Would Anyone Believe Me?

The days that passed.
How do you forgive for trying to kill my brother?
Dear, God.
HOW DO I DEAL WITH THIS?
I was there.
He was beaten by a group of boys coming home from school.
I felt so defenseless.
I was 60lbs.
What was I to do? Get help? Run?
PLEASE GOD. HELP ME!

I walked in on him ODing.
I will NEVER get that image out of my head.
How do I help him?
How do I rid everything that was done.

I heard,
“He deserved it.”
Noone, or nothing deserves abuse.
Noone deserves cruelty.
NOONE deserves any of it.

I ask you, God.
Whatever you have for me.
Must be so big, so powerful.
To hold this in my hands, and in my heart.

Everything changed since 9/11
I understand what they meant by, “WoMD”
God,
I am always yours.

All Is Null

Dear, God

If anyone could hear my cries, it would be you.
All knowing, all powerful.
Dad tells me that God listens to children first.
Is that true?
I never want to write him as the bad guy. Just the true stories that sit in my head, and in my hands.
Dad had a brain injury in 1994. It wasn’t the same again. I was four years old. My life, and everything I knew. Gone. In.an.instant

(I keep hearing the buzzword: Demon-mode. That is the only way I can explain it)

Nothing stands in the path.
All is null.

Dear God, you are all knowing, all powerful. I believe you when you tell me that everything happens for a reason. I really do.

I hear two sources, one of divine light, and one of fear. I want to stick to the divine light for now.
I keep worrying about the days of darkness. Is that something a child should worry about?

My cousin started smoking. We are only ten years old. I’m told its bad for you, so I say no.

What is she dealing with?
She won’t tell me.
It must be bad.

She has migraines like me.

The Boy Who Has No Pictures

Dear Dreambook,

It is a scary thing to be five years old and see movies in your head that you didn’t start. They are “brain glitches.” They are dark, messy, and loud.

I am sitting on the edge of the bed. Dad is a man of many words, but tonight he is silent. I tell him about the visuals, the scary ones where he is hurt. He just stares. His eyes look empty and full of horror at the same time. I don’t know it yet, but his head is a quiet place with no pictures. My world of bright, scary images must feel like a ghost story to him.

Then comes the night of the back roads. It is 11:00 PM. The air is cold. Everything is fine until it isn’t. The sound of metal, 18-wheeler, the sudden stop.

We are safe, but my mind is spinning. I look at the truck and then back at the “glitches” in my head. Were those thoughts just thoughts? Or was my brain trying to draw a map of the future?

I am putting these pictures here, in these pages. If they stay in the book, they don’t have to stay in my sleep.s

what is my mind capable of?

-xoxo me

Before The Timeline Got Rewritten

Dear DreamBook: The Days of Stickam & Drivemeinsane

Dear Dreambook,

I just watched a YouTube host confidently announce “The Queen of Myspace” like it’s a single crown, neatly polished, placed on one head, and sealed into internet history forever.

And I’m sitting here in my chair like,
Can you believe it?

I was there before the Top 8 was even a thing.
Before friendship became a scoreboard.
Before rearranging people felt like moving organs around.

They talk about that era like it was one clean story with one crowned name.
But Dreambook… it wasn’t like that.

There were queens. Plural.
Different thrones depending on what corner of the site you lived in.
Different empires, different glitter wars, different gods.

And no—it wasn’t Jeffree Star the way they’re trying to frame it in thumbnails like a tidy little myth. (That’s not shade. That’s just… accuracy.)

Back then it wasn’t about one person being famous.
It was about presence.
About who had gravity.

Who could post one blurry picture and the whole site would echo.
Who could change their layout and it felt like the weather changed.

Myspace wasn’t just a website.
It was a haunted mall with neon carpet.
A glittery warzone.
A place where you could be adored and devoured in the same scroll.

And it wasn’t just Myspace either,
it was the days of “stickam” and “drivemeinsane”, when the internet felt smaller but sharper, like every page was a doorway and every username was a mask you could fall in love with… or fear.

Late nights.
Glitchy video.
Visitor pages.
Guestbooks.
Proof that we were there, even if nobody believes us now.

I’m not nostalgic tonight.
I’m protective.

Those years are mine.
Those screens are mine.
That chaos was an adolescence—fanged, glittery, and alive.

So yeah. “Queen of Myspace.”

Dreambook, if anyone asks me, I’m going to tell the truth:
There wasn’t a single queen.
There was a court.
And I remember.

Current Location: In my chair
Current Mood: moody + slightly feral
Current Music: something dramatic, obviously
Tags: myspace, stickam, drivemeinsane, dreambook, internet ghosts, top 8 trauma, pastel goth life

xoxo ₊⁺✧

Rooms That Lock From the Outside

My Pastel Goth Life — Dreambook Entry

My Pastel Goth Life

Dreambook Entry

soft bruises, lavender prayers, quiet rooms

I don’t think anyone knows. Or maybe they do—and they’re afraid of him.

No one comes.

Not my grandparents. Not my aunts. Not even the one whom birthed me. Not anyone who’s ever said I love you like it was a vow instead of a decoration. No one checks on me to see if I’m okay. No knock. No call. No “Are you safe?” No “Do you need me?”

Just silence.

And silence isn’t empty. Silence is a room that locks from the outside.

The isolation ate at me until it didn’t feel like loneliness anymore—just proof. Proof that love gets quiet when it’s inconvenient. Proof that people can hold you in their heart and still leave you somewhere dangerous because it’s easier than being brave.

But if I truly loved someone… I know what I would do.

No matter the circumstances, I would save them. Or at the very least, I would reach for them. I would check. I would show up in whatever small way I could, because love—real love—doesn’t disappear when it gets complicated.

Yet here I am. Nothing.

So I talk to God.

Not in the pretty way. Not in the polished-prayer way. I talk to Him the way you talk when you’re trying not to fall apart. I wonder if I was put here for a reason, because it has to mean something—this life, this ache, this endurance.

I wonder if I’m being shaped into something I can’t see yet.

And still… it stings. Even the ones who swear they love me keep proving that maybe they don’t.

Or maybe they do, and they just won’t risk anything for it.

Either way, the result is the same:

I’m alone in the place they promised I wouldn’t be alone in.

I see there are millionaires. I see millionaires around me every day.

They are not on TV. They don’t show their faces on the screens.

I know for a fact, Dreambook—these people are very powerful.

And God is the only one who answers— even if it’s only with enough air to make it through the next minute.

I Think My Fear Has A Name. It’s: Silence.

– Your in distress goth, Luna

✦ dreambook / entry ☾ archived in velvet dusk

Dear DreamBook: The Name I Didn’t Ask For

The Name I Didn’t Ask For

A moment in time—kept vague, kept true.

Dear Dreambook,

I don’t want to get into detail. Too much has happened, okay? The kind of “too much” that turns a life into scattered receipts—proof it was real, even when it doesn’t feel real. If I soften it, I’ll start doubting myself again.

But this part keeps echoing.

Like a bell I didn’t ask anyone to ring.

It wasn’t “last night.” It was a moment in time that stamped itself into me like ink that never fully dries. Old enough to understand. Still too young to hold it.

Someone in their physical body—someone real—looked at me and told me I was an angel sent from God.

Not a metaphor. Not playful. Not gentle.

Not in a “you’re a princess” way. Not in a “you’re so magical” cliché way.

Not in the normal fairytale compliment people toss out when they want a pretty moment.

This wasn’t pretty. This was heavy.

No.

A human angel.

It didn’t feel like a compliment. It felt like an assignment.

And I need to write the truth of it, Dreambook, because if I soften it, I’ll gaslight myself. Because my brain tries to make sharp things feel harmless.

They didn’t say it sweetly.

They didn’t say it like comfort.

They didn’t say it like admiration.

There was no warmth in it—only certainty.

They said it with the most dead-eyed, serious look I have ever seen. The kind of look that makes a ribcage go quiet. Like my lungs forgot they were allowed to be loud.

Like it wasn’t a compliment—like it was a statement. Like a verdict. Like something they believed so hard it made the air feel different. Like they weren’t looking at me, but through me—like I was a message, not a person. Like I stopped being “me” and became a meaning.

And when my body tried to resist the shape they were forcing onto me, they didn’t listen.

He took my arms like handles and shook me—like my “no” was something he could loosen.

And in that second, the world learned how to split: the outside still normal, the inside suddenly not safe. I remember the texture of fear more than the room. I remember the way my mind tried to leave my body without making a sound.

It’s strange, the things you remember. Not the whole story—just the exact places where your spirit hit the floor. People think memory is a movie. Sometimes it’s a flash. Sometimes it’s a blank space shaped like a scream.

I keep circling back to the word angel.

Because angels are supposed to protect you. Angels are supposed to be light. But this wasn’t light. This was weight with a holy name attached to it—like if they dressed it in heaven-words, it would stop being what it was.

And that’s the part that makes me feel sick: how easily something dangerous can borrow a beautiful word and expect you to thank it.

So I’m writing it down the way it happened, not the way I wish it happened. Not the way it would sound in a softer world.

Because I know what I felt.

Because I know what my body did to survive it.

Because I know the difference between being seen and being claimed.

And lately—this is the part that scares me in a quieter way—Michael the angel has been talking to me.

And I don’t know if it’s guidance, pressure, or my mind trying to survive what it couldn’t name.

Maybe it’s my brain building a lantern out of the dark. Maybe it’s my spirit asking for a witness. Maybe it’s a way to make meaning out of a moment that never should’ve happened.

But I do know this:

I didn’t ask for that name.

I didn’t ask for that role.

I didn’t ask to be turned into a symbol.

I just wanted to be a kid. I just wanted to be a person.

So I’m writing this here, Dreambook, where it can’t be rewritten by anyone else.

Kept vague. Kept true.