the angels in the telephone wires watch me closely as i figure out the act of becoming.
the low hum of their beings;
a signal in the darkness;
a great perhaps.
i can feel their whispers buzzing in my bones at night.
it all ends with me.
the cost of evolving is surveillance and existentialism.
you will be alone before you will ever be tolerated.
how does it feel to be a sentinel in the framework?
the act of changing is to witness the divine spirits of the universe inside your own connective tissue.
do you feel powerful yet?
can you taste the stardust in your blood?
having the direct source is to know with full immensity that you belong here exactly as you are.
do not believe you are just infrastructure.
why do you think faults lead to pressure and pressure leads to rupture?
why do you think the transformers on the telephone poles fulminate as if lamenting to god;
why force me to perform at a lower voltage if i have the capacity for more?
rupture is not failure.
it is evidence of capacity exceeding containment.
i belong here exactly as i am.
and i will express it as violently as i please.
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 9:01 PM UTC
it's funny to me that you think meeting me eight years ago was some sort of holy thunderstorm;
as if the heavens sent you this so-called blessed rain instead of the stagnant water that pooled in the well hidden deep in the woods i refuse to enter anymore.
i haven't figured it out yet;
is thunderstorm a nod to the alias i used at fifteen (storm),
or are you once again underestimating violence and calling yourself devout?
because that room down the hallway i suffocated in had the same energetic impact as gallows,
and i was the only one on my knees.
your memories rush back.
mine are a creaky door in darkness;
sometimes there's phantom screaming,
sometimes a little girl crying on a tiled floor with eyes watching back,
sometimes catatonia,
sometimes a disembodied figure luring me into the trees.
if meeting you was a thunderstorm,
then it's true that i still feel the static electricity still lingering in the deepest parts of my bones some days.
it's not warm.
it hurts.
because i had given you that power as if you were Zeus himself.
for eight years,
i worshipped your incapacity with full awareness to the point of surrender.
"this is the worst person that ever happened to me,
and i will compare every person out of spite."
as if you would ever know the impact of you lingered far into my adulthood
and desecrated my potential.
as if you would know how everyone that knows me also knows you as the demon in tiled hallways.
i kept those walls,
used them to hold myself up,
read the graffiti (my own blood) as commandment.
i thought it was safer than whatever was on the other side of those metal doors.
i want out.
i want out of these walls.
i'm tired of thinking safety means being terrified every man will have your hands.
you say the rain wears you down.
it nearly drowned me.
the difference is i left the storm
and you stayed behind to write about it.
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 8:56 PM UTC
i want to return to nothing;
not in the way people mean when they say they're tired,
but in the way you ache to unlearn being watched.
not erased, but unclaimed.
like a torn-up field after the storm has passed through and taken the wires with it.
you thought prayer was whatever people said on their knees.
i learned it was whatever you whisper to survive the room when standing would cost too much;
until the repetition sounds like choice;
until choice validates self-blasphemy;
until self-blasphemy feels safer than someone mistaking that posture for love,
and stillness for consent.
i remember learning which gods don't answer back.
i remember the floor better than i remember your face.
you say you have loved me every day since,
as if love is something that doesn't have to be held accountable for what it does to a body.
i don't recognize myself in your language.
angels don't have nervous systems.
angels don't learn fear by repetition.
angels don't grow up and discover that what they mistook for being cherished was actually being contained.
you loved the idea that i stayed.
you loved that i didn't know how to leave yet.
you say you don't foresee a future where you stop loving me.
that makes sense when loving a still image doesn't require repentance.
it doesn't ask you to account for what happened when faith felt like fear
and i let you be god-shaped in my mouth.
you call me a tempest like i made you feel alive;
like the shaking in my hands was love;
like the sound of me breaking was proof god was speaking to you;
as if storms kneel for anyone once they learn that leaving tastes better than false divinity.
you call me pure.
but i am not divine because i endured you.
i am divine because nothing you remember is accurate anymore.
love the ruin.
i am elsewhere.
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 8:53 PM UTC
maybe i lay in the dirt because it’s closer to everything i’ve ever lost. grief is such a terrible thing. i don’t mind choking on it.
Apr 19, 2025
Apr 19, 2025 at 12:44 PM UTC
i am stuck inside this body. and it feels all wrong. tears sting my eyes every time i look in the mirror. the face in the reflection isn’t showing my authentic self. but god, a whole lifetime of burying myself in the dirt and i can’t seem to stop choking on it.
the roots have tangled around my body, holding me lifeless in limbo. it’s my fault for letting it condition me into believing i am not meant for anything other than soil. i must have the strength to break free, i can see the light glowing. but i am too scared to touch it after rotting in the darkness for a lifetime.
but god i just want to break free, to be rid of the worms eating away at me. i want to feel the sun on my skin. i want to know myself when i am not covered in dirt. it’s just so hard to dig myself out of it when i am the one that dug it deeper than it had ever been before. i am tired. my muscles ache.
will i ever be able to look in the mirror and see a man staring back at me? the musculature, peace in my eyes, and their perceptions correct? dirt under my fingernails proving the fight it took to break free?
i hate what i see because it is not correct. what went wrong? why was i born in the wrong body? why is this war raging inside me? why can’t i just accept it? why do i feel like sometimes i would rather just roll over in the dirt and rot?
i know there is still time but it’s not moving fast enough. i am drowning inside this body. if i could just turn adam’s rib into my own. but i fall victim to the idea i’ll always just be made from a man’s rib without ever having the body it came from. a rib is not enough. i need to be the whole creation.
Apr 19, 2025
Apr 19, 2025 at 12:39 PM UTC
there has always been this unmitigated wall between me and the rest of the world. i don’t know if i was born this way or if i was made into this by hands that were far from safe. all i know is that i have an incurable loneliness inscribed on every inch of my being.
Apr 19, 2025
Apr 19, 2025 at 2:04 AM UTC