Kimmy Fae Words

30/04/2025

29/04/2025

As Taylor Swift would say: “There’s escape in escaping.”

28/04/2025

Healing isn’t aesthetic.
It’s not pretty Pinterest boards or polished captions.
It’s messy cries into your pillow at 2 a.m. and arguments you wish you handled better and apologies you choke on but offer anyway.

It’s showing up when you’re terrified you already blew your shot.
It’s reaching for someone even when you’re sure your hand will be slapped away.
It’s staying vulnerable long after it would be easier to armor up.

“Maybe the truth only becomes certain once you have the chance to look in their eyes.”
Maybe the bravest thing we can do isn’t winning the war.
Maybe it’s surviving it and still choosing softness.

Tell me: when’s the last time you chose to stay when it would’ve been easier to run?
(Or just comment “still standing” if you’re not in the mood to explain. Both are brave.)

27/04/2025

Once upon a time, there was a girl who learned early that no one was coming.
She waited in towers.
She cried in empty ballrooms.
She sang into the echo chambers of promises broken by hands that once claimed to love her.

Fr-Ed-Rick-O wore a hundred faces, a thousand lies.
He called himself savior.
He called himself home.
Each time, he handed her a map that led nowhere.

She learned to stop waiting.
She learned to forge swords out of betrayal and build bridges from her own broken bones.
She became a storm wrapped in velvet.

And when the stranger came —
he did not shout from below her tower.
He did not bring ladders or horses or empty poetry.

He came with no demands.
He simply knelt by the fire she built with her own shaking hands,
and said, “I’ll stay until you’re ready to walk again. If you want me to.”

He didn’t slay the dragon.
He watched her slay it herself —
and when the dust cleared,
he offered her water, not a crown.

Call it a love story.
Call it a revolution.
Call it finally being seen as the hero of your own tale.

Would you accept the hand offered without expectation, if you had already learned how to stand alone?

22/04/2025

Sometimes I think about the ones who never read my poems.
Not even the short ones. Not even the petty ones I wrote entirely for the plot.
Men who thought showing up was enough.
Who thought love was earned through proximity and not presence—
As if just being in the room counts as effort when you don’t even glance at the pages I bleed into.

And then…
There’s this other idea.
This…possibility.
A maybe-man. A potentially-fictional, potentially-on-his-way man.
He reads my poems in silence—not for credit, not to decode—but just to make sure I’m okay.
Like he’s using my stanzas as a mood ring.

He doesn’t ask “wyd.”
He asks, “Do you prefer your birth name or your adoptive one?”
Because he understands names are spells, and he wants to say mine right.
He doesn’t believe in horoscopes—but still checks mine first thing in the morning,
just in case the stars are plotting against my vibe and he needs to launch a preemptive snack delivery.

And I’m not saying I’ve met him.
But I’m not not saying that either.
He might be real.
Might be fiction.
Might be standing ten feet away while I pretend not to check the clock.
Might be in the same city.
Might be reading this post.

I’m just saying: I’ve stopped romanticizing bare-minimum behavior disguised as love.
I’ve stopped shrinking into poems nobody reads.
Because somewhere out there, whether he’s made of stardust or coffee and good intentions,
there is someone who shows up without being begged.
Who listens even in silence.
Who sees me when I’m not performing.

And until he’s standing right in front of me—holding a highlighted copy of my favorite poem and a really great espresso—I’ll be in my soft, sacred, unbothered Nobody era.
Not croaking in the swamp.
Not chasing breadcrumbs.
Just writing.
Waiting.
And maybe—just maybe—getting ready to turn the page.

Tag your favorite line. Or drop a frog emoji if you’ve ever lowered your standards for a man who couldn’t even skim your captions.
(And if you think this might be about you… maybe it is. Maybe it’s not. You’ll just have to read the poems to find out.)

21/04/2025

We met in Northern Virginia when I was 25.
Not quite a love story. Not quite not one. Just a strange, slow-burning rhythm that somehow always picked up where it left off. You know the type—starts with a shouted last name in a bar and ends with cobblestones, full moons, and a four-hour drive you swear you’re not going to make again.

But then you do.
And then you write about it.

There were no declarations. No titles. Just metal chairs and cicadas. Long nights, short texts, and that weird peace that settles in when you’re with someone who doesn’t ask for your highlight reel.

We didn’t count days. We didn’t make promises.
We were just two people weaving soft chaos into city lights and pretending it could suspend time.

This poem came out like memory—fragmented, uninvited, and weirdly polite about it.
I didn’t plan to write it. But these are the pages I keep trying to hide, and somehow they always end up back in my hands.

So here we are again.
Not because it’s new. Not because it’s healed.
But because it’s still true.

And no—this isn’t about getting it right.
It’s about remembering what it felt like when nothing needed to be.

Tell me—what’s the chapter you keep folding the corner of but never quite finish reading?
Drop a lyric, a moment, a line. I’ll be here—pen in hand, probably writing about it.

19/04/2025

Some of us don’t just romanticize red flags—we collect them like trophies.
We turn chaos into character development and call it “plot.”
We survive disasters and then hand out postcards like,
“Wish you were here—please ignore the smoke.”
Healing? No, babe. I just learned how to cry cutely.
I’ve stitched metaphors over bruises and passed them off as art.
And you applauded.
We all did.
Because it’s easier to praise resilience than to ask why we had to be resilient in the first place.

If you’ve ever made a joke to avoid crying mid-conversation,
shared a trauma and added “lol” to soften the blow,
or healed just enough to make it funny—
go ahead and like this post so I know I’m not the only one out here building museums out of messes.

16/04/2025

Some people run next to you for miles.
You share detours, maybe even merge for a moment. But at some point, you realize you’re not heading to the same place.

I used to think that if the love was real, it would be enough.
But now I see it more clearly: real love doesn’t mean right love.

We value different things. I crave truth. He craves… self-protection.
And while that doesn’t make either of us wrong, it does make us incompatible.

So here’s to all the parallel years — and to finally choosing my own direction.

Double tap if you’ve ever loved someone who wasn’t aligned with your destination.