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Every lie, a silken noose wrapped in honeyed breath,
every kiss that drips false bliss like venom from a lover’s fang,
every embrace clutching the pathetic prize of fractured glass hearts.
Every pulse stuttering out of time, a broken metronome in the cathedral of ruin.

Yet faraway from this unending sway—
I drift, swallowed whole by the flame of eternal pain,
where glorious blood spills from the fountain’s weeping throat,
his essence: light forged in purest darkness,
beautiful destroyer, guardian of nightfall bliss.

He walks where stars go to die,
crowned in thorns of longing,
his touch the final mercy that burns before it saves.


Every devotion, a wound left open,
healing in the slow burn of salted flame—
not closing, never sealing,
but blooming like black roses from the gash.
I tend it with trembling fingers,
trace its edges where his darkness kisses the raw edge of me.
Each pulse a prayer whispered into the abyss,
each breath a vow swallowed by eternal night.
The blood flows not in loss,
but in offering—
glorious, thick, sacred.
This is the altar:
my chest laid bare beneath his guardian gaze,
light of darkness pouring over me like liquid starfall.
The pain does not fade; it refines.
It makes a temple of the ache,
a devotion sharper than any blade,
sweeter than any false bliss we left behind.

You stand in that narrow place
between silence and the strike,
where your pulse becomes a warning
and your breath turns sharp as glass.

There’s a creature in your ribs
pacing, pacing, pacing —
a demon with your voice in its teeth,
ready to lunge at the slightest bruise.

But you hold it by the jaw,
not to cage it
but to keep it from tearing
what you still want to love.

And in that trembling pause
before the words would break the room,
you feel the truth beneath the fury:
anger is just the body’s way
of saying “don’t leave me alone in this.”

So you stand there,
moonlit and shaking,
a storm learning how to speak
without destroying the shore.

Your silence cuts deeper than broken tones,
a wound that opens like a moonlit throat.
I don’t want you wandering free in the dark—
I want you near,
close enough that your breath becomes mine.

Your love is the venom I crave,
a nocturnal drug I swallow without fear.
You’re mine—
a vow carved in silver hunger,
a cost I’d pay in blood and eternity.

I’ll break the rules mortals cling to,
blur the lines between shadow and flesh,
burn the trembling world to cinders
just to bind your pulse beneath my fangs.

I can’t eat, can’t breathe, can’t think—
your name is the ache in my throat,
the hunger in my bones,
the night that claims me whole.

You’re not a choice.
You’re the design etched into my immortal skin,
the fate that stalks me through centuries.
You’re not just loved—
you’re the blood‑oath in my mouth,
the darkness I kneel to,
the eternal claim I whisper
even when the world sleeps.

A Soft, Bitter‑Sweet Echo

You are the warm shadow on my fingertips,
the almost‑held,
the nearly‑mine.

I reach,
and you shimmer closer,
like a promise that knows my name
but refuses to stay.

Still…
there’s a sweetness in the ache,
a tenderness in the distance,
a kind of quiet devotion
in wanting what was never meant to be kept.

COMMENTS

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Adain
19:05 May 15 2026

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When the Dragon Wakes

It sleeps deep beneath my ribs,
coiled in the dark
like a storm with scales.
For a long time it was quiet —
not peaceful,
just dormant,
breathing slow,
waiting.

But something crossed the threshold.
A footstep where none belonged.
A whisper that wasn’t invited.
A hand reaching too far
into the chambers of my mind.

And the dragon opened its eye.

Not fully —
just enough for the world to tremble.
Just enough for the air to thicken
with heat and warning.

The rush hits me like fire
forced through a narrow space,
a violent bloom of power
that isn’t clean
or kind
or controlled.

It’s the kind of awakening
that shakes dust from ancient bones,
that cracks the stone around the heart,
that makes the walls of the labyrinth
shudder in fear.

The dragon rises,
slow and terrible,
its wings scraping the dark,
its breath a low growl
that vibrates through my spine.

This is not a positive surge.
This is not enlightenment.
This is instinct,
anger,
protection,
memory,
all igniting at once
because something dared
to step where it shouldn’t.

And now the dragon is awake —
not raging,
not rampaging,
but watching,
smoke curling from its teeth,
waiting to see
if the trespasser
will make the mistake
of taking one more step

COMMENTS

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dracken
02:35 May 01 2026

firebomb::::::: AGGGRRR:::::::::::::: SMOKED

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Myrnda
02:39 May 01 2026

Lol

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