I WRITE SHIT SOMETIMES. YOU CAN READ IT HERE. I GUESS, IF THAT’S SOMETHING YOU WANT TO DO. SOMETIMES.
ARE YOU CURIOUS? WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW? IT’S ALL DISAPPOINTINGLY SIMPLE. I AM A MEAT SACK FULL OF EMOTIONS. SO I WRITE SHIT. ESSAYS, STORIES, IDEK. YOU TELL ME, OKAY? I NEEDED A PLACE TO SELF PUBLISH TO SATISFY MY INTERNALIZED NARCISSISM AND MEDIOCRE VALIDATION. THESE WORDS ARE MINE. I AM GREEDY AND VENGFUL. I MOVE WITH THE FULL FORCE OF ALL MY ANCESTORS.
BURN
2024
I am beholden to none,
Save the dirt womb of the
Mother who bore me.
I will return to her when the Wolves howl my name.
Until then, I shall
BURN.
THE EATER
2024
A HAUNTING
2025
There is a hunger that sits deep in the bottom of the soul. It waxes and wanes like its mistress the moon. Sometimes the hunger is wide and yawning, everything falls into it whole, and undigested. Other times the hunger is hidden, moving through time, a silent stalker, slipping through the day, wholly unnoticed. Noticed, unnoticed, screaming maw, or tightlipped prude, the hunger remains.
You were such a fucking intruder. No one asked you to be here. No one asked you to make a home here. Who invited you in and how could they be so stupid? To let you sit at our table. Make yourself wholesome and comfortable. Like you ever fucking belonged here? It's so dumb to be shown something so wonderful. Led us right into the bakery, sniffing all the cake. White powder on the snout. Pig pig. Get the fuck out.
Moving into sacred spaces, seeking a familiar comfort.
Looking,
looking,
looking,
for something to fill the tugging longing ache inside. Sitting deep in bone fragments, stitched together with a disinterest in self preservation. Each sanctuary that is found, a sacrifice is required. Blood offering on the altar. A price paid for the comfort sought in familiarity. They are all stained, your blood splatter is on the walls, dripping from the edges, your bones fertilizing new growth. There is no safety here, from you. Every sacred space is lined with the broken shards of memory. Pushing through with relentless determination, seeking the tender flesh of desire to sink down into.
Pushing
deeper,
deeper,
deeper.
A living ghost sits waiting for you, obsidian knives in hand. You will bleed. For this. For sacred solitude. Warm. Wet. Slick. The suction of every knife wound a bittersweet symphony.
Self inflicted wounds. You brought the living dead to all your sacred spaces. Left nothing untouched, unexplored by their violent curiosities. Are these places that were mine, yours too? Is this contested custody? Are you haunted by a violent specter? A silent observer holding the stillness of all your violence? Do you stand bleeding, wounds festering and burning? Tender hands tearing at your limbs, your face. Caressing, gently wandering, wondering at the salty slickness beneath broken fingertips. Ripping and pulling you asunder, bleeding you dry.
Is there arctic indifference? (I’ll take your silent violence) Are they filled with the warmth of ardor? Bittersweet reverie. A friend for a season. A fiend for a lifetime. Ghoul of your heart. Each sacred space holding weaponized hope. A battle axe poised. Will the ghost materialize? Become host to the living. Turn to flesh and blood. They’ll never be here again. Dead and gone. But not to you. (masochistic necromancer) Stalked. Hunted. Haunted by the memories of the living dead.