#emotionalhonesty
I am InkWept, and this is the truth I will not bargain with:
I will no longer lend my warmth to a silence that refuses to name me.
I will not be cradled in private and erased in daylight.
I am not a pause button for another soul’s healing, nor a harbor rented by the hour.
If I am held, it will be with intention.
If I am loved, it will be spoken without flinching.
If I am asked to wait, it will be for a future that has learned my name aloud.
I honor the ache without feeding it.
I keep my hands open and my spine straight.
I choose peace over proximity, clarity over comfort, truth over tenderness that disappears at dawn.
This is not abandonment.
This is fidelity—to myself.
Feb 3
Feb 3, 2026 at 2:56 AM UTC
Why do I care?
I know I’m not supposed to.
When you’re here,
when you’re there,
when you’re gone—
but still there.
Why do I care?
Is it so wrong?
So awkward?
Should I stay quiet
even if you returned?
Why do I care?
Should I be ashamed?
Should I apologise?
Or should I just—
not care?
Maybe…
I care, so there 😋
Jan 4
Jan 4, 2026 at 2:02 PM UTC
A weeping man still sways from side to side...
paying for a borrowed smile, hoping it makes
change for something close to beauty.
Truly balance feels expensive these days,
and I keep losing it in small ways.
A full bottle waits by my bed; to only wet
my tongue— I’ve been running too hard
in my sleep, chasing dreams that never
learned how to let me rest.
Somewhere, we skipped a thousand years
of youth; time didn’t notice—_it rarely does._
I hold tighter now, hands shaking but honest,
to the few things that still feel real—and take
one steady step into what’s next.
Dec 30, 2025
Dec 30, 2025 at 3:34 PM UTC
I catch my breath
Inside a reflection—
Some days I feel made
_Of glass...._
Still, I won’t let life decide
Where I break.
Dec 29, 2025
Dec 29, 2025 at 4:33 PM UTC
I smile at my reflection, and feel so lonely—
summer lingers in the shape of a kiss;
yet insecurities spring up in the raindrops
of my tears. They storm the fragile corners
of my heart, where she once found the cracks
and called them rooms.
Know what we are given can never be repaid,
still we chase the interests of love— a debt we
keep trying to make good. Sometimes we reach
for forbidden fruit, taking more than a bite,
and find the pruning knife was ours all along.
Not everything that’s fruitful is fated to ripen.
Perhaps that’s this smile—_a purpose fulfilled,_
in the feast that ended too soon.
I only hope she doesn’t bite more than she can
bear to swallow; or bites through her own jaw
just to chew; biting herself apart just to taste what’s
gone... as most will bite the mouth that once kissed
them full.
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 2:32 PM UTC
"False Demons," truly I am not filled with light —
love feels ill-fitting, and I’ve grown sick of it all.
__Is that evil?__ Or close enough — the unpleasant
truth amounts to how much you count on something
worth the space of time.
Time is money, but money won’t last you all the time.
I am dominated by my own selfishness —a selflessness
beneath a weak desire trying to please my conscience.
A teacup blushes from the steam of the kettle; the water
doesn’t really matter until it changes its matter.
And in perceiving the void within, I find new ways
to convince myself I’m decent; not generous —
just pouring parts of myself into that cup.
Maybe that’s adequate enough; clothed in love inside
a dark and musty wardrobe. For life wears you down,
the more you dress yourself for it — pressed against
the skin of an untruth: that we can only live as well
as the possessions we own.
Possessive as much, possessed by these things —
dare I say, _False Demons_.
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 12:21 PM UTC
Водоворот безумный в рот,
Я наливал тебе компот,
И двадцать пять коробок лета
Я паковал себе в комод.
Желтело, осень поступала,
А тело согревал портвейн,
Пришла ты в черном и сказала:
«А ну, красавчик, ахуей».
Yaroslav Kulikovsky. Vienne, 2023 (c).
Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power.
👉 tiktok.com/@kulikovskyonthepunchline
👉 youtube.com/@KulikovskyOnThePunchline/shorts
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 2:08 AM UTC
Я встречаю Новый год,
Вместе с Сашкой Чернорот
И сестричкой Крем-Брюлей,
Дайка тварь лизнуть блядей.
Чешет ногу маг Орфей,
Бармалею нервно курит,
Тем и тем, и тем налей,
Я сегодня Цезарь Юлий.
Yaroslav Kulikovsky. Paris, 2024 (c).
Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power.
👉 tiktok.com/@kulikovskyonthepunchline
👉 youtube.com/@KulikovskyOnThePunchline/shorts
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 2:06 AM UTC
Одновременно мы кончили
И начали наш рассказ,
Перпетум-кобеле — гонщица,
Созвучно с гандурас.
Неимоверная дерзость
В ревущем рокоте фур;
Мур-мур и в транснадежность —
Гламур, лямур, тужур.
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 1:11 AM UTC
Я тебе отправляю пенальти,
Как классово превосходный:
Это просто мои газлайки
Прилипли к тебе на морду.
Целовать, убивать тебя, драть —
Мне казалось маньяки навеки.
Но — Нежность и Страсть,
В масть и в грязь — эти камбэки.
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 12:22 AM UTC
По столу стучали стаканы —
Бояре гуляли всю ночь.
Под столом святые путаны
Покушать были не прочь.
Мы колбаску под стол им кидали
И огурчик в рот заходил,
Нет уж, там не голодные крали,
А один большой крокодил.
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 11:59 PM UTC
Тело проснется к трём ночи —
На тебя я спящую кончу...
И пойду строчить поэмы
Своими руками очень.
А ты не бери в голову,
Да, спи у меня сколько хочешь,
Бери с рассветом на рот —
Время кормить Тамагочи.
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 11:39 PM UTC
Она рыдала в туалете
Гостиницы «Континенталь» —
Её ебали те и эти,
И вдруг себя ей стало жаль.
И вдруг однажды на рассвете
Она решила полюбить,
Но, как листали те и эти,
Никак уже ей не забыть.
👉 Bloch-Bauer & Adele · 2020 · Signature Privée
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 9:03 PM UTC
Giving myself odd looks, while trying to even the score—
pointing out my faults like counting sins on abacuses.
Too many to tally, and every action I take I just hope
adds up to something. But I’m outnumbered by myself.
Feels like an inverted midnight— too heavy to be noon.
Doing the most, while barely praying at all— maybe
because doubt multiplies faster than faith settles.
Failures pile up like fractions with no common
denominator— just me, subtracting reasons to believe,
dividing purpose by disbelief, and hoping somehow
I’ll solve it all to find some peace.
Trying to count what I can still hold, not out-of-hand
habits or dust-covered promises. My Bible feels more
antique than answers— pages heavy with silence
until I wiped it off and saw… another layer still
hiding underneath. Like dusk, again. But this time,
_I opened it— and let it open me._
Jul 17, 2025
Jul 17, 2025 at 5:25 PM UTC
Can’t be everyone’s hero—
but it’s so easy to be framed as the villain in someone’s story,
caught in the blur between goodwill and what they believe is ill will,
the wheel spinning from “helpful” to “harmful” without warning.
The sickened influencer—tired of carrying hearts like glass—
now catching cold thoughts, like a mind with influenza,
and I’m wondering: do I get any better at doing the most,
or do I just give less of a **** as the walls I build
crumble beneath the weight of everything I try to hold back?
_Does any of it matter, really—at all?_
Not everyone will love you like a lover in the honeymoon season—
the moon only glows for a night, and even the sweetest honey dries
when left open too long. And what you think might bring us closer
can become the very thing we learn to hate together.
But maybe in the court of opinion, I’ve become too quick
to cast judgment—forgetting that my sense-of-self
sometimes acts selfish too.
But I’m not standing tall above anyone—I’ve got my own
shortcomings, and none of them come in small doses.
__I sin too.__ Like you, I can act so human, _too human, too often._
Jun 29, 2025
Jun 29, 2025 at 5:20 PM UTC