Everly Rush

19h

Kalliope

I cradle hurricanes in my ribcage
while words swirl around my head.
I try to catch the good ones-
but mostly, I wish I was dead.

I do everything too much-
the joy, the sorrow, the dread.
Yet somehow, I’m never enough-
what a curious truth to be force fed.

If I laugh, it’s always too loud;
my mouth too sharp to make anyone proud.
Crying is a dangerous game,
I could sob away a city, drown in the blame.

My rage leaves no survivors,
as if I line people up on personal pyres.
When I vent, they hear preaching-
a sermon no one wants, a fear of my leeching.

I don’t love, I dissect-
obsessively search for the trap I expect.
I can’t just leave; I burn it all down-
the bubbly, funny girl wears a permanent frown.

I do too much and my inner child feels seen,
She's acting out, we aren't this mean
I just get scared when the vibe is off, and ruining the mood makes the blow more soft.

Despite the chaos I still crave love, an equal partner, wearing fireproof gloves.

If I weather your storms, could you handle mine?
Storm chasers have never been easy to find.

#chaos #love #ache #pain #grief #depression #anger #frustration #spiraling

Everly Rush 2d

Oh, What a Tragic Mess That Would’ve Been

Oh, don’t worry—
I didn’t die.
What a relief, right?
Because that would’ve been
”a tragic mess to explain.”
That’s what she said, word for word.

Not, ”Im glad you’re okay.”
Not, ”You matter.”
Just— wow, what a mess that would’ve been in the boarding school bathroom.
As if I was just
another inconvenience to mop up.

Imagine that scene—
a ******* cold tile,
27 stitches worth of silence,
and not one ******* hug
when I came back.

My arm still hurts.
Parts of it are numb,
like the feeling crawled from my brain
into my skin.
Like my body’s trying to forget,
but my nerves won’t let me.
It’s sore and dead and too alive
all at once.

I’m fifteen.
But I feel ancient.
Like I’ve already lived
through a war no one talks about.

Step mother told me,
”No one's going to help you.”
“No one’s going to believe you.”
Like she was proud of that prophecy.
Like she wanted me to drown
just so she could say
”told you so.”

And Mum—
the original vanisher—
she looked at me
and threw down the match:
”I don’t want to be your mum.”

Cool.
Love that for me.
Really sets the tone
for a happy childhood, huh?

So now I live at school.
In a dorm, in a room,
in a body that won’t forget
the blood, the cold, the shaking hands,
the locked door.

They say,
“You’re going to get therapy soon.”
Like that’s supposed to fix
a life built out of
people who left.

What if I sit down
and say all the things
I’ve kept under my skin,
and they just blink?
What if I unwrap my wound
and they say
”Oh. That’s it?”

I write because it’s the only way
I don’t scream.
I rhyme because the truth
sounds less deadly in a rhythm.

And yeah—
if this poem makes you uncomfortable,
then good.
Let it.
Because I sat on that bathroom floor
and almost didn’t get back up,
and all they worried about
was who’d have to explain it.

So next time you say,
”You're lucky you didn’t go through with it,”
remember:
I already did.
I just happened to survive.

6:41am / I’m still not okay

#broken #suicideattempt #suicidal #depression #anxiety #dysfunctional #stepparent #stepmom #abandonment

Everly Rush Jun 12

she gave me a chopping board

she handed me a chopping board
wrapped in cheap red paper,
with a card tucked neatly inside:
“since you like to slice yourself,
why not make it useful?”

merry christmas.

i stared at it—
wooden, plain,
cleaner than i’ve ever felt.
everyone else
pretended to laugh.
or worse—
pretended nothing happened.

no one stopped her.
no one looked at me.
i was thirteen
and bleeding invisibly.

she jokes like i’m not alive,
like my pain is some inside gag
she shares with herself
while i sit there,
swallowing the sound of my own heartbeat
because it’s the only thing i know
that hasn’t turned against me.

i started hurting myself
when she moved in.
not for drama.
not for show.
but because the ache in my chest
had nowhere else to go.

my skin became
a secret diary
she somehow still read.

they won’t let me get help.
say i’m too young,
too fragile,
too… dramatic.

but i’m old enough
to wake up alone in a dorm bed,
wanting to disappear
before the day even begins.

i pay for my own classes
because she says i’m too stupid
to waste money on.
i win races
because running is the only time
i feel like i’m moving away from her
fast enough.

sometimes i run
until my lungs burn.
until my legs forget
they belong to a girl
who flinches at kindness
because it feels like a setup.

i don’t want revenge.
i don’t want her to hurt.

i just want a birthday
without fear.
a christmas
without cruelty.
a life
where love doesn’t come with teeth.

and maybe—
just maybe—
a version of myself
who can look in the mirror
and see more
than what she tried to carve out of me.

18:11pm / this poem took all day to write

#invisible #silenced #runner #alone #broken #selfharm #depression #stepmother #abuse #pain

Everly Rush Jun 8

sunny spot

i found a sunny spot to sit
the kind that makes you glow a bit
the grass was cool, the light was gold
it felt like something i could hold

i stretched out like a lazy cat
no thoughts too loud, no weight, just flat
the heavy stuff slipped off my chest
the sun, for once, made all the rest

feel smaller — gone, at least awhile
i even wore a real-life smile
but shadows came, like they always do
and took my sunlight with them too.

17:26pm / i wish i could be a cat

#sunshine #cat #sunlight #depression #metaphor

Everly Rush Jun 5

Happy ******* Birthday, Dad

Let’s not sugarcoat it.
You didn’t protect me.
You didn’t question it.
You didn’t even blink
when she took my life
and signed it over to stone walls and locked doors.

I’ve been made permanent, Dad.
Not “just until things settle.”
Not “a term, maybe two.”
Permanent.
She made the decision.
She made the call.
And you?
You just stood there like a ******* statue,
held together with whatever spine she let you borrow.

And guess what?
You still don’t know.
Because she has been feeding you her version of reality
while threatening me into silence.

“You’ll make things worse.”
“He doesn’t need the stress.”
“You’re lucky we even—“

Shut the **** up.

I’m done being lucky to exist.
Done being silent so your wife can sleep better knowing that I’m far away,
tucked neatly into a place she doesn’t have to see.

She calls it “what’s best.”
I call it what it is:
exile
with a pretty brochure.

She erased me, Dad.
And you handed her the whiteout.

You think you’re keeping the peace?
There’s no peace here.
There’s just you
living a lie so loud it drowns out
the sound of your daughter breaking.

Do you know what it feels like
to be warned not to tell the truth
because you might not believe me?

Do you know how disgusting that is?
That I don’t even trust my own father
to choose me
over the woman who’s been gutting me
with fake smiles and cold silences since
I was eleven?

Let’s not pretend anymore:
You let her win.
You let her rewrite what “family” means
until I didn’t fit in the ******* sentence.

So here’s your truth:
I’m not okay.
I’m not “thriving.”
I’m surviving on scraps,
packing trauma into a dorm drawer,
waiting for someone to notice I never come home.

And since no one will say it—
Happy Birthday, Dad.
Hope the cake tastes sweet
while your real kid sits miles away
eating silence.

Hope the presents are stacked high
while I unwrap another year of being invisible.
Hope her kids call you Daddy
loud enough to drown out
what you gave up.

But when the party’s over,
and the house is clean,
and she’s sipping wine on the couch
like none of this ever happened—
I hope it hits you.
I hope my absence rots in your stomach.

Because I’m still here.
Still screaming between the lines.
Still writing you into every ******* word
because I don’t know how to make you
look at me.

So yeah.
Happy Birthday.

You got your quiet life.
And I got forgotten.

19:32pm / I bet they’re eating a chocolate cake right now

#birthday #dysfunctional #family #dad #stepmom

Everly Rush May 29

I never wanted to raise my hands

I live at school.
Not because I love it,
but because home is a war I got tired of losing.

Boarding school was supposed to be an escape.
But turns out, monsters don’t need addresses
they travel in texts, in voicemails
in the mouth of teachers
who were supposed to be grown ups,
but act like mean girls in blazers.

My stepmother doesn’t have to be near me
to make my skin crawl.
Her words arrive on screens.
Her voice leaks through the phone.
“You’re a disappointment.”
“An embarrassment.”
“She thinks she’s better than everyone else.”

She weaponizes my silence.
Twists my distance into guilt.
And the teachers?
They carry her messages like loyal dogs.
Repeat her insults with that tight-lipped smile
like they’re reading bible verses
instead of abuse.

And when I crack—
when the rage explodes out of my chest
because no one listens until I yell—
I’m the problem.
“She’s aggressive.”
“She has anger issues.”
“Unstable.”

But tell me—
what do you become
when you’re poked, poked, poked
every single day
by girls who think pain is a game
and teachers stand by
like broken statues?

What do you become
when every voice you hear
is one telling you you’re too loud,
too bold,
too much—
when all you’ve ever been
is trying to survive
a world that chews you up for breathing wrong?

I never wanted to be the girl who fights.
But kindness never stopped the bleeding.
And fists speak louder in a world
that turns its back when you whisper “help.”

All I want is peace.
Not your false calm—
not the silence that chokes me.
I mean peace where I can exist,
unafraid of my own name
coming out of someone else’s mouth.

I want to walk through these halls
and not flinch at the sound of my phone.
I want teachers to teach,
not take sides in wars I never started.

I want to feel safe
somewhere.
Anywhere.
I’m tired of being told I’m too much
by people who give too little.
I’ve bled in places you’ll never see
and still managed to be kind.
Do you know how strong that makes me?

So if you’re reading this,
and you’ve ever made someone feel small
just because you could—
congratulations.
But I’m still here.
And your hate?
It ends with me.

Because I will fight,
if I have to.
But all I ever wanted
was to be left
the hell
alone.

18:59pm / I’m tired

#bullies #fistfight #bullying #war #depression #sadgirl

Everly Rush May 27

Autopsy of a Ghost Girl

I stopped naming days a while ago—
they blur like raindrops on a cracked lens.
Everything feels like an echo
of a moment that never begins.

I’m not living — I’m leftover.
A half-thought someone left behind.
Just a whisper under locked doors,
a glitch they pretend not to find.

My mirror forgets my face now.
It fogs up, refuses to see.
I trace a smile in the steam,
then wipe it off carefully.

My body’s a punishment I wake up in,
every curve a curse, every breath a dare.
They say “You’ll grow into yourself,”
but I’m scared of what’s even there.

My bedroom light flickers like it pities me.
I don’t turn it off—it feels like a friend.
Sometimes I stare at the ceiling
and wonder when all this will end.

School is a stage I perform at.
My backpack holds more secrets than books.
Teachers read me like I’m blank paper,
like I’m nothing more than looks.

I speak less every week.
Even the silence feels bored of me.
I try to write myself into poems,
but the paper just stares blankly.

I write suicide notes in my head
like lullabies when I can’t sleep.
I imagine a world without me
and it doesn’t even weep.

No one knocks on my door anymore.
They say I’m “just going through a phase.”
But I’m not going anywhere—
just sinking in quieter ways.

I think the stars forgot my name.
I don’t even wish on them now.
What’s the point in asking for light
when you’ve never been shown how?

I keep my razor in a pencil case—
It makes more sense that way.
At least it writes something real
when my words won’t stay.

Tell me—what’s worse:
To scream and be silenced,
or to whisper your last goodbye
and still be unseen in the silence?

I don’t want a grave or flowers.
Just maybe a song without my name.
Let me go like a breath you didn’t mean—
quick, quiet, forgotten.
No blame.

23:58pm / I should be sleeping but I can’t sleep.

#depression #suicide #suicidal #unwanted #unloved