trauma

Tired of Tragic

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By Kayla Sue Warner

🔹 Intro:

There’s so much violence—out there and inside of me. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been living in a war zone, both in the world and in my own head. This is a poem about that kind of pain, but it’s also about choosing not to stay in it forever. About cracking the concrete. About saying no.

Tired of Tragic

Tired of tragic—
inside and outside of me.

Always some kind of war.

Bombs detonating
in my skull.

Shrapnel slicing through my thoughts.
Smoke flooding my lungs.
Sirens howling—
but no one comes.

I pick the metal out of my own head.
I stitch the bleeding with shaking hands.

It never stops.

There are landmines buried
inside of me.

There are landmines buried
in the streets out there.

Bombs blowing out other people’s brains
over there—
in the places we’ve agreed
not to look.

Will it ever end?
No.

This world was built
to devour itself.

But that does not mean
I have to kneel to it.

I refuse
to wear tragedy like a uniform.
I refuse
to swallow it like a daily pill.
I refuse
to keep folding myself into it—
like I was born
to explode.

There is still color
in this gray, burning battlefield.

There is still softness
when the bombs go quiet.

And I do not have to bleed
to prove I’m alive.

I am tired
of being tragic.

I am done.

I choose something else.

Like a flower
cracking the concrete on purpose—
its roots breaking the sidewalk
wide open.

Like a breath
that refuses
to stay small.

Like a soft rebellion—
a quiet but certain
No.

I am tired
of being tragic.

And I will not
be tragic
anymore.

“A Prayer I Shouldn’t Have to Say”

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📌 Note to Readers (beginning):

This post contains raw, vulnerable content about suicidal thoughts, self-harm, and deep emotional pain. It’s not meant to shock—it’s meant to tell the truth. If you are struggling, please know you are not alone. This is my way of surviving. If you choose to keep reading, thank you for holding this with care. If you’re someone who loves me, thank you for still being here.

📝 The Poem:

A Prayer I Shouldn’t Have to Say
(for the girl who keeps waking up anyway)

Sometimes,
I wish I could die.
And I’m so fucking scared
because the wish keeps growing—
quietly, like mold in a room I forgot to check.
It doesn’t scream.
It waits.

I used to keep an ESPN article bookmarked—
about a runner at Penn State
who jumped off a parking garage.
I reread it like scripture.
Not because I wanted to be her,
but because I already was.
Just slower to the edge.

In college,
I started researching methods.
Not for shock value.
For comfort.
Like maybe if I knew enough
it would be easier
when the time came.
Like maybe knowing gave me power
over something.

While teaching,
I locked myself in my bathroom at home
more times than I’ll admit.
Laid on the cold tile of classrooms
after everyone left,
wishing I wouldn’t get up.

Still now,
I find rooms with doors I can close—
not to shut people out,
but to lie down and hope
I’ll just
stop.

Because facing it
feels like drowning in daylight.
Because trying
feels like dragging my bones
through broken glass
just to smile at a meeting.

And I still pray—
To God,
To Goddess,
To whatever might cradle the wreck of me—

Please,
take me instead.
Let my death do something useful.
Spare someone better.

I know it would destroy my parents.
They’ve already lost a child.
They’d give anything to keep me.
And that’s the catch—
I want to leave,
but I don’t want to hurt them.
So I stay.
Like a ghost with obligations.

If you’re listening,
God, Goddess, anyone—
make this life holy again.
Make breath feel like more than survival.
Make staying feel
like something other than surrender.

Please,
make it matter
that I stayed.

And maybe—
maybe there’s something waiting
just past the next morning.
A hand I haven’t held yet.
A moment that doesn’t ache.
A softness I’ll recognize
as my own.

Maybe
the staying
isn’t the end
of the story.

Maybe it’s the start
of the healing.

📌 Note to Readers (end):

If this resonated with you because you’ve felt these same things—please, please stay. The world is heavy, but it’s not hopeless. You are not alone, and you are not beyond saving. I’m still here. You can be too.

If you or someone you love is struggling, please reach out:

  • Call or text 988 (U.S. Suicide & Crisis Lifeline)
  • Text HOME to 741741 (Crisis Text Line, U.S.)
  • Or find support near you at befrienders.org

“Unseen, Unheard” – a fictional horror story based on true events

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Unseen, Unheard

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of sexual assault, trauma, and psychological horror. Reader discretion is advised.

[Intro]

“Unseen, Unheard” is a psychological horror story that explores the haunting and often invisible trauma of sexual assault. Told through the journal entries of Sam, a young woman struggling with the aftermath of an assault and the supernatural forces that seem to follow her, this story weaves together the horrors of both real and imagined threats. It’s a journey into a mind trying to find peace, yet plagued by the shadows of the past.

Journal Entry 1

Date: January 15, 2014

I don’t know how to write this. I don’t know if this is even real. But I can’t get it out of my head.
It happened right after winter break, at the party at Scotty G’s house. I had felt safe there—everyone was laughing, music blasting, a familiar crowd of frat boys. He had always been so kind to me, joking around like we were friends. But that night? That night was different. I was laying on the couch, just resting my eyes. The world was fading in and out. Maybe I had too much to drink? Or maybe I didn’t drink enough?
And then I felt it. His hand. No. His finger. It slid in, without warning. I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to make it real.

Journal Entry 2

Date: January 18, 2014

It’s like there’s a shadow following me everywhere. It’s not just in my head anymore.
I can’t look at Scotty G without seeing his smile, his grin, as if nothing happened. He still thinks we’re friends. He still invites me to hang out. He doesn’t know that I can’t stand being near him. I can’t look at his face without remembering the way he touched me when I wasn’t even awake.
I should’ve screamed. I should’ve fought back. Why didn’t I?

Journal Entry 3

Date: February 2, 2014

I keep hearing whispers. I don’t know where they’re coming from.
It’s like the walls are alive, like they know what happened. Every time I pass by them, I hear my name—soft, like a wind blowing through the trees. But no one else hears it. No one else knows.
The worst part is, I can’t get away from it. I feel like I’m suffocating. He’s everywhere. And it’s not just him anymore. It’s something darker, something older. The house, the room, the air—it all feels wrong.

Journal Entry 4

Date: March 1, 2014

I’ve stopped going to parties. I’ve stopped seeing people. The whispers are getting louder.
It’s like there’s something in the house now. At night, I hear it. Something scratching at the walls. It’s not Scotty G anymore. It’s… something else. Something angry.
I can’t sleep. I can’t think. And when I try, the darkness swallows me whole.

Journal Entry 5

Date: March 15, 2014

I don’t know who I am anymore.
I don’t know if what I’m seeing is real.
The house—the one I thought was my refuge—is now full of shadows. Figures I can’t make out. No one else can see them.
I keep hearing it. That voice. It’s him. I know it is. It calls me by name, softly at first, then louder. It’s as though he’s calling me to him, beckoning me to return. But I won’t. I can’t.

Journal Entry 6

Date: April 2, 2014

I saw him again. Scotty G. He smiled at me. I almost ran, but then I heard it. The whispers, louder than ever, telling me I had to stay, I had to face him.
I don’t know what to do. Every part of me wants to run, but I can’t seem to move.
The shadows are growing. The whispers are becoming screams.
I’m starting to think that maybe I’ll never be free of this. Maybe I’ll always be trapped here. In this house. With him.

Journal Entry 7

Date: March 18, 2024 (10 years later)

I’ve been hearing the whispers again. But this time, they’re different.
I don’t know if it’s the house, or the city, or just me, but I can feel it closing in.
I think he’s here. I think Scotty G is here, still with me. I still don’t know why he did it, why he took that piece of me, but now I’m realizing—maybe I wasn’t supposed to know. Maybe this was always going to happen.
I can’t escape the feeling that I’m already dead. That I’m just going through the motions, waiting to disappear completely.

Journal Entry 8

Date: March 22, 2024

I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.
The shadows are so much worse now. I feel them pressing against me when I walk, hear them creeping when I lie in bed at night. They’re not just whispers anymore—they’re… screams.
I’m afraid I’ll never leave this place.
And what scares me the most? I think I’ve stopped caring.

Final Journal Entry
Date: March 23, 2024

I can feel it, right behind me, getting closer. The whispers, the shadows—they’re all around me. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.
The truth is, I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want to keep fighting. I think I’ve decided.
There’s only one way to make it stop. Only one way to escape.
And I’m almost ready to do it.

[End of Story]

Closing Thoughts

This story is deeply personal and not an easy one to share. It’s meant to shed light on the lingering effects of trauma, and how it can follow you in ways that others can’t see. If you or someone you know has experienced something similar, please reach out. You don’t have to go through it alone.