why should god care
about the blood you have spilled
they bleed golden ichor
us ... us...
ours is rusting, slow rotting iron

let me tell you a story of remembrance. it's made of green glass shards, crushed beer cans, men's thick bones scraped clean. life ain't like the sea. she's her own god. i should know- I'm one of her angels.

2. let me sing you a lullaby about salt. how my mother left my body to the waves. how i learned to swim instead of drown. it's not a sad song, don't you weep like that. it's a good lullaby, a lullaby born of survival, and if you follow me i'll sing you the rest.

3. let me tell you what i am: scales and gills and smiles made of sharp teeth, sharp teeth, sharp teeth.

My English teacher said The opposite of love
Is hate.
But it's not hate,
It's apathy.
Hate still breathes,
It's fiery, raw, and real.
But apathy?
Apathy is a void
Where nothing's left to feel.
No anger, no tears,
Just empty.
So if you ask what's worse,
Hate or apathy,
I'd say apathy,
The silence,
The hollow space, Where nothing is felt
And nothing is left
Between us.

you carry your fathers hand me down rage
its two sizes to big
and everyone can see it doesn't fit you

I'm feeling tired again
the kind of tired
sleep can't fix

World, forget me — grind my name to dust,
Let rot reclaim and turns my blood to rust.
Strip me bare of flesh and thread,
Unmark my grave, watch as i bled.

Erase the stain where I once stood,
Bleed out my soul into the wood.
Let crows feast where memory fades,
And silence howl through empty glades.

No prayers, no plea, no tender grace,
Just darkness folding in my place.
Let time spit out my bitter taste —
A shadow lost in deeper space.

World, forget me — not in peace,
But like a curse you must release.
Like breath you choke and force away,
Like light that dies and dares not stay.

Let no one speak what I became,
Let even grief forget my name.
No myth, no ash, no twisted tree —
Just nothing left.
So let it be.

/gref/
noun
1. the pain says, i have come for you, and you say, you are too blinding, I don't want to look.

2. your chest is a wall of fire. the pain says, I own buckets, and I own torches. you pick torches.

3. your soul is a wall of thorns. the pain says, what can I do for you? you say, nothing. this is dream from which I know I will wake.

4. your heart is a wall of storm clouds. the pain says, I will lend you my shoulders and my hands. you say, I don't have strength in me to touch anyone yet.

5. life shivers, melts, moves on. the pain says, I have come for you, and you look upon it and say, yes, I’ve kept you waiting too long.

i wish i wrote the way i thought.
obsessively,
uncontrollably,
with maddening hunger,
id write to the point of drowning
id write myself into mental breakdowns    
pages spiralling out like tentacles into the abyss
and id write about you
more then i should

Now at the end of all things
As we're breathing sulfur and
Lead's pouring over our heads
I'm glad you're the one I'm
Sharing the trenches with

Hope is not a delicate bird.
It doesn’t have colourful feathers or comes.
When you need it most
Hope is a starving rat
An ugly thing
With broken glass claws and yellow pointed teeth
That carries diseases like rebellion, revolution and change
Were ever its tail flicks they drop
It snorts pesticides like coke
It survives in our world
Able to find a way to live were nothing else can.

I had a broken tooth and you had a broken car that sang at certain speeds.
I was holding my crimson soaked mouth, we were all laughing.
You, the only one who was worried.
Speeding to the doctor with your hands at ten and two,
sending me the occasional look, asking if it hurts,
does it hurt.
-All the memories of you do

/'mad-nes/
noun
1. i forgot i had fists today. my heart decided to be vicious warrior. punch after punch, does it seek a glory? i'm washing my hands, they shine like red sunsets when I first found paradise.
Am i a murderer? or did i **** all my thoughts in self defence?
2. angels are talking behind my ear. they don't sound like the cruel laughter i know. they never leave (everyone always does) should i call this love a lie? for the first time I think I could be holy.
i almost smile.
3. my lips are full of ruby lies. smooth criminal dancing in forgotten light, put on a trail for breaking. for hurting, yesterday i tried to burn my mind, i left three bodies fading behind my back (all were mine mine mine) forgive me father for leaving those marks. mother says heaven doesn't want me anymore.

"This is an apology
for the things I had to say about us, to get over us.
I feel most like myself
when I am washing crimson blood stains
off my hands in the shower;
and I hope
whatever is eating you alive does it as slowly as possible.
I know it doesn't sound like it,
but this is a love poem,
this is a love poem,  this is a love poem

until it isn't anymore."

Isn't it funny.
I enjoy my hatred so much more than I ever enjoyed love.
Love is temperamental. Tiring. It makes demands.
Love uses you, changes its mind, and leaves you hurt.
But hatred, now, that's something you can use. Sculpt. Wield.
It's hard, or soft, however you need it.
Love humiliates you, but Hatred, Hatred cradles you.

"you cant love someone unless you love yourself"
*******
I have  never loved myself
but you
oh god, with you i forgot what hating myself felt like

She should've stood out in a crowd
She should've made her mother proud
She should've fallen on her stance
She should've had another chance

She should have been a son
She should have been a son
She should have been a son
She should have been a son

when i die i want my corpse to be unrecognizable. a something-or-other dead on the side of the road, half-eaten, half-crushed, all-forgotten

i am no hector of troy.
the gods of Olympus won't keep my corpse clean until my father comes pleading.
my gods are the earthworms writhing beneath me and gift-giver Gaia, who strips my bones of their flesh and whispers softly as she feeds me to her children "lie still, lie still, lie still"

/'mad-nes/
noun
1. I forgot I had fists today. my heart decided to be a warrior. punch after punch, does it seek glory?  I’m washing my hands; they shine like red sunsets when I first found paradise.
Am I a murderer? or did I **** my thoughts in self defence?

2. angels are talking behind my ear. they don't sound like the cruel laughter i know but they never leave (everyone always does) should i call this love a lie? for the first time I think I could be holy.
I almost smile.

3. my lips are full of crimson coated lies. As I dance in forgotten light, I pour a trail of gasoline, yesterday I tried to burn my mind, I left three bodies fading behind my back (all were mine mine mine) forgive me father for leaving those marks. mother says heaven doesn't want me anymore.

"You've been writing again."
Yes, I have.
"So, who is behind the pain?"
What do you mean?
"I know you. You only write when you're hurting. When your heart's heavy, your mind full, your soul splintered. Those are the times when your best words
spill on the page. I know this because I've read them, I've felt your words enter my skin, flow through my veins, and embed themselves onto my heart. So tell me, who's behind the beautifully heart breaking poetry this time?"

you love each other
you really do
but here's the tragedy
its not enough

the hero who fought long enough to become the victim
the victim who was wronged long enough to become the monster

The human thigh bone is stronger than concrete, a boy in a man's body tells me, as he ***** down a joint trying to **** himself quietly. I find it funny that we weren't built to break, our bodies are so strong it takes trucks to overturn us. the funny thing is, we were designed to survive but they forgot to make our souls strong. sometimes people talk to me about the invincibility of the human spirit, and I think that sounds really pretty but doesn't solve problems like how teenagers are taking their own lives off of shelves as if they were thieves in a seven-eleven. they say the human spirit can endure anything thrown at it, but then how come so many of us hate ourselves so hard we can't see straight?
the human thigh bone is stronger than the buildings we keep killing ourselves in, And I have realised there is a big difference between being alive and living.

"today my professor told me every cell in our entire body is destroyed and replaced every seven years.
how comforting it is to know one day i will have a body you will have never touched."

" do not misunderstand me; when I call myself a shell
what i mean is a used up bullet casing.
As in, the aftermath of something lethal and horrific.
As in, an echo of inflicted evil that seeps into everything ."

yes,
you will rise from the ashes
but burning comes first

for this part,
darling,
you must be brave

"what did they do?"
"nothing good his puppets were not supposed to live after the war"

divinity will stain your fingers and mouth like pomegranate juice.
it will swallow you whole and spit you out,
you will reach for it again and again,
greedy human fingers clutching at everything you can reach.
the divine will curl its way through your veins and take you over,
and it will not leave you quietly.
i feel divinity in my bones like aching; like fire.

"do not borrow grief from the future"
But what if I can already see the headlights? I can hear the humming, I cannot ignore it. You will be gone. I will lose you. That is a certainty that has awaited me. I am nowhere near by.

don't be what they made you
you fought to hard
to ******* hard

"I don't have a tragic backstory. I didn't come from nothing, I came from a family that has loved me from day one and been able to provide me with what I need. I have a roof over my head and food on the table. There are no excuses for me, no limitations, no walls I need to break down. But I'm not a genius. Not a superstar, not this incredible human being. And my greatest fear is that I will never do anything. People with incredible backstories change the world and I can't."

Ik/sting(k)SH(a)n/
noun
1. ultraviolet silence. fracture patterns in the exposed knuckle bones. we pray with our knees in the dust but the gods do not answer us. the pines creak with the weight of ghosts.
2. it is a fire light dance. it is a marrow-born dance. close your tired eyes. let yourself be spun in winding circles. remember to breathe, remember to breathe.
3. no red feathers, all red ashes. listen to me, child, it always starts with you saying, I am doing something right.

teardrops
petals
snowflakes
rain
stars
eyelids
time
shadows
the sun
and I,
for you

They say you're smart. Your first grade teacher calls you a genius. You feel thrilled because finally, finally, someone who doesn't immediately wait for the next achievement, someone who doesn't threaten disownment over failure. You meet her again 10 years later. You're still her genius.
It is no longer a compliment, it falls like a curse. You spend your childhood decorated in choking ribbons and leaded trophies, but you don't feel pretty, you just feel used. You remember every moment. You remember longing for friends but finding none. You remember a desperation to please when you finally do. You find yourself asking "What if I'm not enough?”. You never are. Then you're up till sunrise because the world is crumbling and you are not enough and never will be and you have no-one. Sometimes you pick up a pen and write, but never in the first tense, never, too personal, You wanted to burn like Icarus. but You faded like Cassandra.

Cancer took you like if had the right.
Like the world owed it something
More precious than it deserved.
( turned out that was you)

I hate it for what it did to you
For the way it stole your smile
And left nothing but silence behind
It made your body a battlefield
Then claimed victory like it had earned it.

I hate it for making you smaller
For the days it stole
The plans we made
That now feel like broken glass in my chest.

It didn't just take you
It left me here. Holding your name
Like a wound I can't stop bleeding from,
Hating somthing I can't even touch,
Wishing hate could ever be enough.

ghost
/gowst/

1.   The bleached whale teeth of your bones covered in layers of papery humanity, the blue of your Veins as they lie, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦.

2.   Static white and less, a phantom haunting your own skin. You were murdered, murdered, murdered by this coffin of a house.

3.   Dustless and fearfilled; can the dead die again?

Why is it always about Jesus' Suffering and God's Sacrifice?
Where is Mary?
Where is the woman whose reward for goodness and virtue was to have her baby boy tortured and killed as a warning?
Do you think Mary the ******, Mary the Mother, Mary the human ever regretted being good enough to earn attention of her God?
Do you think she ever quietly, privately, resented her faith?
Cursed her fate to be raised on a pedestal, carved into history as beautiful, weeping, covered in gold, cradling the body of her child?
How would she feel today, to step into a church and see above the pulpit, larger than life, the glossy painted likeness of her boy, thin and bleeding, looking to the heavens to a Father who would not spare him?
Was it terrible for Mary? Did she hate her God, in the end? Or did she stand tall to the last breath, a reluctant but obedient witness, faithful despite everything?
Was as she ever torn between her faith and her heart? Her love and her fear? The choice between loss or betrayal?
It would be terrible if she was in torment, but would be terrible if she wasn't.