#emotionalsuppression
They birthed us into metal,
not light or even air,
but heat lamps and screaming steel,
the floor already coated
in yesterday’s version of ourselves.
We were slick and blinking,
wet with newness,
and still they stamped us:
Product of tradition. Best before death.
Hands in latex gloves
cooed lullabies
while scraping placenta from the drain.
They taught us to crawl
between cleavers,
to smile when we were handled,
to hold still when the slicing came
because it’s not personal,
because they love us,
because their hands hurt too.
They shoved their trauma down our throats
before we grew teeth.
Force-fed us their coping mechanisms
like communion
bite-sized bitterness
they called resilience.
Swallow it.
Say thank you.
We didn’t know any better.
Meat doesn’t ask why.
Meat just learns to stay warm
and pretend the hook isn’t coming.
They called the bleeding becoming.
Called the bruises bad days.
and the conveyor destiny.
We rotted in place,
but they sprayed us down,
made us presentable;
vacuum-sealed smiles,
shrink-wrapped hope.
The air always smelled like bleach and denial.
Some of us tried to scream
but by then our mouths were already full
stuffed with apologies,
with other people’s f*cking expectations,
with the same dull knives they said
they “survived” with.
And when we flinched,
they told us we were lucky.
Lucky we weren’t born into fire.
Lucky they only carved out
what they couldn’t understand in themselves.
Love, they said,
was just the sound of the band saw
getting closer.
No more, no less.
And still -
We line up.
We inherit the gloves.
We raise our children
beneath the same heat lamps,
and pretend
it’s destiny.
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 12:27 AM UTC
(Object exhibits signs of failed assimilation.)
Status: Contained
Linguistic Output: Coherent, irregular
Affective Display: Incongruent
Recommended Handling: Minimal stimulation. Avoid mirrors.
The subject presents as humanoid,
though not reliably.
Eye contact flickers
like corrupted footage.
Speech arrives in fragments—
intonation unaligned with emotional content.
Dissection reveals a nervous system
braided too tightly with memory.
Repetitive behaviors observed:
rocking, muttering, hands folding themselves into familiar shapes.
(Suspected ritual. Possibly maintenance.)
Internal monologue transmits without consent.
Rooms echo with words never said aloud.
Fluorescent lights elicit panic.
Soft voices do not soothe.
When touched, the subject stiffens—
not out of fear,
but anticipation.
It has learned that affection
is often the prelude to calibration.
Attempts to socialize the unit
resulted in increased corruption of the core files.
Subject now mimics human response
with impressive accuracy—
until asked why it feels.
(Subject does not answer.
Subject cannot answer.
Emotion was mapped to motor function and never returned.)
MRI shows dense clusters in the empathy regions—
but no signal reaches them without distortion.
The static is ancestral.
Passed down like brittle teeth
and sleeplessness.
Diet: Low on metaphor, high on survival.
Vocal tone: Polished, practiced, passively pleading.
Favorite phrase:
“I’m fine.”
Always said too quickly.
Always accompanied by the twitch of a jaw
trying not to scream.
Touch triggers feedback loops.
Silence is tolerated, then weaponized.
Intimacy met with suspicion—
not due to paranoia,
but pattern recognition.
You may observe it,
but do not mistake this for consent.
The subject learned visibility.
It was never offered belonging.
End-stage masking leaves the organism
hollowed.
Dissociative hum in place of thought.
Apathy mistaken for stability.
Last recorded statement before regression:
“If I act human long enough,
does that mean I was?”
It is not currently speaking.
It watches.
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 2:21 PM UTC
What defines a man?
Someone with dignity? Someone with shame?
Someone vulnerable, or “someone” in vain?
A vague answer—I'll be honest then,
Society’s standards? Cruel and dishonest, man.
You speak up—you’re disregarded.
You make an effort—you’re outsmarted.
You do nothing? You're called a ******* regardless.
Try to hold ground? Your stance gets blasted.
Vulnerability. Breakdowns. Mental fatigue.
A man’s life—just pain with no relief.
A faint smile, a brief breath, penned on a sheet.
That’s what this is, boys—so buckle your seats while I preach.
A man's life is a lie.
His smile, his words—his emotions, all a disguise.
He lies because he cares.
He finds ways to fix, not vanish into thin air.
His day begins with thoughts of his loved ones,
And ends with them.
Yet the only flowers he ever receives
Are laid at the end.
Poor appreciation. No oxytocin—
That's how he lives.
All he wants is to see his family smile,
To make ’em proud, and meet every wish.
Loving children and an adorable wife,
Still, he gets caught in conflict and strife.
Trapped in the webs, looking for light—
He knows no matter how loud he shouts,
It’s all silent. Mute. No sound in sight.
He doesn’t complain like he used to do.
This masked way of living? He’s grown used to.
A constant tug-of-war with everything.
Wearing the mask, that smile, and the pretending.
’Cause this is a judgmental world,
Where male discomfort is dismissed as vile.
No one cares for a man—
“That’s just how they are,” says Society with a smile.
“A man should be tough.” “Stop being so weak.”
“Only a weakling cries.”
Why these beliefs?
Is a man not human? Can’t he break—
Even once, without being called fake?
Can’t these so-called standards vanish for a jiffy?
Let the noise hush, just for an iffy.
The situation’s looking a bit tricky.
So much for equality—when the loudest cries dissolve a man too quickly.
No offense to victims, but truth gets murky when empathy turns picky.
We need balance, not blame—before the silence gets sticky.
So much for fairness, when power plays the sound—
And those holding the mics are just money-hungry hounds.
But let me leave you with names they forgot to pronounce—
Prometheus, who stole fire so men might renounce
The cold chains of darkness, gave light for free,
And was punished by gods for daring to see.
Or Sigurd the Valiant, who slew Fáfnir the beast,
A man, not divine—just brave, to say the least.
He bathed in the blood, understood the birds’ song,
Betrayed by the world, yet stood strong all along.
These weren’t monsters. These were men.
Not flawless—but free, with a truth in their pen.
So next time they say, “All men are the same,”
Remember the fire. Remember the flame.
One man can burn,
And still change the game.
-Asher Graves
Apr 10, 2025
Apr 10, 2025 at 10:50 PM UTC
A sea of silent people with
Zippers instead of lip and teeth
So long it’s been since they’ve unzipped
They calcified like coral reef
And sometimes it is hard to breathe
When your captor is a feeling.
Their words are knives stuck in their sheathes,
At nightfall, they dream of screaming.
Their shoulders slumped, they knew that if
They sang or sighed or gave a speech
Before it was too late, their scythe
Would never have to reap and reap
And reap, but no, they sowed the seed,
If only they’d been believing
But they dug a grave, where they sleep
At nightfall, to dream of screaming.
Their kids don’t cry, instead, they writhe
Inheriting their voiceless grief
No words to soothe the kind of life
That never, ever knows relief
As it was stolen by a thief
And his name is Never Needing.
Their fear, it thrums to its own beat
At nightfall, they dream of screaming.
They waste away, they cannot eat
But now, death itself is freeing.
Their dreams once were the sun and sea—
Tonight, they just dream of screaming.
Feb 28, 2025
Feb 28, 2025 at 11:45 AM UTC