to endure your ceaseless whining, to be the outlet for your petty grievances and monotonous complaints. It’s a rare kind of torment to be the one forced to endure such relentless, draining babble, yet here I am, caught in this cycle of your constant, exhausting neediness.

[typical-introvert]

I've sacrificed everything for you—my hopes, my dreams, my sanity. I've thrown away my entire life, all for the chance to be yours. I’ve put aside my own well-being, my happiness, just to exist in your shadow.

Every part of me is consumed by you, and still, you remain unreachable.

[typical-introvert]

It's so easy for me to forget it—or maybe it's just easier to pretend I’ve forgotten, to tell the world a lie that I’ve moved on. I wrap myself in a façade of indifference, masking the reality that I'm consumed by it. This act of feigned amnesia is my defense, my twisted way of coping with the raw, gnawing truth beneath the surface.