Authorpreneur Dashboard – Blue Evergarden
Diaries of a Borderline
Literature & Fiction
Blue Evergarden’s Diaries of a Borderline offers an intimate and transformative poetic journey, following a single protagonist’s quest for self-love and healing. Artfully divided into four parts, each section vividly portrays a tumultuous emotional odyssey.
Part 1, Diaries of a Borderline, centers on unraveling the aftermath of trauma. Chronicling the protagonist’s struggle with dissociation, loneliness, and the elusive pursuit of reclaiming a shattered identity.
Delving deeper in Part 2, This is Why She Falls Apart, Evergarden explores the delicate tapestry of self-worth and self-love, tracing the complicated journey of survival and reliance amidst inner turmoil and despair.
Entering a transformative phase in Part 3, Leaving Her Graveyard, the protagonist awakens to the potential of becoming everything she once believed she wasn’t, finding the resilience to confront her inner demons and emerge stronger.
Part 4, The Gifts She Found, celebrates the protagonist’s triumphant emergence into self-acceptance and inner tranquility. This final section encapsulates the euphoria of releasing past burdens, discovering self-love, and embracing the promise of a brighter future.
Diaries of a Borderline is a poignant, soul-stirring journey through the complexities of mental health and the transformative power of healing. With vivid prose and raw emotion, Evergarden weaves a tapestry of hope and resilience, inspiring those who tread similar paths.
Book Bubbles from Diaries of a Borderline
Where Courage Begins
We’ve all had that moment, holding ourselves together in the dark, hoping someone will notice the quiet way we’re breaking. When I look at this excerpt now, I don’t see roses first. I see ribs. the vault where breath shakes, the altar where the heart whispers, the place life hides when the world forgets to be gentle. My ribs were once where everything shattered. They carried grief too heavy for a child, monsters disguised as comfort, and a mother who taught me to perfect disappearing. Shadow makes a religion out of that. But a softer voice lived beneath it — not innocent, just tired, asking why I kept crawling back to endings that never wanted me alive. That voice was my younger self, tugging at my ribs like: “Please… not like this. Not again.” It took years to learn the difference between breaking and falling apart while still reaching for the pieces. Breaking surrenders you to the dark. Falling apart is the first rebellion. Courage isn’t loud. It’s the quiet decision to stay one more breath. Stitching my ribs was never about beauty. It was resurrection. roses for the pain I survived, sunbeams for the breath I kept choosing even on nights I couldn’t feel the dawn. If your ribs ache reading this: you don’t have to be ready. You just have to not disappear.
When The Darkness Asked Again
There’s a moment the body remembers before the mind does. that split-second where grief sharpens and the pulse stutters, like it already knows tonight might be heavy again. This came from the part of me that once believed ending my life could be a rescue letter, signed in silence, buried under “maybe this time it won’t hurt as long.” I kept trying to become the ghost my mother taught me to be, perfecting self-erasure the way she perfected teaching me I wasn’t worth staying for. Shadow makes a religion out of that. But there was also a smaller voice. tired. not soft. asking why I kept crawling back to a version of myself that only wanted the ending. That voice belonged to the child in me, tugging at my ribs asking “please… not like this. not again.” It took years to learn the difference between breaking and falling apart while still reaching for the pieces. One is surrender. The other is haunting. a quiet rebellion against the wound that wanted me gone. If you feel that ache. that hollow, trembling space between ruin and breath. know this, Some part of you is still choosing to stay. Even now. Even here. And that part is worth following back to.
The Bloom That Still Stayed
Standing inside a moment that feels too heavy for our own ribs, wishing the ache would stop asking to be carried. When I wrote this line, I wasn’t thinking about flowers at all. I was thinking about the wounded part of me that still wanted to stay... even when the rest of me didn’t. The hummingbird became a symbol for that small, soft flicker of hope we lose and find over and over. It always finds the wounded bloom first. It always knows where the ache is hiding. For a long time, I believed growth and self-harm carried the same burn. that collapse was the only doorway to change. I didn’t know healing could come without hurting myself to earn it. But the truth is quieter. The truth kinder. A grave is only as deep as we allow ourselves to settle into. The hummingbird taught me this, returning every morning to a withering branch, tasting dew from a promise the world forgot to keep. It reminded me that even the smallest parts of us deserve someone who stays. And sometimes that someone has to be us. If you’re reading this with your chest tight and your breath thin, You’re always worth returning to. Always. And somewhere in you, a bloom is still waiting for the warmth of your own hands.
When Falling Apart Isn’t Failure
When I wrote this, I was thinking about the soft self inside us. the one who remembers who we were before survival taught us to disappear. There’s a moment trauma doesn’t name: not the panic, not the collapse, but the quiet after. where you’re still breathing, even though a part of you swears you’re not. That’s where these lines came from. For years I called myself broken because the world told me my pain was “too much,” that feeling deeply made me childish, dramatic, impossible to love. But the truth is softer than that. Feeling too much doesn’t make you a child. It makes you still alive. There’s a difference between breaking and falling apart while still reaching for the pieces. One is final. The other is reclamation. I’ve learned falling apart isn’t failure. It’s the soul refusing to die the way the wound intended. It’s the inner child tugging at your ribs whispering, “Not like this. Not again.” Ruin was never the ending. It was the soil. And anything still breathing in you is something still trying to bloom. If something aching in you loosened while reading this, it’s because the part of you that’s still alive recognized itself.
When She Learned To Stay
When I wrote this line, I wasn’t thinking about gods or prophecy. I was thinking about the small, trembling part of me that once believed she was easier to lose than to love. I know the feeling of being the last person you learn how to care for. For most of my life, I treated myself like a shadow someone else cast. Grief taught me to disappear before the world could ask me to. But eventually even the ghost of me grew tired. tired of haunting my own heartbeat, tired of calling collapse a kind of prayer. No one teaches you that surviving yourself becomes its own kind of motherhood. Mothering myself didn’t start with gentleness. It started with exhaustion. With asking, “What if I stayed a little longer than the pain expected?” In the Evergarden, Destiny and Fate aren’t authorities. They’re witnesses — standing at the edge of my ribs, hoping I’ll choose to nurture the child inside me who still believes in warmth. And maybe that’s all self-mothering really is: letting the wound breathe without calling it failure. letting the younger version of you rest in your hands without apologizing for her weight. letting softness interrupt the ancient urge to vanish. If this feels like a page from your own ribs… there is more where this came from. Maybe you’re the one Destiny and Fate have been whispering about too. I do hope so.
when the ribs remember winter
When I wrote this scene, I was remembering myself at fourteen . the winter after my mother died, when grief and harm were the same shadow wearing two different faces. I didn’t have the language for survival then. I didn’t know how to stop calling the blade “mother,” or how to stop offering my inner child to the parts of me that wanted silence more than breath. In those moments, “the devil” wasn’t a monster outside of me. It was the part of my trauma that believed self-destruction was easier than learning how to stay. And “ripping hope from my ribs” wasn’t metaphor — it was the ache of skipping the things I knew would bring back light, because light felt too expensive to hold. If you’re carrying this kind of moment right now — the moment where pain tries to prove a tear can pass for illumination — I want you to know this: You are not the sin. You are not the shame. You are not the scapegoat for a world that never learned how to love tenderly. Even if all you can do is cry until morning comes… you’re giving yourself one more chance to choose a hue of hope that wasn’t visible in the dark. You stayed. That’s a beginning.
The Promise Hidden in Pain
I used to believe healing meant dying. That letting go of everything that had ever kept me alive, was the ache that felt like proof I existed. But healing isn’t a death, it’s a becoming. It’s what happens when you stop begging your wounds to close and start asking what they’ve been trying to teach you all along. Every scar is a sentence of survival written in the language of light. Every breath after heartbreak is the soul saying, I’m still here. I stayed. I softened. I rose. Some days, the mending hurts more than the breaking, and you’ll wonder if you have enough courage left to keep stitching yourself together. You do. You always have. The heart doesn’t die when it’s broken. it expands. making room for a gentler kind of love. the kind that doesn’t need saving, only remembering, the kind that whispers through the ribs, you are the rescue you’ve been waiting for. So if today feels like ending, remember... endings are just the body catching up to a soul choosing to continue. You were never meant to disappear. you were meant to live the life your soul knows your heart will love. rise, beloved> Your healing will not kill you. it will crown you.
The Moment the Storm Learns Your Name
I used to think healing was silence. That if I stopped speaking their names, the ghosts would lose their grip. But the truth is quieter and far more alive. healing is the moment you stop apologizing for surviving. The storm was never my punishment; it was my reflection. It called my name until I finally turned toward it and said, I see you. I’m still here. Every scar became a constellation, every ache a kind of prayer. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting what they did. It’s remembering what I deserve. And every time I choose myself, the thunder softens. The rain sounds like my heartbeat learning a new rhythm. I am not what happened to me. I am what bloomed after. let the storm speak your name. it’s only trying to return you to yourself.
When the Soul Finally Comes Home
I used to think peace meant disappearing. Believing I had to shrink my light to feel safe inside my own ribs. But peace was never absence... it was return. It’s the holy moment you stop begging the world to choose you and decide that you already belong here. When I finally let myself breathe, I realized the sanctuary I’d been searching for wasn’t somewhere out there. It was the pulse behind my sternum, the prayer I kept waiting for someone else to speak. The forest within me whispered, "You have always been home." Maybe you know that exhaustion too—the endless proving, the quiet ache of wanting to rest without guilt. You don’t have to earn it. You only have to soften. Every time you choose gentleness over judgment, you build an altar of safety inside your own chest. And when you do, the storms ease. The soul exhales. And destiny, smiling like dawn through the trees. The light never forgets how to call your name back to show, you are already the home you can always return to.
When Survival Learns to Sing
I’ve stood by that same river. the one that remembers everything you tried to forget. Its ebb and flow teaches that healing is not about stillness, but about learning to breathe with the current. Some days you rise; some days you’re carried. Either way, the water keeps its promise: movement is survival. There was a time I mistook my own thunder for danger. I thought the lightning behind my eyes meant destruction instead of divinity. I thought being strong meant never trembling. But strength was never the absence of fear- it was the breath that stayed even when my heart didn’t trust the next one would come. If you’ve ever felt like the monsters were winning, remember this: their knives only find power when you forget your light was forged in storms. You were never meant to be gentle with what tried to unmake you. The river doesn’t ask for permission to flow. Neither should you. For the ones who learned to pray through lightning and call it healing
Ashes Made a Goddess
I know what it feels like to stand at the edge of yourself—half afraid to leap, half aching to be free. There was a time when I mistook my own fire for something dangerous, when I believed the names carved into me were truth. I thought surviving meant dimming. But healing has its own temperature. At first it burns: the rage, the grief, the wish that someone else could have loved you better. Then, slowly, the flame learns tenderness. It stops destroying and begins to warm. That’s when you realize the fire was never meant to punish—it was meant to purify. You start to listen to your heart without flinching. You begin to keep yourself safe instead of small. The moment you choose that gentleness, the ember inside brightens again—this time not to scorch, but to guide. Maybe you’ve been called names that made you doubt your light. Maybe you’ve been taught to fear your own heat. Let this be your reminder: the same fire that once burned you is the one that will save you.
The Night She Forgave Herself
I know the kind of night that steals your pieces—when silence feels heavier than grief and you start to wonder if the stars remember your name. I used to sit beneath that same sky, counting what I had lost, trying to rebuild myself from constellations that no longer matched. Healing, I learned, isn’t about becoming whole again; it’s about letting the missing pieces become windows for the light. You begin to see that even the parts taken by the dark were never wasted—they taught you how to glow without permission. Maybe you’ve been haunted by the ones who couldn’t love you right, the echoes that still call your name in the quiet. You don’t owe those ghosts another heartbeat. You owe yourself the freedom of release. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting. it’s remembering without carrying the wound. It’s when the night finally exhales and you realize... you’ve survived its weight. And when starlight wraps itself around you again, you’ll understand you were never meant to stay broken. You were meant to shine through the cracks. the stars show us the way most in the darkest of nightfall.
I Belong to Myself Now
I used to carry every name the world threw at me like stones in my pockets. broken, damaged, hopeless. Maybe you know what that feels like, carrying names that were never yours until they almost became you. For years I walked inside that echo, believing it was me. But then I felt her. the little one watching from behind my eyes. She wasn’t asking for perfection. She wasn’t asking for proof. She was just asking if I would still choose her, even after everything. That question cut deeper than any of the names. It forced me to decide who I would belong to: the voices that wanted me small, or the self that had been waiting to be claimed. I realized then: I could not belong to the lie anymore. Choosing myself didn’t arrive like fireworks. It came like air after drowning, a breath I had been holding for years finally released. It felt like setting down someone else’s story and picking up my own. Maybe you’ve carried names that were never yours. Maybe you’ve wondered if choosing yourself is selfish. It isn’t. Choosing yourself is never selfish. Choosing yourself is survival turned holy. Choose yourself anyway.
Her Fist Was a Door
I remember the grave calling to me. It said rest. It said stop. It said closer to Mom. It said you are done. I almost listened. I almost laid down. I almost disappeared. But my fist closed. My fist was a vow. My vow was a door. And I walked through. Maybe you’ve heard it too. The voice that says surrender. The voice that says silence. The voice that says you will never make it out. But listen— You are braver than the grave. You are brighter than the whisper. You are stronger than the lie. Step. Even trembling. Step. Even fractured. Step. Even now. And the blue will split open. And the way home will appear. And your life will not belong to the grave. It will belong to you.
When Constellations Break Curses
Even in the sea of darkness, the light still breaks through. I know this because I’ve watched it happen in me. You’ve seen it too — that moment you thought you were only fragments, but the stars in your chest kept arranging themselves into something whole. The truth is, the monsters don’t vanish. They linger at the edge of your breath. But tonight, you guide them. You remind them who carries the lantern. You remind yourself that curses can end, not because the past has vanished, but because you choose to write a different vow. And here’s the secret: you don’t have to shine perfectly. You only have to shine honestly. Every time you whisper your own name with love, another star lights up inside you. You are the constellation. You are the map home.
The Covenant of Healing Skies
When will I learn that self-harm and growth don’t have to feel like the same thing? I wrote that once in a diary no one was meant to read. And maybe you’ve whispered it too—late at night, when the silence feels heavier than skin. I used to confuse breaking myself with rebuilding myself. Every scar felt like progress. Every collapse looked like transformation. But what I was really doing was circling ruin, calling it redemption. Something shifted when I looked up. Fuchsia skies. Apricot light. The smallest reminder that my body wasn’t made for endless ruin. It was made to hold me. To hold love. To hold stardust. You don’t have to keep waging war against yourself to prove you are becoming. You don’t have to mistake pain for progress anymore. You are allowed to bloom without bleeding. You are allowed to breathe without breaking. You are allowed to call yourself alive without a single apology. The covenant is already inside you—written in every dawn sky. Not all healing has to ache. Sometimes it feels like light.
Letters That Outlive Fire
To Older Blue, I don’t know if this helps your heart, but I’m happy you stayed to save me. I forgive you for treating me like Mother. I’m grateful you chose to save the parts of yourself she tried to kill. I know this vow because I’ve written it in my own lungs. I’ve felt the fracture of mistaking survival for love, and I’ve carried the ash of apologies that never came. For years, my breath was nothing but borrowed silence. But something shifts when forgiveness finds its way into your ribs. Monsters lose their teeth. The body begins to remember its covenant with starlight. Even in the ruins, you are allowed to write letters that resurrect you. You are allowed to tell your younger self: I stayed. I saved you. You are allowed to breathe in love that doesn’t vanish when someone leaves. You are allowed to bloom through the cracks of every grave that tried to bury you. This is the Breathstained vow: forgiveness is not weakness—it is rebellion in slow motion. The Evergarden waits, patient as moss, until you claim your home inside your chest.
The Way Back Through Collapse
She says the home inside her chest kept pulsing, even when she couldn’t. I know this because mine did too. I saved myself in fragments, and you walk with me through the same ruins. There were nights when breaking felt like the only language I spoke, when stardust seemed like ash. But something always hums beneath the rubble. It waits for the breath that chooses not to quit. I once thought collapse was proof of failure. Now I know it is the threshold every soul must cross to find its vow. You are walking it now. Each time you fall apart, you are already closer to the pieces that remember how to sing together. Each step is proof that the pulse inside your chest has not abandoned you. Every fracture is an opening. Every silence is an echo that wants to be filled with your breath. This is the vow we share: That you are not ruined. That you are rebuilding. That your chest hums with the same stardust I carry, and together we keep the way back lit.
When Dreams Begin to Bleed
Each time she surrenders, her dream dies a little more. I know this because mine have too. I’ve stood in the mirror, convinced that one moment of weakness meant the end of everything I could ever be. I’ve watched myself vanish in the same way you might — as if surrender once means surrender forever. That’s what the wound does. It lies. It tells you that you are only your breaking. It whispers that letting go means you’ll never rise again. It sharpens itself into knives of self-hate and abandonment, cutting at every edge of your identity until you can’t tell who you are anymore. But here’s the truth I’ve had to learn in pieces: every time I thought I lost myself completely, I was still here. Breathing. Waiting. Dreaming, even if I didn’t believe I deserved to. And you are too. You don’t have to surrender the whole of yourself just because you surrendered once. You don’t have to abandon your dream just because the wound said you would. You are allowed to walk back toward it. Again. And again. This is how we bloom at the edge of nothing: not by never breaking, but by refusing to let the breaking have the last word.
When Butterflies Dare the Ruins
The violet butterfly hums in her ear: Dig deeper. The pain won’t stop us anymore. I know this voice — the one that arrives when despair insists it has the final word. I have heard it whisper inside my own marrow. And I know you’ve heard it too, that soft rebellion inside the ruin. For so long, I thought the pain was proof I’d failed. I thought monsters meant I was still haunted, that scars meant I was still broken. But the butterfly teaches otherwise. Pain doesn’t mean the story is over. It means something inside you still breathes enough to fight for more. You are allowed to listen. You are allowed to believe that one day, even your wounds will hum back to you. Every time you place your hand over your chest, every time you breathe against the silence, you are digging deeper. You are refusing to let the meadow rot. The violet butterfly is not fantasy. It is faith in disguise. And it is here, now, reminding you: The pain will not stop us anymore.
The Letter That Saved Her
Dear self. I used to think the silence between sunrise and sunset belonged to the monsters. Their voices felt louder than my breath, louder than my body’s will to keep going. I wrote apologies to you in the dark, apologies that felt useless because how could words ever undo years of ruin? But here is what I’ve learned: every time I write, “I’m sorry Mommy hurt you,” something loosens. Every time I whisper, “I’m sorry I treated us like she did,” I notice a crack of light slip in. Forgiveness does not come from her—it comes from me, to you. Maybe you’ve written this letter too. Maybe you’ve held the pen and thought, if I could only speak to the child I once was, maybe she would stay. That’s how the healing begins: not in forgetting, but in staying. You, too, can begin again. Say to the child in your chest, “I’m sorry,” until the word bends into love. Say to your reflection, “I’m still here,” until your eyes soften enough to believe it. The monsters may still visit. But they no longer own your name. You do. And maybe the rest of the letter is waiting…
When Nothing Becomes Everything
She sacrifices her grace to her mother, wondering if Lazarus still rises. When you speak to the dead, all of them hear you. I know this because I’ve tried to silence my ghosts too, only to learn they multiply when you pretend they aren’t there. The hole I carried was supposed to end me. Instead, it taught me how to breathe with lungs full of smoke and sky—how absence can hold more truth than presence, how silence can echo louder than screams. You know this ache. You’ve tried to bury it, haven’t you? You’ve tried to trade it for someone else’s version of grace, someone else’s story of survival. But Nothing tried to kill you. Instead, Nothing carved you into more. It is the hollow space that shows you where you still long, still ache, still believe something more might bloom. The monsters return because they know what you’re becoming. They hear the vow: you will not disappear. That vow is everything. This is the paradox: the hole you thought was your grave was always your garden. And you—you are the seed that refuses to stay buried.
How She Weaved Time With Her Heart
She etches her name into time, knowing the gift of life is in how deep the heart can feel. I know this because I’ve tried to write myself out of my own story before. To disappear into silence felt easier than carrying a heart that felt too much. But then something shifted. I began to understand that the very weight I once wished away was the proof that I was still alive. You, too, carry this proof. Every ache you feel, every joy that surprises you, every tear you never expected to shed — these are not signs of weakness. They are etchings. They are inscriptions of your survival carved into the hours you’ve lived. Time does not remember us because we were flawless. Time remembers us because we dared to keep feeling, even when it hurt. To love deeply in a world that tried to hollow us out is its own defiance. If you’ve ever wondered whether your story matters, remember this: your heart is already writing it. Every beat is a signature. Every breath is another line etched into forever. Not every name has been spoken yet.
When Monsters Dissolve
The monsters still visit her at sunrise and sunset. By nightfall, she learns they can dissolve in forgiveness. I know this because I’ve stood at that same edge—where everything feels like nothing, and nothing feels like the only truth. But something shifts when we allow hope to be born inside suffering. Something falls into place when we realize storms can also be gifts. I used to think forgiveness meant excusing what broke me. But the truth is, forgiveness is what frees me to keep walking. It doesn’t erase the monsters. It dissolves their power to haunt. It transforms ghosts into rivers, storms into skylight, grief into the bone-deep memory that I was always more than what I endured. You are allowed this too. You are allowed to bloom at the edge of nothing. You are allowed to name yourself everything, not because the pain is gone, but because the love you choose to carry through it is real. Forgiveness is not for those who harmed you—it is for the one who survived. This is how you begin to remember yourself.
When the Monsters Return
The monsters still visit her at sunrise and sunset. Yet something inside her fell into place when she started to believe in her divinity. I know this because the monsters still visit me too. They linger at the edges of my mornings, whisper at the gates of night, tracing scars as if they are scripture. For years, I thought their presence meant I had failed. But something shifted: the moment I stopped trying to erase them and instead began to name the holiness in my survival, their throne began to crumble. You are allowed to do this as well. You are allowed to call yourself divine—not because you feel unbroken, but because you are still here, still breathing where silence once begged you to disappear. The monsters do not vanish, but they falter when you rise anyway. Every time you whisper “I am worthy of safety,” every time you place your hand to your chest and feel its rhythm insisting you belong, something falls into place. Divinity is not a final destination. It is rebellion in slow motion—the reclaiming of your mornings and your sunsets from the voices that swore you would never heal.
Flowers Only Grow When It’s Safe
When I wrote this letter, I thought I was only speaking to my younger self. But I realized we all carry versions of ourselves still waiting to feel safe enough to bloom. The child who longed for gentleness. The teenager who needed understanding. The adult who craves a place where their softness won’t be punished. They are all still inside us. Flowers never apologize for needing the right soil, the right light, the right care. And neither should we. Growth has never been about pushing ourselves to survive in harsh places. It’s about giving ourselves permission to seek safety and call it sacred. So often we think healing means erasing pain. But what if it means building a home inside where our abandoned parts finally belong? What if it means saying to ourselves: I will not leave you behind again? If you’ve ever wondered what it might feel like to rest, to love yourself without fear, or to grow only where it’s safe—this poem is for you. Sometimes the greatest vow we keep is this: I will only grow where I am safe.
We Promised the Mirror, Together
I wrote this for the part of me that kept breathing in grief—and for the part of you still doing the same. I once thought healing meant erasing what hurt. It doesn’t. It means I hold the mirror with soft hands and promise not to look away when the old ache flickers. It means you and I choose the small, ordinary moments we learnto name as gifts: water on the wrists, a breath in the doorway, a name spoken kindly. When Destiny asks if we will mother ourselves the way we needed, I answer with you beside me. We vow to be the home our dreams return to—without needing to knock. We agree that love may never abolish grief, but it can bloom inside it, anemones swaying in violet light. The vows we make in silence do not vanish — they echo through the body until even our abandoned parts recognize the sound of home.
Gold From Shadow
I wrote Diaries of a Borderline as if the forest itself were whispering through me—branches heavy with night, roots tangled in sorrow, leaves trembling beneath the weight of survival. And yet, somewhere, a bloom still turns toward the light. If you’ve ever wandered your own wilderness… if you’ve ever felt hunted by your shadows… know this: the soil remembers the sun. Even you, weary as you are, carry seeds waiting for rain and the break in the sky. The darkness devours the starlight. She’ll sign her dreams away if it means she can rest. The devil regains his halo. Still she knows hope is never lost—the light always finds a way to weave gold from shadow. This book was written for those who know they are both soil and star. May its pages remind you: your shadow is not your ending—there is more waiting to grow in you.
Made of Stars, Made of Resilience
When I wrote Diaries of a Borderline, I wanted to tell the truth about what it means to live through darkness and still find light. As one reviewer from Readers’ Favorite said, “Blue Evergarden takes readers on a poetic journey of resilience and healing… The collection inspires hope, showing the resilient spirit of humans who continue to chase their dreams with renewed resolve even amid the darkest of circumstances.” Others, like Lia Mara Dospetti, shared how deeply these words reached them: “Her beautiful rhymes will pull at your heartstrings. I wanted to hug her. Thank you, Blue, for such an honest and painful collection.” If you have ever wondered if your own pain could be transformed into something luminous, these pages are for you. They are a reminder that resilience is not abstract — it is alive in you. She was what the stars are made of. Resilience. They generate their own warmth. Their own light. This book is a testament that even in the darkest places, light is born. And that light belongs to you too.
Learning to Love Myself Whole
She used to believe she had to water herself down to be loved. She used to believe healing was something reserved for everyone else. That’s the voice many of us know too well—the one that says we are “too much” and “not enough” all at once. This poem is a reminder that healing isn’t selfish. It’s survival. It’s the quiet courage to stop drowning in the ghosts of the past and start tending to ourselves. Early readers of Diaries of a Borderline have called this journey: “Absolutely beautiful, even when the emotions reflect a haunting sadness… showing renewal and courage in breathtaking imagery. A very, very highly recommended collection.” — Readers’ Favorite (5 Stars) If you’ve ever carried the weight of someone else’s shadow, or felt you didn’t deserve to heal—this book was written for you. Every page is an invitation to sit with your scars, to breathe into resilience, and to find warmth again in your own love.
Leaving the Grave Behind
From inside the casket, she almost believed the vultures when they told her she was worthless, that she was meant to suffer. For so long, despair was the only voice. But in time, something shifted. Hope poured in like light, reminding her she was not too broken, not too much. She stood beneath the elm tree, breathed redemption into her lungs, and began to belong to herself again. Bethuel Kibet wrote: “This is a deeply moving and beautifully written poetic journey through trauma, survival, and ultimately self love… It is not only a collection of poems but also a companion for anyone walking through hardship and searching for light.” For every soul who has ever been told they were too much, for every heart that once felt buried — these pages are proof you can rise, you can belong, you can bloom again.
The Lilac Flame That Led Her Home
There is a certain kind of bravery that doesn’t sound like war cries or steel— It sounds like a girl screaming into the sky, and then deciding to stay. This excerpt is about the kind of courage that rises quietly from the earth. The kind that blooms under grief. It’s not polished or pretty. It’s stitched together with lilac flame, sunbeams, and the names we were told not to speak. She is the meadow and the storm. The bruised voice and the burning altar. The prayer that dares to breathe even when it’s not safe. If you’ve ever tried to find your way back home in a world that made you believe your softness was a sin— This is for you. This is from my poetry book, Diaries of a Borderline, where I transmute wounds into wildflowers and speak into the places that ache quietly. Your softness is not a weakness. Your survival is not invisible. Your voice is brave simply for being yours. You are not broken. You are becoming. If you’ve ever stitched your ribs with wildflowers, this may read like remembering.
What if none of it was her fault?
There are moments when we stand in the ashes of everything we’ve survived and ask — "Was it ever my fault?" This is the ache I wrote from. The in-between. The silent sob behind closed doors. Sometimes the most sacred rebellion is not escaping pain — but learning how to see yourself with compassion in spite of it. If you’ve ever questioned whether you were worthy of softness… If you’ve ever wondered what healing could sound like if it were honest… If you’ve ever needed to know that you are not alone in what you carry — This book was written for you. You don’t have to earn being loved. You don’t have to bleed just to be seen. And your story isn’t over just because someone made you believe you were too broken to bloom. She is still learning. So are you. So am I. And that is holy.
When Your Heart Forgets It’s Sacred
If you’ve ever sat quietly with the ache of your own story, this page is for you. If your breath catches when you remember what was taken, what you survived, and what you almost didn’t— you are not alone. This poem was written in a moment I needed to remember that grief doesn't make me less sacred. It makes me more whole. That my softness is not the aftermath of breaking, but the echo of my choosing. If you are learning to love the parts of yourself that still hold on to the hand of someone who let you go— If water remembers and you do too— this is your mirror. Come home to your heart. Let it feel how far you've made it. Let it bloom open again, even if only for a breath.
A Letter from the First Mother
being present is how nature remembers to bloom again. this poem is a letter from the first mother— the one who made rivers to carry grief into gardens. it is not an apology but a reminder: the wind still holds you the way your spirit wants to tender and secure. from diaries of a borderline a book for anyone who’s ever bloomed through the ache. “I wanted to hug her.” —Lia D. Amazon review
When Darkness Begs for Light
Sometimes the most haunting poems aren’t about healing yet, but about survival in its rawest form. When I wrote adopted, I wasn’t aiming for polish. I was speaking from the place where the only honest prayer is, “Help me.” One reviewer wrote: “Diaries of a Borderline is a raw, deeply emotional collection… Whether you’ve been diagnosed with BPD, are healing from trauma, or simply appreciate poetry that feels real and unfiltered, this book will speak to you.” That’s what these pages try to do—they hold the ache we don’t always say aloud, the silence that presses against the ribs, the moments that ask for mercy without promising an easy answer. But this book does not leave you in the dark. Another reader described the journey as one that “begins in self-hate, travels through confusion, and ends in new hope.” That arc matters. It means survival is more than endurance—it’s the stubborn proof that even our brokenness can carry us toward light. If you’ve ever whispered “help me” into the night and wondered if anyone could hear, let these poems keep you company until morning. Sometimes those two words become the first thread of a life you get to keep.
The Letter That Saved Me
Hannah wrote: “This is a viscerally vulnerable poetic journey that gives an honest look at the inner workings of someone experiencing and moving through BPD. As someone with my own mental health struggles, and as someone who has people in my life who cope with BPD, I found this work so beautiful, hard, raw, and poignant… I can’t recommend this collection enough.” Her words remind me why I wrote Diaries of a Borderline. Because sometimes survival isn’t loud—it’s quiet. It’s a whisper. It’s a letter written to the self you thought was gone. This poem, dear younger blue i, is one of those letters. It’s a reminder that even when silence feels endless, the body remembers how to rise. Healing doesn’t erase the past—it changes the way it lives in you. For me, it meant looking at the younger self I had buried under shame and finally saying, I love you. That is what this book became: a journey of loss, survival, and reclamation. Not a straight line, but an arc that ebbs and flows, the way Hannah described. For the haunted. For the healing. Always both. If these words feel like yours, Diaries of a Borderline is waiting for you— in every hour, every place, wherever healing is needed.
Her Mother Was Wrong
Abuse tried to break her. It almost did. But something inside whispered — the voice that cursed you was never the truth of you. For the ones who carry silence like a scar. For the ones who still wonder if love was ever meant for them. Diaries of a Borderline is not just my story. It’s a mirror held to the ache you thought was yours alone. A book for the haunted. A book for the healing. A book that reminds you — you were never broken, only surviving. Step inside Diaries of a Borderline. If these words feel like yours, then this book already belongs to you.
When Your Body Becomes the Curse
Sometimes trauma isn’t spoken—it’s inherited. A mother’s silence, a father’s absence, the way fear gets stitched into the body until you start to believe you are the curse itself. This excerpt from Diaries of a Borderline lives inside that haunting question: Why burden the dying? It’s the story of a child who crucifies herself in silence because she doesn’t know how to ask for love—and of the adult who carries that wound into every room she enters. But here’s the truth WRM doesn’t always tell you: the wound isn’t who you are. The silence isn’t yours to carry. The curse is not your inheritance—it’s your breaking point. If you’ve ever felt like your nightmares weren’t entirely your own, if you’ve lived believing your body was the evidence of someone else’s failure, this book hopes our own light mends us back into the dawn the smiles in us kept tucked behind the wells of our eyes.
A Wish She's Making
Rainbow rivers never stop flowing toward you — even when you think you’re lost. We all have a wish. Sometimes it’s for the person we are becoming. Sometimes it’s for the person we once were. Diaries of a Borderline is my living wish — for anyone who’s ever felt too much, loved too hard, or carried a sky that felt too heavy. These words aren’t just poems. They’re the rivers I’ve poured into for years, hoping one day they’d find you when you needed them most. If you’ve ever been lost, I hope these pages feel like coming home. Diaries of a Borderline — available in paperback, hardcover, and ebook.
f r a g m e n t : falling into herself
This isn’t just a poem—it’s a resurrection. Diaries of a Borderline is the raw archive of survival I wrote while clawing myself back from the edge. I didn’t write this to save anyone else. I wrote it because no one came for me. This is for the ones too tender to be diagnosed. The ones whose pain was too vast to name. The ones they called “too much,” “too sensitive,” “too late.” You were never too anything. You were always holy. You are the Diaries of a Borderline. ___________________________________ Diaries of a Borderline is available now — only $0.99 for a limited time. Over 1,000+ readers have already entered to win the Goodreads giveaway. Join them. Read the book. Let it hold the parts of you that never had language. My Substack is where I continue these letters — in prose, in verse, in truth. Subscribe for deeper dives & sacred reflections. (link in bio)
How Do You Swim in a Heart That’s Flooding?
Water has always spoken to me. Not just as an element—but as a mirror. When I wrote this passage, I wasn’t just romanticizing ritual. I was pleading with something ancient and sacred within me: Teach me how to wade through this flood of feeling without drowning. With BPD, emotion doesn’t come in ripples—it crashes. And when the waves come, they don’t ask permission. The tide of grief, of hope, of memory—it rises all at once. This passage was a prayer. A soul-vow. A moment of soft defiance against the part of me that wanted to disappear. I wanted the moonlight to teach me how to walk on myself. How to tread water in the depths of me and not be swallowed whole. "As above, so below." To me, that means: if there’s chaos inside, there can also be reflection. If there’s grief, there can also be grace. This isn’t just a poem. It’s a map. And if you’ve ever needed a guide through your inner ocean, Diaries of a Borderline might be that lighthouse.
When Self-Hate Becomes a Ritual
Some rituals aren’t sacred—they’re survival. For me, self-hate wasn’t just a thought. It was a daily incantation, cast with every silence, every wound, every inherited lie that said I was too much or not enough. I used to think I was conjuring monsters by being broken. But the truth is—they were already there. I’ve traced scars like prayer beads, hoping some god or flicker of light would finally see me, finally recognize I was never fine. That the performance of strength wasn’t salvation. This passage was one of the hardest I’ve ever written. Because sometimes, the monsters we hide from are the ones we learned to love first. And when we speak to the dead—every version of them, including who we used to be—they answer. If you’ve ever fought your own reflection, if your pain has ever felt ritualistic, Diaries of a Borderline was written for you.
Where Do You Go When You Dissociate?
12:00 a.m. is the hour when I become both past and present. When my body remains, but my mind drifts—pulled into places I swore I’d never return to. Dissociation is an old companion. It carries me to the graveyards of promises never made, to the weight of love that is more ghost than comfort. My mother exists in those in-between spaces—not as who she was, but as who I needed her to be. I used to think grief was just sorrow, but sometimes it’s exhaustion. The burden of keeping the dead alive in memory, the responsibility of loving them when the love was never given freely. Who will remember them when I’m gone? And worse—What if she was right about me? The spiral pulls me under. I have always been afraid that loving her will consume me, that forgiving her will require too much of me, that if I put her down, I will disappear too. But I return. The light phases through. It’s time for bed. This passage isn’t just about grief—it’s about survival. About the way trauma rewires memory, how the past follows, how the body carries what the mind tries to leave behind. If you’ve ever felt lost inside your own history, Diaries of a Borderline was written for you. Experience the book that speaks the unspeakable. Order your copy today.
No One Is Coming—But You Are
I used to believe healing was something that would happen to me—like if I endured long enough, the pain would dissolve on its own. I imagined there would be a moment, some divine rupture in time, where I would wake up and the weight of my trauma would be gone. A rescue, a miracle, a day where it just stopped hurting. But no one was coming. Like the girl in this passage, I waited in my own graveyard, convinced I was too broken to save myself. People told me I had gifts, that I was strong, that I would find my way out—but all I could see was the vultures. All I could hear was the voice of survival that whispered, just keep breathing, just endure another day. What they don’t tell you is that healing isn’t about waiting. It’s about learning to rise while you’re still bleeding. It’s about facing the monsters when your hands are still shaking. It’s about realizing that your gifts aren’t some future revelation—they’re inside you, even now. This passage is for the ones who are still waiting. You are already the person who survives this. The dawn is already inside you.
The Girl Who Fell, But Not Forever
There was a time I thought survival meant endless fighting—that to stop was to lose. But exhaustion teaches its own truths. This girl isn’t just a character; she’s the part of me that has stood at the edge of surrender, wondering if silence was the only way to be free. She’s tired of fighting shadows, of carrying gifts that feel more like burdens. But falling isn’t the same as failing. Sometimes, we let go not to disappear, but to find a new way forward. To rest. To breathe. To remember that even in the dark, we are not lost. I have fallen many times, but I am still here. And so is she.
