Kitrysha
MIDNIGHT DIARY
Glamour in Words
Midnight Diary is a quiet corner of my world.
A place where I collect thoughts, fragments of poetry, personal reflections and small pieces of writing that come to life during moments of introspection.
Some of these words are clear, others are more like whispers , feelings translated into sentences, sometimes understood only by me.
Just like photography, it becomes a way to transform emotions into something visible.
Through words I can shape thoughts, give form to memories and translate feelings that would otherwise remain unspoken.
Sometimes it is simply a way to slow down and listen to what is happening inside my mind.
The Mask
I wear a face that breathes in my place.
It glows. It performs. It stays alive.
When the noise collapsed,
silence spoke my real name.
Stillness cut deeper
than any past storm.
Now I sit with what remains
the parts that were never seen,
but never left.
Midnight bloom
There was a moment
not long ago
when everything inside me felt like it was collapsing.
I almost walked away
from my own life.
I thought the walls around me
were a cage.
But cages are strange things.
Sometimes they are not built from iron
or locked doors.
Sometimes they are made of silence,
old fears,
and the ghosts of memories
that refuse to fade.
For a while
I believed I was trapped.
But the truth revealed itself quietly
almost like a whisper in the dark.
The door was never locked.
The key
was always in my hands.
I had only forgotten
that I was allowed
to open it.
So I stepped back into my life,
not as someone defeated,
but as someone who had seen
her own shadow
and chosen to walk beside it.
Because I am not made only of light.
I am midnight blue.
Velvet darkness.
A woman who carries storms in her past
and still dares to bloom.
There are scars in me.
There are nights that tried to swallow me whole.
But somewhere inside my chest
there is a stubborn garden
that refuses to die.
And the strange thing about flowers like mine
is that they do not bloom in perfect sunlight.
They bloom in the dark.
Between cracks in the earth.
Between memories and survival.
Between the things that almost broke them.
And yet they rise again
with a beauty that feels almost dangerous.
I am still that flower.
A little haunted.
A little wild.
Dressed in midnight blue.
But alive.
And ready,
once again,
to bloom. 🌙
The Count’s Doll
I was twenty,
barely stitched from the wreckage
of a home that taught me silence
and called it virtue.
He found me, not a lover, not a savior
but a sculptor of flesh,
searching for a canvas
to stretch, starve, polish
into his version of beauty.
He called me raw material,
his little project,
his masterpiece in progress.
I called it escape.
Because back then,
even a gilded cage
looked better than a burning house.
He fed me shame for breakfast,
measured my worth in inches lost,
dressed me in what pleased him,
and told me,
You’re not enough yet
not until you disappear.
And I did.
Piece by piece,
I erased the girl who wanted freedom
and became
a doll with painted lips,
high heels,
empty eyes,
and a body that trembled
on command.
At night,
I drowned myself in wine
to survive the rooms
he led me into.
Rooms with locked doors,
strangers’ hands,
laughter that bit like knives.
I floated above it all
not quite living,
not quite dead.
Even now,
when I run,
when I sweat,
when I starve or swallow,
his voice breathes down my neck:
This is for your own good.
This is how you stay worthy.
But I know now:
I was never unworthy.
He was never a god.
Only a collector of broken things
too afraid to love them whole.
I carry the scar,
yes.
But I also carry the fire
that helped me walk away.
Not every doll stays on the shelf.
Crystal cage
He told me
the world beyond his doors
was a cold theatre
where girls like me
were only shadows
under other people’s lights.
And I believed him.
Not because the words were true,
but because silence
can sound convincing
when you have forgotten
the shape of your own voice.
He kept me
like something fragile and rare
a jewel
polished only to reflect him.
I glittered
the way a chandelier does
in a locked room.
He called it love.
Love, he said,
as he wrapped velvet around the chains.
Love,
as strangers’ eyes
traveled across my skin
like curious knives
through silk.
When I trembled
he called it ingratitude.
When tears fell
he said the rain
was unbecoming.
When I spoke of leaving
he whispered
that gravity
would remember me.
So I remained
a portrait on his wall,
breathing quietly
between the frames.
Until the evening
the marble floor
tasted my reflection.
My hair in his fist,
the chandelier spinning above us
like a dying star.
Something shattered then
not bone,
not glass,
but the illusion
that he was ever a god.
I saw him clearly:
a boy
wearing power
like borrowed clothing,
terrified
of the day the mirror
would stop lying.
He needed me luminous
but dimmed
bright enough
to worship,
never bright enough
to see.
He called that love.
But love does not fear light.
Now
when I stand before the mirror
the girl who looks back
is no longer
his reflection.
She is something quieter.
Something dangerous.
A flame
that learned
how to walk through fire
in high heels
without leaving ashes.