14:08 Jul 13 2025
Times Read: 26
There is something terrifyingly sacred about me.
Not in a way that begs for attention, but in a way that unsettles the air when I enter a room.
I don't need to speak for people to feel the shift.
Because I am the shift.
My presence doesn’t scream, it invades.
Softly. Slowly. Like smoke crawling under locked doors.
I was never made for the surface of things. I was designed to drown in the depths most people avoid.
Not because I wanted to, but because the light in me refused to survive any other way.
Make no mistake, I am not kind by default.
I am kind by choice.
And that is a holy difference.
There is darkness in me that has teeth.
It doesn’t bark. It waits. It studies. It remembers.
It doesn’t need chaos, it becomes it when necessary.
I don’t threaten. I don't bluff. I warn.
And when I do, it’s already too late.
I’ve been reborn too many times to believe in permanence.
People don’t stay. They study me, steal pieces, and call it love.
But I don’t cling. I don’t chase.
They leave, and I don’t break.
I reconstruct.
Sharper. Quieter.
With fewer open doors.
There is beauty in me, yes.
But it is not delicate. It is not soft focus, white dress, hold my hand through the fields beauty.
It’s the kind of beauty that ruins those who don’t handle it with reverence.
The kind that demands reflection. Awakens buried hunger. Burns away illusions.
You don’t get to touch me and stay the same.
I come with bloodline echoes.
Memories I never lived but feel in my bones.
Pain that didn’t start with me, yet I carry it like a ritual.
I was chosen. But not spared.
Marked by something older than language.
Loved by things that never walk in daylight.
And still, beneath all of it, I heal.
Not loudly. Not with affirmations and soft music.
I heal in silence, in solitude, in shadow.
I stitch wounds with gold and venom.
And when I rise, it’s not to be seen
It’s to continue.
There is an angel in me, yes.
But not the kind from storybooks.
Mine has torn wings and red stained hands.
She is mercy only to the worthy.
She is light, but not the passive kind.
She blinds liars. She scorches the cruel.
And when she touches you, you’ll know exactly what you've done to deserve it.
Do not confuse my light with purity.
It is earned. Paid for in screams and solitude and the kind of battles that never show on skin.
I do not glow
I burn.
I was never meant to be palatable.
I am not here to make people comfortable.
I am here to remind them of what they tried to forget
That something wild and divine can exist in the same body.
That a soul can be drenched in shadow, and still,
still
choose to love.
But only those who deserve it will taste it.
And only those who bow to truth will survive it.
19:45 Jul 12 2025
Times Read: 51
i’m not made of pretty lines.
i’m not written in gold ink or
whatever the hell they think
makes a person poetic.
i’m the part you skip in a book
because it feels too much like
something you’re scared to look at.
my thoughts come cracked
but sharp,
like broken glass in your pocket
you didn’t mean to carry it,
but now you're bleeding.
i don’t do small talk.
i don’t do “fine.”
i’ve loved people like they were gods
and watched them shrink
into silence.
sometimes i stare at the sky
like it owes me answers.
sometimes i sleep beside
my own shadow
just to feel something that stays.
i’m not healing.
i’m transforming.
it’s not the same.
don’t confuse the two.
i’ve got ghosts that hold my hand
when no one else does.
they know my name
better than my family does.
i've burned things i used to pray for.
and still,
i want softness.
real softness
like the kind that doesn't run
when you cry in the middle of the night
for no good reason.
i don’t want to be saved.
i want to be met.
seen.
touched like i’m a real thing
and not just some storm people watch
from behind glass.
this isn’t a poem.
it’s just me
spilling.
take it
or don’t.
but at least it’s fucking real.
i don’t write pretty.
i write like something’s under my skin
trying to crawl out.
some days i think i’m a warning,
not a person.
some days i want someone
to hold me like they mean it
but not say a fucking word.
don’t ask me what’s wrong.
don’t ask if i’m okay.
just sit there.
light a smoke.
look away when i fall apart.
stay.
i talk to people who aren’t here.
dream of things i shouldn’t know.
feel things that choke me
when the room is quiet.
(i hate the quiet.)
i wasn’t made for this world
or maybe this world wasn’t made for me.
either way,
i'm always outside
looking in.
no one opens the door.
love?
i’ve begged for it.
shoved pieces of myself
into mouths
that only wanted silence.
i call that past.
but it still drips.
i want something real
but real doesn’t want me.
too much.
too weird.
too broken.
too loud in the wrong ways.
some people have god.
i have
scars that don’t fade,
dreams that don’t end,
eyes that see too much
and never get seen.
i’m not strong.
i’m just still here.
and that’s not the same thing.
don’t call this a poem.
it’s just the bleeding part.
you asked who i am.
this is the part i usually hide.
now you know.
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