Kimmy Fae Words

09/07/2025

06/07/2025

Funny how memory works. It keeps handing you keys to doors you’ve already locked, whispering “just try again,” like I didn’t throw that key into the void with dramatic flair months ago.

I think about the places I used to belong. The rooms I’d fold myself into like an emotional origami swan, hoping someone would notice the craftsmanship. The people who felt like home until I realized home shouldn’t require wearing a parka indoors.

But even if I could go back, I wouldn’t. Not because I’ve found something better – though, let’s be real, I have upgraded to central heating – but because I don’t fit there anymore. I’ve changed shape. Like water turning to steam – still myself, just less likely to be contained in someone’s grimy Tupperware.

We didn’t outgrow each other. We outgrew the cramped little box we kept stuffing ourselves into, like two clowns refusing to admit the car is on fire.

I don’t miss us. I miss the girl who thought silence was love if she just tried hard enough to hear words again. The girl who thought love meant staying, no matter how cold or how alone it felt – honestly, someone should’ve handed her a blanket and a reality check.

I couldn’t go back even if I wanted to. That version of me is gone, and the space we built for her is probably condemned by now. I’m not better, just… elsewhere. Somewhere that fits the weird, misshapen creature I am today.

So here I am, standing in a quiet that doesn’t hurt. A quiet I chose. Honestly, it’s peaceful here. No dramatic monologues, no tears on the bathroom floor. Just me, my thoughts, and the persistent dream of adopting a judgmental cat.

✨ Tell me – what’s something you outgrew so completely it’s almost comedic to remember you ever fit there?

29/06/2025

For the longest time, I believed safety was earned through suffering. That peace was a fragile reward for surviving storms that should’ve killed me. And then he showed up with this quiet hum in his chest, and my entire frequency changed.

It didn’t come with fireworks or chaos. It didn’t demand I lose my mind just to feel something real. Instead, it settled in softly, like a new note in a song I’d been singing wrong my whole life.

I tried to find the hidden meaning, dissect every puzzle, thread every needle, unravel every braid, desperate to prove it wasn’t what it seemed. But the truth kept whispering back the same answer: not everything is a riddle to solve.

Some things just… are.

It’s strange, feeling peace where panic used to live. It’s unsettling, finding quiet where I braced for storms. But it’s also the softest relief I’ve ever known.

I think the night I met him, my universe recalibrated itself. Silver linings painted themselves over ceilings that used to hold nothing but clouds. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t need to look for lightning to prove the sky was real.

Maybe silver linings aren’t about being grateful after destruction. Maybe they’re about realizing some people arrive just to remind you what gentle feels like.

✨ Tell me – when was the last time peace felt unfamiliar to you?

28/06/2025

“I used to spend all my time conversing with you, but now I write this song to let you know I’m hurting with you.” – Logic

Funny how I used to write poems on bathroom floors – any bathroom, anywhere. School bathrooms, mall bathrooms, gas station bathrooms with flickering lights and peeling paint. Back then, hiding felt safer than being seen, and writing felt safer than speaking.

I never thought those hidden scribbles would one day become offerings. That someone might read my words and feel a little less alone. That something I wrote to save myself could save someone else, too, even just for a moment.

Because yeah, I’m still hiding. Just in plain sight now. But instead of scribbling secrets behind locked doors, I’m leaving pieces of myself out here, hoping someone else finds them and feels understood.

There were years I thought survival meant shrinking. Now I know it means reaching back with whatever scraps of hope you have left, handing them to the next person in line. Because none of us get out of this alone.

Logic said it best – it’s not just about the words, but about hurting with people. About writing so others know they’re not crazy, not broken, not unworthy of love just because their story is heavy.

So here’s to the girl writing poems anywhere she could disappear. And here’s to the woman writing them out loud now, still hiding, but leaving her colours scattered behind her like prayers for anyone else lost on their way home.

If this lands with you, tell me – what colours are you going down with today?

23/06/2025

Sometimes writing a poem feels like decoding your own brain in public.
And sometimes it feels like giving a lecture on emotional algebra to strangers using only metaphors and a cheap keychain.

This poem is the second kind.

It started with a mental image: a door cracked just wide enough to let the water in. Not enough to flood, just enough to shift something. From there, it built itself—room by room, object by object, line by line.

There’s an abacus on a shelf. There’s silence. There’s a moment that can’t be recreated, only remembered. And by the end, there’s a quiet, maybe even sacred, kind of peace.

I called it The Pocket Abacus because the big feelings always hide in the smallest things.

If you’ve ever had to explain your entire emotional arc using objects in a locked room and one flashlight, this poem might be for you.

Drop a 🧮 if you felt something. Or leave a comment with your favorite line—I love hearing which ones land the hardest.