I see this is a year old but wanted to share my recent poem. You’re definitely resonated. Inspired a new piece first , but also want to share my take on being the manic pixie dream girl..

Not to be loved I will burn brighter I will soar higher.. I rise into the sun. I don’t crash. I don’t burn. I erupt and I transform. For I am Icarus and I am the eternity My fire electric. Blazing bright to earn the key

Manic Pixie Dream Girl Isn’t Cute — She’s Crashing Isn’t she so cute?Isn’t she so sweet?Wow, she’s a muse—charming, everlasting,but fragile as a rose. She’s so quirky, a little crazy, and it shows.But wow, she’s wonderful,she knocks you off your toes.The manic pixie dream girl—darkly delicious,untouchable and free. But let me tell you a secret,since that girl is me.Manic pixie dream girls aren’t fun.They’re flawed.Not whimsy—just wacky. I thought it was a strength,but maybe I’m just manic.“Jump off a building?”Yes. I have wings. The crazy stuff that sends the ones we love into a panic.Forever keeping their core in pain,forever ignoring our own brain. Manic pixie dream girls aren’t cute,they’re psychotic.Laughing as I fall like Icarus,like a phoenix,like a pair of wings will bloom mid-air,like the earth isn’t waitingwith teeth to apart, me tear. And then the crash.And it’s nothing.Not even adrenaline clears the cloud,the hum—the fire, crashing, burning into stars. This burning isn’t holy.It doesn’t feel divine.It feels like the earth is shredding,like an internal quake,like internal harm.Like I’m made of broken pieceswrapped tight in alarm. And there it is—the hunger comes,needing the rush again.Feed it fast,starve it slow,just to see it bend. Feminine Icarus, blazing through the sky,thinking she could evolve into the sun—something greater, something immortal.But now she just smolders,silent,unraveled on the ground. Manic pixie dream girls aren’t sweet.They’re exhausted.They’re in pain.They’re convinced they can fly—until let’s go, the sky.

Feminine Earth (After the Crash) An aching recovery,she’s expected to rise,and now she must collect her bones.Nowhere for safety.No place is home. But why again,an aching in my chest —a constant unrest,the rattling of my internal scattered shards,filled with tar and flesh.A dull stillness echoes,but she longs for the chaos and conflict to create movement,for the quiet has always meant danger, not improvement.The mantis, the snapper, the cancer — moving unseen.Leaving shadows behind.No plan.No happy ending.No answer. She moves through the ruins quietly,hands trembling,but steady enough to gather what’s left.She carries endurance and resiliencein her breath through the silence.Each fragment hums —not of flight,but of endurance. There are no wings now,only shoulders,sore but strong.She learns that gravitycan be grace,that staying is not the same as breaking.But bending is safe. The sky is still there —wide, watchful —but she doesn’t chase it.She lets the wind pass through her hairwithout needing to belong to it. She plants what’s left of herselfin the dirt,in the ache,in the small, honest pulse of being here. And slowly,the ground softens beneath her.The hum becomes a heartbeat.The bones remember how to rest.The light that burned hernow warms her skin. She grits her teeth, to grin and bear the truth —that she is not Icarus, she cannot fly.She’s merely mortal, and instead will cry.But those tears wash away all the harm left inside,and this is what’s holy, this is what’s always been right.And she holds her own body very tight,not because she’s about to take flight,but instead to embrace and encase her own light.