"
Your trust mutated into biomass.
The love I fed,
now excretes viscous feces.
"I'm grateful for you"
metastasized—
into a tumor:
"Who are you?"
And the memories we made?
They diagnosed me with
cardiac sarcoma.
Every word you speak reeks
of floral ammonia.
Every vow you made turned to slough.
The tears I shed for you—
bloated
and engorged my cornea.
And whenever I hear you say,
"I need you—
don’t leave me,"
my ear erupts with otorrhea.
You punctured my neonate dermis—
injected cordial pathogens
into my veins.
Then, if that wasn’t enough,
you drugged my embryo—
with serotonin
laced with oxytocin.
And what’s worse?
You replaced the languid innocence
in my IV
with narcotics
and dopamine.
Even if I undergo a thrombectomy
to remove the clot of doubt,
you already prescribed compulsive anesthesia to my psyche,
you caroused my body while I lay in a coma,
and felt every laceration
of your metallic tongue
throughout my surgery.
Because of you,
I’m paralyzed.
The legs we once walked with—amputated.
What used to be laughter?
Now seizures.
The meals we shared?
Left me ulcerated.
Your careless, whimsical smile—
chronic diarrhea.
As long as your lies are so
contagiously potent,
it’ll remain airborne,
infecting every human I encountered,
turning them into theatrical patients.
And when my loathing undergoes neuroplasticity,
regret metamorphosed—
into dysmorphic acceptance.
But during my alexithymia,
I met my personal therapists.
They massaged my lipsync aphonia,
motivated my spasmodic myelopathy,
took a stroll with my vascular isolation,
enacted cardioversion to my liminal hope.
And for the first time in my life,
my esophagus bloomed into spring,
while my molting skin nourishes those with limbic disability.
And for every corrosive hemothorax
the rain drizzles upon me,
I find shelter in my hero’s clinic,
where they prescribe love and kindness.
But with every embrace,
the cytokine storm surges,
growing denser...
denser...
fiercer...
and fiercer...
Then one day,
I X-rayed their shadow,
examined their sentences under a microscope,
listened to their tone with a stethoscope,
and finally—
incised their skin...
I realized—
they were having ***********
with my trauma.
"
-Klausyuer: The ****** Poet
Dec 11, 2025
Dec 11, 2025 at 8:28 AM UTC
"
Your trust mutated into biomass.
The love I fed,
now excretes viscous feces.
"I'm grateful for you"
metastasized—
into a tumor:
"Who are you?"
And the memories we made?
They diagnosed me with
cardiac sarcoma.
Every word you speak reeks
of floral ammonia.
Every vow you made turned to slough.
The tears I shed for you—
bloated
and engorged my cornea.
And whenever I hear you say,
"I need you—
don’t leave me,"
my ear erupts with otorrhea.
You punctured my neonate dermis—
injected cordial pathogens
into my veins.
Then, if that wasn’t enough,
you drugged my embryo—
with serotonin
laced with oxytocin.
And what’s worse?
You replaced the languid innocence
in my IV
with narcotics
and dopamine.
Even if I undergo a thrombectomy
to remove the clot of doubt,
you already prescribed compulsive anesthesia to my psyche,
you caroused my body while I lay in a coma,
and felt every laceration
of your metallic tongue
throughout my surgery.
Because of you,
I’m paralyzed.
The legs we once walked with—amputated.
What used to be laughter?
Now seizures.
The meals we shared?
Left me ulcerated.
Your careless, whimsical smile—
chronic diarrhea.
As long as your lies are so
contagiously potent,
it’ll remain airborne,
infecting every human I encountered,
turning them into theatrical patients.
And when my loathing undergoes neuroplasticity,
regret metamorphosed—
into dysmorphic acceptance.
But during my alexithymia,
I met my personal therapists.
They massaged my lipsync aphonia,
motivated my spasmodic myelopathy,
took a stroll with my vascular isolation,
enacted cardioversion to my liminal hope.
And for the first time in my life,
my esophagus bloomed into spring,
while my molting skin nourishes those with limbic disability.
And for every corrosive hemothorax
the rain drizzles upon me,
I find shelter in my hero’s clinic,
where they prescribe love and kindness.
But with every embrace,
the cytokine storm surges,
growing denser...
denser...
fiercer...
and fiercer...
Then one day,
I X-rayed their shadow,
examined their sentences under a microscope,
listened to their tone with a stethoscope,
and finally—
incised their skin...
I realized—
they were having ***********
with my trauma.
"
-Klausyuer: The ****** Poet
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