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šÆļø
my head swims ā the way it does when youāve been crying too hard ā as i come to realise i was never the deer running a harbinger of something greater, messenger of the meadows, nor was i the sacrificial lamb, guts spilled to a God who doesnāt seem to answer, I am but human. I lay, bare and shivering on the marble before the altar, and realise there is no symbolism, itās just me, covered in my own blood, making believe in my mind, and itās just cold.
May 18, 2025
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I buried- in silence -in the back yard -a thing in the night -deer trodding behind the tree line airplane light rolling down the cheek of the dome- it had to be done alone no matter how many times you asked what was growing here I couldnāt speak its name- and you couldnāt hold the reigns of a certainty that is not yours to keep -here is my mind, the living, the executor, the backdoor frightened child staring off wandering for the holder -here is the order of the sphinx, the cataloged diagnosis of the ordinary wheel -here is the lackadaisical assistances that you ordered: ābury the hatchet that dug the hole. take the sword of your desires and throw it at the heap. there is a lump forming that must be seared. the stitches to be unraveled are trying to leach into the skin from which they are formed. you must open the earth or be dissolved yourselfā
Feb 25, 2025
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I lower the veil like a penance. Thin gauze, soaked in sweat and smoke and something older than both, obedience. To live is to bleed for others. My body doesnāt move; itās already behind me, slumped and gray and rotting, bones gnawed clean by expectation. I drag it anyway.
The thread cinched around my pinky is baby pink, deceptive in its softness. It cuts deep. Double-knotted, like a pact I never signed, a debt I inherited. I pull. It resists.
My spine folds. A knot blooms in my back, vertebrae twisted, swelling like a beastās hump, monstrous and obscene. Then, rupture. Skin tears. A cactus erupts, wet and thorned and trembling. The monsoon follows. Iām drenched. It hurts. It hurts in the open air.
No one sees it. They only see the veil, and thank me for being polite.
The thread cinched around my pinky is baby pink, deceptive in its softness. It cuts deep. Double-knotted, like a pact I never signed, a debt I inherited. I pull. It resists.
My spine folds. A knot blooms in my back, vertebrae twisted, swelling like a beastās hump, monstrous and obscene. Then, rupture. Skin tears. A cactus erupts, wet and thorned and trembling. The monsoon follows. Iām drenched. It hurts. It hurts in the open air.
No one sees it. They only see the veil, and thank me for being polite.
7h ago
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I hang your jackets in my closet like trophies, or maybe like warnings. I donāt know which. I donāt wear them. Itās far too hot ā sticky, oppressive heat that clings to the skin like regret ā but I keep them there, row by row, like memory has a dress code. The scent is gone now. That clean, clove-sweet sharpness you always carried. Still, I walk past them every day. I make myself look.
Itās supposed to mean something. All of this. I keep telling myself Iām meant for something bigger ā to make a name for myself, they always say ā but what name? The one I was given, or the one Iāll have to carve out with blood and trembling hands? Fifty-five years. Fifty-five steps to the top of the hill, up to that damn library where Iāve been meaning to go. Where I keep meaning to go.
And yet. I donāt move.
My legs work. I know they do. They carried me through worse things ā war zones of the heart, ancestral curses, kitchens full of shattered plates. But I still canāt make them climb. I donāt know if that makes me weak or merciful. I donāt know if itās sabotage or a mercy I donāt deserve.
A dog that weeps after it kills is still a killer. A dog that weeps is still a dog.
Your guilt wonāt make you holy. Your regret wonāt make you clean.
So I ask: when you see a butterfly land on lavender ā that momentary grace, delicate and impossible ā do you still spell my name in your head, as if that might bring me back? As if I ever left?
Itās supposed to mean something. All of this. I keep telling myself Iām meant for something bigger ā to make a name for myself, they always say ā but what name? The one I was given, or the one Iāll have to carve out with blood and trembling hands? Fifty-five years. Fifty-five steps to the top of the hill, up to that damn library where Iāve been meaning to go. Where I keep meaning to go.
And yet. I donāt move.
My legs work. I know they do. They carried me through worse things ā war zones of the heart, ancestral curses, kitchens full of shattered plates. But I still canāt make them climb. I donāt know if that makes me weak or merciful. I donāt know if itās sabotage or a mercy I donāt deserve.
A dog that weeps after it kills is still a killer. A dog that weeps is still a dog.
Your guilt wonāt make you holy. Your regret wonāt make you clean.
So I ask: when you see a butterfly land on lavender ā that momentary grace, delicate and impossible ā do you still spell my name in your head, as if that might bring me back? As if I ever left?
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i could get āThe Kissā by Gustav Klimt tattooed across my whole torso, reaching from chest to back, wrapping around me like the vulnerability could warm me too, the way i subtly, mentally lean into the warmth of the artists hand as she holds onto me for stability. thereās something about the piece that expresses a softness, and rawness that i could cleanly slit my chest open for. i know the piece is generic and the only thing people think of when people say klimt but for a good reason i think. and ill never get.Ā
3d ago
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šiām so worried for the future. while i try to just live in the present, iām afraid ill never be able to really make it in any art, and it will just be relegated to hobby. iāve always been an artist, iāve been writing, and painting, singing, and acting since i was a child. thereās nothing i feel more deeply in my bones than artistry. there is nothing i feel defines me more, i am full of an insatiable providence to engage and really make something. i donāt care what it is, if itās music, or acting in films, or physical art, i an ordained to act as a vessel for things to be seen. but i understand, its not a career of value, or the industry is competitive, and it breaks my heart to think i may never be able to fully commit myself to it all.
already, i find myself making exceptions, applying as a film studies major, because it would be more versatile, but still allow me to work closely with those circles. if i canāt be within i can stay close. but i will miss it, sidelined, benched.
i guess iām in early mourning of a dream.
already, i find myself making exceptions, applying as a film studies major, because it would be more versatile, but still allow me to work closely with those circles. if i canāt be within i can stay close. but i will miss it, sidelined, benched.
i guess iām in early mourning of a dream.
Jun 1, 2025
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šokay and I asked the stars and they told me to tell u that u suck š¤·
Jun 21, 2025