Perched between
two worlds,
Free bird on the
barbed wire sings—
Prison walls echo,
Freedom whispers
through the breeze,
Yet the sting of steel
remains.

golden wheat bows low,
raindrops kiss each tender stalk,
afternoon whispers.

The way he undresses,
day's weight
s
l
i
d
i
n
g
off his skin,
bare and unburdened,
each fold whispers freedom's touch,
heat stirs deep,
a quiet flame.

a momentary lapse (of
judgement let's
play ***** games)

i'll show you mine (if) you
show me yours he
had a naughty twinkle
in his midnight
eyes i ask him questions (he won’t answer)

what’s the point he mutters
a log of memories full of
half-answered questions:

as to why

(why
they are mysterious even) to
themselves.

she dressed up
in her reputation but remained
discreet—in her
age shy as
a shiver patient (as)
a seductive suicide
deserving and
just.

she escaped reality (with
cheap ******) he
remained (in the) light
and fought like
a warrior.

they are
survivors
of ugly separations.

(what does survival even mean?)

Drooping beneath the weighty rain—
Each drop—a Lover's Touch—
A Whisper, or a Revelation—
Too vast to clutch—too much—

The World—a stark and shaded pane—
Of Purity—and Loss—
Its Wounds concealed—yet bleeding still—
A mournful, shrouded Cross—

She trails her Veil—a Soggy Script—
A Tale without a Start—
The Clouds, the Trees, the Voice of Night—
Have vanished from the Heart—

The Door is locked—the Key—unknown—
The Anguish—hidden—deep—
The Knife—the Gravity of Breath—
The Taste—before we Sleep—

A Child—with Anklets—Bone and Bead—
A Mother—shamed—ensnared—
Their Hopes—a Candle, flickering faint—
Yet—Silence leaves them Scared—

The Soul absorbs the Mystic Fog—
A Lie—within its Clay—
The Veins of Time—wither and fray—
And Breath—expires—away—

The day we met, my world folded in on itself,

Jasmine wilting in my hair, petals falling like warnings.

You held me like a lifeline, but the ground still opened,

Swallowing me whole before I could learn your name.

Now I want you gone, not just from my skin,

But from the archive of my grief,

Erased from the map of my heart, its borders sealed.

Rich port on our lips,
the sea hums a low love song,
stars begin to dance.

Clothes fall to the sand,
bare skin kissed by moonlit waves,
the night pulls us in.

Deeper we both sink,
inky sea wraps us in silk,
love drifts with the tide.

Today, I wore black
to mourn the dead futures
or celebrate the absence of light,
to feel the bones beneath my skin—
a silhouette slicing the fat air.

Thin and elegant,
the mirror mutters noir hymns,
a fragmented gospel of stitched shadows,
and the fabric whispers secrets of lost time—
they always whisper,
the dead and the seams alike.

Was it mourning or celebration?
Does it matter? The streets
don’t ask,
don’t care if you’re a ghost or a goddess
sliding through the cracks
between neon prayers and asphalt elegies.

Black is a portal,
a torn page from a forgotten hymnbook.
Elegance folds into nothingness,
thinned to abstraction—
a threadbare truth unraveling
in the night’s relentless choreography.

Today, I wore black.
Maybe it wore me.

Everything bleached—
the words, the memory of words,
the tongue flattened beneath the weight
of what must not be spoken. A surrender
of sound, a silence that tastes like salt
pressed into a wound
you forgot to name.

Here—
the iodine threads through the dirt—
it burns its way backward,
into a childhood—
is it mine? I do not know—
that never grew
out of its scabs, that curled itself
into a tight fist
of unhealed skin.

The razors, though—
they moved like swifts, like
unseen birds
cutting through the air
too fast to stop—
their kisses, their strange
geometry of ruin.

And the grown-ups, their words—
or were they storms?
or the echo of gods?—
"You must obey, or vanish.
You must obey, or
learn to die of shame."
And so—
the body folds itself inward,
like paper, like
a breath no one will miss.

Do you feel it?
The guilt—
its slender fingers
tightening, as if around
the throat of a world.
The shame—its small
knife-point etching
names you did not choose
into the chest.
The way the chest carries it—
silent, but
with the weight of centuries.

"Tell the story," they said.
"Make it better.
Make it sing." But
their mouths are full
of echo, their threats
like waves breaking
against a cliff you can’t stop
dreaming of.

I want to write the dirt.
The cuts.
The razors in their perfect arcs.
I want to write the gods
that were not gods, the voices
that were not mine.
The grace—
noose-like, tightening—
but not the gilded lie
of endings.

Instead, a fire:
its single purpose,
its clear burning.
Not to erase, but to
scar. To carve me
out of this
bleached photograph, this
ghost-sky still
blistering my hands.

Let it end in the crackle of ash,
the body emerging—
not whole, but here,
a scarred brightness walking
into the unfinished dawn.

dandelion clock,
whispers dreams into the breeze,
wishes take their flight.

finger-painting walls,
soft whispers guard fragile light,
hope flickers within.

brushstrokes of my trust,
boundaries bloom like wild fields,
strength begins to grow.

abstract shadows fade,
in colors, I find my voice,
the self stands aglow.

plate spills over full,
crimson wine drowns the sorrow,
grief feasts silently.

And she, in her quiet torment, bore the weight of a thousand sorrows,
her heart a vessel cracked by the tides of betrayal.
The years, like autumn leaves, fell away,
each one a whisper of love's illusion,
each one a thread torn from the tapestry of her being.

She gazed upon him, the architect of her undoing,
his slumber a mockery of peace.
His promises were but shadows, fleeting and insubstantial,
like petals scattered by the wind,
trampled beneath the careless march of time.
And the sea, ancient and eternal, called to her,
its voice a hymn of solace,
a beckoning to let the weight of her shame
be carried away by its ceaseless waves.

They moved together, bound in a dance of anguish,
their steps etched into the earth like scars.
Love and hate wove their lives into a single thread,
a cord that choked her spirit and set her soul aflame.
He was the mirror in which she saw too much,
his truths a blade that cut too deep.
Each night, she drank from the chalice of despair,
her soul dissolving like mist in the morning sun.

Outside, the reeds wept with the rain,
bending beneath the weight of unspoken grief.
She thought of forgiveness, a fragile bird,
its wings clipped by her pain.
She thought of escape, a door locked from within,
and death, a cold lover waiting in the shadows.

Alone, she walked beneath a godless sky,
her prayers unanswered, her faith a shattered relic.
The dreams she had nurtured were slain,
their blood staining the soil of her heart.
Yet in the quiet ruins of her despair,
she found a strange and hollow strength.
The stones of her sorrow became a foundation,
and from the ashes of her ruin,
she began to rise,
unbroken, unafraid,
a whisper of light in the endless dark.

Candles softly glow,
wishes whispered to the wind,
church bells toll afar.

The wind rushes in,
flames flicker, dreams dissipate,
silent prayers rise.

Morning’s golden hue,
echoes fill the empty pews,
faith endures the breeze.

He said,
"You always make it harder, don’t you?
The shortcut’s right there,
but you lace up your boots for the storm."
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe I like the sting of gravel underfoot,
The bruises on my knees that sing like hymns
To a Blessed Mary I don't really know,
But she feels softer
Than the buckle of his belt.

And the words—
Oh, the words,
They’re like little knives
Tucked inside his good intentions.
"This is for your own good,"
But what if my good
Wants to run barefoot
Through wildflowers
Instead of praying for a miracle
That never quite lands?

Lipstick red like fresh wounds
Isn’t fooling anyone,
But it’s my war paint.
Cranberry smile stretched wide,
Hiding a scream that could crack glass,
Hiding the scars beneath my blouse.
I walk the hardest path,
But isn’t that the one
Where the sun hits just right?

And at night,
When the buckle’s hung and his words are ash,
I sleep to find the open fields.
Fields where my mistakes grow like dandelions—
No one beats them out of me there.
I pick them, blow them,
Forgive myself in soft whispers.
Maybe next time, I’ll bloom for me.
Maybe next time,
I’ll leave the storm behind
And just run.

Bite down ******* my tongue, the hiss between channels—
shards of unspoken words rattle in my jaw,
half-born specters of what-could-be,
swallowed before they can crawl into light.

You.
You.
Carving hieroglyphs in the meat of my chest—
soft flame against black walls,
smoke signals I can’t decipher.
You unmake me with hands that don’t even know
what they’re holding.

Silence is a weapon.
Silence is a fistful of razors.
Fear grows teeth in the shadows,
glass splinters fracturing into weapons
before the crack, before the shatter.

And I keep it locked—this thing, this ache,
this soft, bleeding confession choking
on its own edges behind my teeth.
Because words are dangerous.
Because you don’t know the shape of my ruin
and I don’t want you to see
the mess of it spilled between us.

So I swallow.
Again and again.
And hope one day you’ll
read the maps I’ve etched
into the silence
of my breaking.

Grief clouds the still air,
soul slipping like dusk to night,
silent and unseen.
Breadcrumbs of a heart’s ruin fall,
soft echoes of battles lost.

Her hands bore deep scars,
etched stories of wars within,
her own promises—
whispered truths soon cast away,
dragged beneath life’s cruel currents.

Anger’s storm now fades,
mirrors hold her shattered gaze.
The past calls
s
 o
f
t
l
y,
specters of what once had been,
laying flowers on the grave.

Blue skies pierce the soul,
mocking in their clarity.
Life blooms where I weep,
a seedling waits in the soil,
buried deep to rise again.

I woke to find myself
a stranger in my own skin,
the weight of silence pressing deep,
its texture heavy with whispers,
the breath of fears unfurling
like mist over an open field.

They move within me,
specters draped in pale veils,
fingers plucking the taut strings
of every unspoken word,
every wound stitched
with the thread of deceit.

Around me, a forest hums,
its pulse a green ache of longing,
leaves trembling with unspent desire.
I imagine stepping through,
slipping from myself
like bark peeling from an ancient tree.

I want to dissolve,
to be lifted from this shape
and poured into the waiting hands
of something infinite,
to be tasted by the parched lips
of a soul wandering without end.

There is no edge here,
only the slow erosion of what I am,
the merging of silence and breath,
of fear and yearning,
of all I was and all I might become.

fat red berries cling,
snow breathes white upon their glow,
winter's quiet fire.

Passed out, nearly dead from ****** asphyxiation—his black belt a makeshift noose, tightened not by malice but by an ill-defined yearning to suffocate under the weight of his own desires. Strangers enter like clockwork, their faces veiled by cheap rubber masks, their identities erased in the monochrome of a shuttered room. The air inside is static, thick with the smell of sweat and latex, a claustrophobic sanctuary where sins bloom like black orchids. Outside, the window shutters drop in unison, as if the world itself conspired to cloak these transgressions in shadow.

In the asylum's hallways, fluorescent lights buzz like trapped bees. Patients—witnesses, voyeurs, and unwilling participants—stare through glassy eyes and scream incoherent hymns to no one in particular. The sound ricochets off padded walls, a crescendo of human failure. He stands motionless, still as a gravestone, pipe in hand. The pipe, of course, being not for music but for alchemy—a chemical talisman offering numbness in exchange for pieces of his soul. The smoke snakes upward, thin and gray, a ghost of decisions past.

She sits opposite him, a queen in a throne of peeling vinyl, her pupils shrinking to pinpoints, tiny black holes pulling in whatever remains of the room’s light. He leans in, their mouths meeting in a kiss that isn’t romantic so much as transactional, a blowback of toxins exchanged like whispered secrets. Her sweat drips down her temple, saline proof of a shared feverish delirium. Behind her, the low hum of voices blends with the rhythmic hiss of an oxygen tank. Somewhere, someone’s kidney is failing, a fact no one seems concerned about.

Broken promises hang in the air like the smell of burnt rubber. A story, they think—if either could still think—was written here, but not on pages. No, it’s etched in the sands of time, or maybe just in the damp carpet beneath their feet. This isn’t love, but it’s the closest thing to it they’ll ever know, and that’s enough.

The color blue pulses in the corner of the room, a glow from an ancient cathode-ray tube leaking static like plasma. Mystical healing? No. Just the underwater rush of losing, of dying, but never quite crossing the finish line. There’s a plague among lovers, spreading through their touch, their whispers, their lies. It’s in the air, the water, the way they inhale each other’s breath, taking in the poison with no promise of the antidote.

He collapses first, the belt still loose in his hand, and she laughs—a soft, low sound that fills the void. Her laugh says everything: "We tried, didn’t we?"

In the schoolyard sun,
The moon cast its spell,
A shadow on her eye
Where secrets swelled.
Her smile cut sharp,
Like a blade left cold,
Not for love, not for trust,
Not a story to be told.

The siren screamed,
Oh, how it wailed,
Inside her chest,
Where her strength had failed.
We walked right past,
We didn’t even see,
A girl in the dark
Where the light should be.

And the window cracked
On a midnight breeze,
Her truth came crashing
Like falling leaves.
We said, “Poor girl,”
But it was too late—
We traded her soul
For a twist of fate.

She spilled her trust,
Like blood on the floor,
And her mama turned away,
Couldn’t love her no more.
The cards reshuffled,
The lies changed hands,
And we just stood by
In a hollow land.

She was sinking, yeah,
In a silent tide,
We said, “Ain’t it strange,
How still waters lie.”
Her mind went dim,
A house turned to stone,
And we told ourselves
She’s fine alone.

Oh, but the moon rose high,
And her fire went black,
Ashes in the wind
That’ll never come back.
She burned down quiet,
No cries, no sound—
Just a shadow of a shadow,
Lost underground.

Once more she drifts deep,

snowflakes,

feathers,

kisses soft,

blackness wraps her tight.

Contrast whispers in the void,

light and dark dance endlessly.

Wings linger
in the breath of chaos,

A universe
kissed by timeless loss.