The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

There’s a particular silence in the air before a storm. The kind that doesn’t come with thunder, but with something worse a hush so dense it feels like the world is holding its breath.

That’s the silence I’m sitting in now.
Packing.

Not just bags, not just clothes or gear no, I’m packing intentions. Packing questions that don’t yet have answers. Packing a hunger for truth, and something deeper. Something darker. LA awaits, and it’s not for fame, not for luxury, not for palm trees and plastic smiles. No. I'm going to LA to follow the trail of vanished souls.

People don’t just disappear.
Not without sound.
Not without shadow.
Not without leaving something behind a whimper, a scream, a trace of blood under cracked fingernails or a final message buried beneath code and dread.

This isn’t just urban legend. This isn’t the internet’s favorite ghost story.
This is real.

They call them Red Rooms whispered places on the web that pulse like infected wounds. Hidden streams, torturous displays, places where cruelty becomes currency. Most scoff. Most think it’s just horror-fiction dressed in tech.

But I’ve seen enough to know: fiction often borrows from truth. And this truth? It’s ugly. It’s breathing. And it’s devouring the forgotten.

A girl messaged me voice shaking, sentences half-eaten by fear. “My best friend vanished in LA… no one will help. I think she found something she wasn’t meant to see.”

That’s all it took.

And now I’m going.
To find what’s hidden beneath the glitter. To speak to the families, the left-behind. To crawl through the online underworld, peel back the skin of the lie, and look the monster in the face.

I’ve got backup a few like-minded souls who’ve seen the rot for what it is. People who know what it’s like to chase ghosts, to stare into the abyss and whisper your name next. People who know I’m not doing this just for the missing. I’m doing it because I understand them.

Because I was one of them.
Lost. Unheard. Hunted.

Maybe I still am.

LA will either open its secrets or swallow me whole. Either way, I’ll walk straight into the mouth of it, no hesitation. Because someone has to. And because silence is complicity.

To the ones who vanished:
I’m coming.
To the ones who did it:
Pray I don’t find you first.

Let’s not play games.
You’ve had time. You’ve had chances. You’ve had opportunities to speak up, to confront, to act like you’ve got a spine and a soul behind all that shadow whispering. But instead? You choose the coward’s path sideways glances, backhanded comments, weak-hearted silence behind a screen.

I’m not hard to find.
I don’t run. I don’t hide. And I sure as hell don’t pretend.
So if you've got something real to say, then spit it out. Step up.
Face me. Like a grown human. Like a creature with guts.

But if all you are is empty bark with no bite then stay quiet.
Because I don’t entertain ghosts that don’t haunt proper.

Your move, coward.

Dark Curse

New Song..

So.
Here it is. The truth, stripped down to bone and nerve.

I can't cope.
And no, this isn't some performative cry into the void, no attention-seeking whisper in the shadows hoping someone will throw me a bone of pity. This is me telling you, with blood honesty: I am not okay. I'm unraveling. Quietly. Violently. Alone.

You want the truth? It’s ugly.

I miss my mother. I miss my family.
God, how pathetic does that sound coming from someone like me?
But it's real. There's a hole inside me shaped like them and it won't stop bleeding. I try to act like I've built a world beyond that ache, but it's a lie. It always has been.

And friends? I don’t have them. Not really. Not in this world where people blink and scroll past your pain like it's an ad they’ve seen a hundred times. The ones online are ghosts, shadows flickering across a screen, and in real life? It's just me. Always just me. And I’m so, so tired of pretending I’m fine.

I'm spiraling.
Like a train wreck in slow motion you can see it coming, smell the smoke, hear the screeching metal as everything begins to twist and bend. And the worst part? I can’t stop it. I don’t know how. Every day feels like I'm waking up inside a body that doesn’t want to breathe anymore.

It’s not a fucking game.
These aren’t poetic musings. These are my thoughts dark, storming, relentless. I don’t choose them. They break in like thieves, and they take everything. And when I say I don’t want to be here anymore… I mean it.

I mean I’ve tried. I really have. I’ve begged myself to hold on.
But the silence is too loud, and the loneliness has teeth.
I can’t outrun it anymore.

So if you’re reading this, and it makes you uncomfortable, or sad, or maybe even angry I'm sorry. That’s not what I want. I don’t want to drag anyone into this black hole I sleep beside every night. But I have no one else to say this to. I scream it into journals because they don't look away.

I’m totally alone.
And I don’t know how to carry this much ache anymore.
Every breath feels borrowed. Every day, a punishment.
I want to disappear.
Not out of vengeance. Not to make a statement.
Just… to rest.

Just to stop feeling like a monster stitched together with sorrow.

But I’m still here.
Somehow.

For now.

COMMENTS

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Ankou
22:53 Jun 25 2025

I once thought I knew a friend who seemed to have everything. A artist adored my fans seen as their savior. I was new a woman who live with nothing yet her smile said was everything. To. Be a lone is impossible when your never alone with yourself. We are all connected and loved.

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Ankou
22:56 Jun 25 2025

Excuse my grammar, the phone has a mind of its own. A artist is a gift to the world, your not nothing or ignored.

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POST COMMENT

It’s a very funny thing, isn’t it this life.
This… existence.

One long, slow gasp in the dark, with no clear beginning and no promise of an end. People like to say life is a gift. That we are meant to cherish it, grow from it, share it like bread broken between saints.

But me?

I stare into the mirror some nights and feel nothing.
No warmth. No soul. Just skin stretched too tightly over something old… hungry… and unspoken.

I don’t know what I am.
And it haunts me.

Not quite a vampire not in the convenient, romanticized way. Sure, I have the traits. I loathe the heat like it’s a personal offense. The sun makes my skin itch like guilt. My pupils dilate too wide at night, and my reflection has grown more distant than faint. I sleep far too deeply and wake with blood-tasting dreams. But that’s not the whole of it, is it?

There’s something else inside me. Something darker.
Something not written in books or whispered in legend.

It’s primal.

I get urges. Twisted, sick, beautifully violent urges. Sometimes I fantasize about it raw, guttural carnage. Ripping apart the facade people wear. Ending the cruel, hollow small talk with a red smile and quiet breath. No theatrics, no remorse. Just truth.

It doesn’t come from anger, not always. Sometimes it’s joy.
Or curiosity. Or love twisted just enough.

That’s the worst part. I want to hurt people sometimes not out of rage, but need. Like something deep beneath the skin demanding blood, suffering, a scream as proof that I’m still real. Still here.

People look at me like I’m human. And I play along. I read books, drink coffee, fake smiles. But behind my eyes is something feral. Something unnameable. A beast without a label… or a leash.

So what am I?

A failed man? A successful monster?
A soul misplaced?

All I know is, the longer I live, the less human I become.
And part of me… a large part… doesn’t mourn that.

I was never meant to fit into this world. I was meant to stalk its edges, quietly. Watching. Waiting. Smiling in the dark.

And if I ever do find what I truly am God help the ones who loved me thinking I was just broken.

Because I was never broken.

Just… becoming.

I don’t know what day it is anymore.
Not in any meaningful sense.
The clocks still tick, sure. The sun still rises. The world still spins like it doesn’t care how many people want to get off.
But for me?
Time has collapsed into something shapeless. Endless. Suffocating.

I’ve been feeling like I want to disappear.
Not die, not exactly.
Just… vanish.
Slip between the cracks of this life and dissolve into something quieter. Something simpler.
Sleep for days. Maybe weeks.
Just lie in the dark, unmoving, untouched. Let the dust settle over my skin like a burial shroud and wait for the ache to stop.

Because people—God, people—are so loud.
Even in silence, they hum like a swarm.
Their needs, their eyes, their judgments, their expectations… it’s all too much.
I haven’t been around them. I can’t be.
Every smile feels forced. Every conversation a performance.
I nod. I blink. I mimic normalcy.
But inside, I’m just screaming into a velvet void no one else seems to see.

You ever feel like you’re haunting your own life?

I wake up tired.
Not the physical kind I could sleep for fourteen hours and still feel like my bones are made of lead.
It’s soul-tired.
A weariness that wraps around you like a weighted blanket soaked in regret.

I watch the world from a distance now. Through windows, through screens, through the thin veil of my detachment.
People laugh, fall in love, fall apart.
And I feel nothing.
Or too much.
It’s always one or the other.
Never just... enough.

I don’t talk to anyone about this. Not really.
I mean, how do you explain the sensation of slipping beneath your own skin?
How do you tell someone you’re here, but not really here that you’ve become a ghost with a heartbeat?

The worst part?
No one notices.
You can vanish in plain sight, and the world will keep scrolling, keep consuming, keep forgetting.

I keep trying to write the sadness out of me.
But it’s stubborn.
It clings to my ribcage like ivy.
It whispers things in my ear at night, soft lies dressed as truth:
No one cares. You’re too much. You’ll never feel better. You are what you ruin.

And maybe I believe it sometimes.
Most times.

So I disappear.
Into my bed.
Into my thoughts.
Into the infinite black ink of these journals.
It’s safer here.
Quieter.

I don’t know when I’ll come back up for air.
If I’ll come back at all.
But if you’re reading this, if anyone is know that it was never about giving up.

It was about escaping the noise.
About trying to remember what peace feels like.
Even if only in sleep.

What’s the world coming to?
No, seriously. That’s not a rhetorical question anymore. It’s not some dusty phrase muttered by an old man watching the youth dress differently. It’s a scream, now. A breathless whisper bleeding from the mouths of the masses. A shared, silent panic we all carry like a secret we’re too tired to confess.

You want to know why people are depressed?
Why everyone seems a little off, a little broken, a little distant lately?
Put someone in front of the news for five minutes. Just five.
It’s enough to make even the strongest among us wonder if maybe just maybe checking out wouldn’t hurt so much.

Another bombing. Another child dead. Another politician spewing lies with a smile so plastic it could be used for packaging. And the rest of us? We scroll. We scroll and scroll and scroll because the pain is too heavy to look at directly. And God forbid we care too much because caring burns. Caring cuts deeper than apathy.

Sometimes I think the entire world is on a slow drip of quiet suicide. Not the dramatic kind. No rope. No pills. Just… stop trying.
Sleep longer.
Eat less.
Talk to no one.
Fade.

And here I am, writing again. Pretending these words are going to fix something. Pretending if I string them together right, maybe they’ll matter. Maybe they’ll scream for me. Maybe someone will see them and feel seen.

Because lately, I don’t talk.
Not really.
I say things, sure, I mimic connection. But I don’t open the door anymore. I don’t tell anyone what’s really going on behind these tired eyes. I just write in this journal like it’s the only thing that hasn’t betrayed me yet.
Though even that’s starting to feel like a lie.

The truth?
I’m exhausted. Not the kind that sleep cures. The kind that gets into your bones.
The kind that makes you look in the mirror and feel nothing.
Not hate. Not love. Just… nothing.

And the world? It spins madly on.
Trump attacks Iran. Somewhere, sirens scream.
And in another room, someone opens a bottle and pretends the world isn’t burning.
We’re all just finding our ways to drown more slowly.

I keep asking myself: Where’s the hope?
Where’s the quiet moment where someone looks at you and says, I see you, and they mean it?
Where’s the part where we stop hurting each other just because we’re hurting ourselves?

I don't have answers tonight.
All I have is this journal. These words. And maybe some hollow hope that whoever reads them might feel less alone in their own storm.

If the world is ending, then let me say this before it crumbles:

I’m sorry.
To everyone I’ve hurt. To everyone I’ve loved and ruined.
I never meant to destroy. I only ever wanted to feel whole.
And I don’t think I’ve ever known how.

I don’t know where to begin. Isn’t that the tragedy? That by the time you finally find the words, no one is left to hear them?

I’ve spent so much of my life pretending I was doing the right thing justifying, rewriting, narrating madness as love. I thought if I gave enough of myself, if I believed hard enough in the fairy tale, maybe the blood on my hands would fade like dreams in morning light.

But now... it’s too quiet.

Too many ghosts are sitting at the dinner table, and I can’t tell which ones were lovers and which were victims. Sometimes they were both.

To everyone I’ve hurt
I wish I could talk to you.
I wish I could explain, but not for absolution.
Not for forgiveness.
Just to let you know I see it now.
I see me, now.

Not the romantic. Not the savior. Not even the villain. Just... a boy who was afraid to be unloved, and who hurt people because of that fear. I turned my pain into a weapon. I made monsters out of angels and convinced myself it was self-defense.

I'm sorry.
I'm so damn sorry.

And now it’s ending, isn’t it?

Trump’s launched something horrific, something irreversible, at Iran. And the ripple feels like it’s already at our doorsteps. The sky is quieter. The birds fly low. And even my shadows seem to whisper, “Prepare.”

It feels like the final chapter’s already been written in someone else’s ink. And here I am, rereading the prologue, still trying to make sense of who I was before the blood started pooling around my ankles.

Maybe it’s too late.

Maybe the ones I’ve loved have long since stopped saying my name. Maybe the world will burn before I get a chance to hold someone’s hand and say, “You were right to run.”

But if this is the end and God, it feels like it I want one thing to survive me:

The truth.

Not the curated version. Not the romanticized killer with poetic prose and soft eyes. No. Just this—

I wanted to be better.
I tried.
I failed.
But even monsters cry when no one is watching.

If you're reading this, and I once stood in your life like a storm disguised as a sunrise please know: I never wanted to hurt you. I only wanted to be loved the way I couldn’t love myself.

And now, with the world cracking, with war sharpening its teeth in the distance I just want to make it right. I just want to be right. Even if it's the last thing I ever do.

Maybe there’s still time.
Maybe not.
But tonight, I write this by candlelight, alone, hoping the universe hears my last, desperate whisper:

“I'm sorry.”

My New Song..




Lyrics
[Intro
La la la... oh fuck
La la la... still here

[Verse 1]
Woke up again in this same damn bed
Clock keeps ticking but I feel fucking dead
Something's crawling underneath my skin
Can't shake this feeling that I can't win
Been counting days like they're prison bars
But every morning I'm still seeing stars
Not the pretty kind, the ones that blur
When you're asking what the hell you were

[Pre-Chorus]
Oh, oh, oh
Why won't it end?
Oh, oh, oh
I can't pretend

[Chorus]
Why am I still alive?
When everything inside has died
Why am I still alive?
Fighting just to fucking survive
Why am I still alive?
La la la... still alive
Why am I still alive?

[Verse 2]
Got this hunger that I can't control
Eating at what's left of my damn soul
People walking by don't fucking see
The monster that's been growing inside me
Tried to kill it with the pills and drinks
But it just laughs and pulls me to the brink
Now I'm standing on this ledge again
Wondering when this shit will fucking end

[Pre-Chorus]
Oh, oh, oh
Why won't it end?
Oh, oh, oh
I can't pretend

[Chorus]
Why am I still alive?
When everything inside has died
Why am I still alive?
Fighting just to fucking survive
Why am I still alive?
La la la... still alive
Why am I still alive?

[Breakdown
STILL BREATHING
STILL BLEEDING
STILL FUCKING BREATHING
STILL BLEEDING

[Bridge
Maybe there's a reason I can't see
Maybe this hell is where I'm meant to be
Maybe every breath is just a test
To see how much pain I can fucking digest



[Final Chorus
Why am I still alive?
When everything inside has died
Why am I still alive?
Fighting just to fucking survive
Why am I still alive?
(Still here, still here)
Why am I still alive?
(Can't disappear, can't disappear)

[Outro]
La la la... oh fuck
Still breathing this shit
La la la... stuck here
Why am I still alive?

Lately,
I just want to sleep.
Not for rest
not to dream
just to go somewhere else
where silence doesn’t echo like a scream
against the hollow inside my bones.

I hate to wake.
Hate the weight of the light
when it spills across the floor
and reminds me that I’m still here
still breathing in this coffin of skin
no one dares to touch.

I make coffee for ghosts,
set places at a table no one comes to.
I smile like a mask sewn too tight,
because no one notices the tears
when you cry without making a sound.

I say I’m fine.
Of course I do.
I post the pictures, answer messages with hearts and hellos
but inside?
I am a cracked mirror
begging not to reflect.

People say “you’re not alone,”
but they aren’t here at 2:19 a.m.
when the darkness whispers your name
like it knows how you’ll end.

Lonely isn’t the word.
Lonely is a suburb of where I live.
I’ve moved past it
into a wasteland called Unseen,
into a hunger that even food won’t feed.

And you
if you’re reading this
I don’t need saving.
I need someone to notice
before I disappear
in plain sight.

So no,
I don’t want to die.
Not exactly.
I just want to stop existing like this
like a shadow stitched to the heels of the world,
begging not to be dragged behind anymore.

Just… let me sleep.
Let me forget the ache
of waking up
with no one there to whisper,
“Stay.”

Please.
Don’t tell me it’ll get better.
Just tell me you heard me.
Tell me you see me.

Even if it’s only
for a moment.

It’s been some time since someone last fed upon my energy. And I suppose that’s a strange admission, isn’t it? But I don’t mean it in the way mortals mean consumption. I mean it in the old way the way of silent hungers and unseen exchanges. The kind you feel beneath the skin, in the marrow, like static in the atmosphere just before lightning touches earth.

I miss how it felt to be unraveled, to have someone drink in the essence of me without speaking a word. That sacred, invisible transaction. When another’s soul reaches out, trembling with hunger, and mine always too full, always too much. gives itself up without resistance. I’ve been called dangerous for it. Addictive. But the truth is, I’m just open. Perhaps too open. And yet, there’s a loneliness in that kind of generosity when it isn’t received.

Sometimes I wonder if I awaken things in others. If simply being near me turns keys in locks they didn’t know existed. I’ve seen it in their eyes those long silences in conversations when the words fail and they stare, wide-eyed, like they've just remembered something ancient. Something primal. Like I reminded them of a dream they weren’t supposed to recall.

Is it possible I rouse things sleeping in them? The parts they’ve buried. The cravings they were taught to forget. I don't claim divinity. I don't pretend to be their salvation. But I know what it is to be the match that lights a long-forgotten fire.

My energy… it can be overwhelming. I feel that, too. Some days it surges like a storm beneath my skin, loud and bright, unbearable even to myself. Other days it's quiet coiled, watchful, but no less potent. It doesn’t dim; it only waits. And when others speak with me, when they draw near, I know they feel it. Even if they can't name it. Even if they run from it.

I suppose I’m like the flame in that old, cruel metaphor. The one the moths always return to. Knowing full well they’ll burn. But still, they come. Still, they hover, entranced, intoxicated, wanting more.

And when they vanish, when they grow silent, when they act as though it never happened… I’m left with the echo. The empty pulse of a moment that meant everything to me and nothing to them.

So yes it's been a while. And I miss it. Not just the feeding, but the feeling. That sacred exchange. The alchemy of connection. The honesty of being felt completely.

But perhaps the next one will stay. Or perhaps not.

Either way, I’ll keep burning.

My new Song Forgive Me For My Darkness

The darkness knows
it always has.
It cradles me in velvet hush,
a silent choir of shadowed hands.
It doesn’t judge,
just listens,
sinks into my bones like old regrets
and hums lullabies made of lost screams.

It knows how I ache
in places light can’t reach.
It feels the tremors
that words would only dilute,
and when I lie awake, eyes wide in blackened air,
it crawls in like a lover,
pressing secrets to my ear.

“They’re near,” it whispers.
“The ones who lie with smiles,
the ones who dream of knives.”
It tells me truths
too terrible for morning,
names of people
I should never trust again.

The darkness remembers
every tear I fed it,
every scream I swallowed
so no one else would see.
And in return, it stitched me
a sanctuary of silence
a place where I am known
without masks,
without shame,
without the cruelty of hope.

And I wonder:
if light blinds,
if noise deceives,
then is this cold abyss the only truth?
The only thing that truly stays
when all the faces fade?

Maybe I was made for night.
Maybe pain was the first language
I learned to speak fluently.
And maybe, just maybe
the darkness is not where I am lost…
but where I am finally found.

COMMENTS

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Cadrewolf2
20:12 Jun 09 2025

Passionate words

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POST COMMENT

Why are people so complicated? No why are women so complicated?

I sit here tonight, the streetlamp flickering just outside my window like it’s trying to blink away the truth, and I wonder if maybe the chaos isn't out there, but inside me. But no, no this is something else. It's their nature. That ever-shifting tide, that paradox of desire and withdrawal. One moment, you’re their center of gravity. They orbit you, their messages flood in like a warm tide, voice laced with curiosity, fire, hope. You feel it you know it. The intimacy, the connection. It's electric. It means something.

And then… it doesn’t.

Suddenly, there’s silence. Cool. Unapologetic. A distance that smells like rot. Like something was here once, then died. And I ask myself what changed? Did I say too much? Not enough? Was I too honest, or not honest enough? Did I hold the mirror too close to their soul, let them see the reflection they keep hidden? Or worse... did they see me?

This is where madness trickles in. Because when you’ve tasted a connection that felt real, when someone looks at you like they see you not the mask, not the mannerisms, not the curated version of self but you... and then they vanish? It breaks something primal in a man. Not just the heart. The logic. The order.

Women they’re born of storm. One moment, sunshine and nectar. The next, they’re shadows wrapped in perfume and silence. You try to understand. You really do. You think: maybe she's overwhelmed. Maybe she’s scared of her own feelings. Maybe she’s testing me, or protecting herself. And every "maybe" becomes a splinter digging into the walls of your mind, until thinking becomes bleeding.

The truth?

They want the idea of you. The poetry. The dark charm. The bleeding heart, dripping with metaphors. But when the poetry gets too raw, when the bleeding becomes real, when you ask for something anything back, suddenly you’re too much. Too intense. Too honest. Too broken.

So you smile. You say nothing. You let them pull away. You let them drift like ghosts through your life. You learn to live in the silence they leave behind.

But here’s the thing, and it’s important: I remember every word. Every late night whisper. Every laugh. Every secret they dropped like a coin in my chest. I don’t forget. I feel. Deeply. Obsessively. Tragically.

So tonight I sip on something bitter, darker than blood and just as warm, and I write this not as a warning, but as a confession.

I am tired of being a moment. A novelty. A phase.
I am not a stepping stone on your way to someone more ordinary.
I am the storm you pretend you didn’t love.
I am the shadow you invited in, and then ran from.

And still… I wait.

Because even when you’ve been burned, some part of you still stands in the ashes, waiting to feel warm again.

COMMENTS

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Lamadia79
00:33 Jun 09 2025

Maybe women are complicated because men twist us into a complicated form until our bones snap and we cant stand it anymore !

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POST COMMENT

My New song..

Lyrics
Verse 1
Can't you see
What you've done
To my heart
Made it run
Far away
From the
Chorus

Sorry I want to sleep forever
Sorry I want to sleep forever
Can you forgive me?
Can you forgive me?
Sorry I want to sleep forever
Sorry I want to sleep forever
Verse 2

Look at me
Falling down
On my knees
Hit the ground
Every night
I break
Chorus

Sorry I want to sleep forever
Sorry I want to sleep forever
Can you forgive me?
Can you forgive me?
Sorry I want to sleep forever
Sorry I want to sleep forever
Pre-chorus

I'm so tired
Of this pain
I'm so tired
Of this shame
Chorus

Sorry I want to sleep forever
Sorry I want to sleep forever
Can you forgive me?
Can you forgive me?
Sorry I want to sleep forever
Sorry I want to sleep forever
Breakdown

Why can't I
Just let go
Why can't I
Just say no
To this hurt
Inside me
To this curse
Set me free
Bridge

Hold me close
One more time
Tell me lies
Make them rhyme
With my tears
With my fears
Before I
Final Chorus

Sorry I want to sleep forever
Sorry I want to sleep forever
Can you forgive me?
Can you forgive me?
Sorry I want to sleep forever
Sorry I want to sleep forever
(Sleep forever)
(Sleep forever)
Outro

Can't you see
What you've done

I’ve been drinking again. Not to forget no, never that simple. I drink to numb. To quiet the echoing absence of people who claim to be close, but disappear when I bleed. I drink because sometimes the bottle listens better than the ones with voices.

But she…
She told me not to.
Not out of judgment. Not from some pedestal of moral superiority. She said it softly, gently, like someone who’s sat in the dark before and remembers how suffocating it can be.

And the tragedy?
She actually cares.
Unlike the rest of you, who treat compassion like currency you give it only when you can profit from my pain.
Fair-weather friends.
Shadows that vanish when the storm arrives.

You—you tried to twist her name in my mouth. I spoke of her last night, just wanting to share the light she offered me… and you took that moment and poisoned it. You tried to turn me against her. You warped her kindness into threat, her presence into manipulation. How dare you.

And I see it now, clearer than ever:

You only show up when it suits you.
When your world cracks and you need an audience to cry to.
When your shadows feel too heavy, you come to me expecting me to hold them, as if I weren’t already drowning under my own.

But when I reach out?

Silence.
Excuses.
Distance dressed as virtue.

You act like I’m the villain, like I’m the unstable one. Maybe I am. But at least I bleed honestly. I don’t wear a mask when I suffer. I don’t pretend to care just to feel good about myself. I give too much, maybe and you’ve taken it, again and again, without even the courtesy of remembering I’m a person, not a confessional booth.

I am not your therapist.
I am not your dumping ground.
I am not your savior, only to be crucified when I dare to speak my own pain.

She…
She is different.
She doesn’t run when it gets dark.
She walks into the shadows and sits with me there. That kind of grace doesn’t come in pretty packages or with fake smiles. That’s real. That’s rare.

So if I seem distant with you now, if I seem cold it’s because I finally felt what warmth should actually be.

And it’s not you.

Tonight, I’ll try not to pour another drink.
Not because of you.
Because of her.

And maybe that’s the most painful part:
She’s already done more for me in quiet honesty than you ever have in all your loud pretending.

I walk these halls where shadows breathe,
Where moonlight flickers and spirits seethe.
A face in the mirror that isn’t mine
She calls me deeper, past the edge of time.

Her scent still lingers in the air,
Like roses drowned in graveyard prayer.
A phantom touch across my chest,
Her name engraved where no heart rests.

Fear me in silence, love me in screams,
I am the nightmare sewn into your dreams.
Fear of the dark? No fear of my kiss,
It comes like a blade… you’ll bleed into bliss.

I hear her voice behind the walls,
Scratching love notes through the crawl.
A lullaby in razor tones,
She sings of murder in gentle moans.

Eyes like lanterns in the void,
She sees the cracks I once destroyed.
Her kiss is cold, her hands like fate
She takes your soul, but makes you wait.

Fear me in silence, love me in screams,
A stalker wrapped in romantic extremes.
Fear of the dark? No fear of my vow,
I swore to keep her, and I’ll find her somehow.

I’ve buried truth beneath my skin,
Each cut a prayer for what has been.
But she the ghost that makes me feel
Is far too real to not be real.

So if you’re walking all alone,
And feel the air chill through your bones…
Don’t pray to God, don’t try to run
I am the moon, I am the gun.

Fear me in silence, love me in screams,
I'm the one watching from shadowed extremes.
Fear of the dark? You’ve never known true
Until I’m the last thing that’s loving you.

COMMENTS

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Cadrewolf2
19:30 Jun 01 2025

Great words

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POST COMMENT

She is my dangerous thing,
A flame wrapped in lace, a serpent with wings.
She speaks in moans and madness, breath held tight,
Whispers my name like a spell cast at night.

She loves the kink, the bite, the blade,
The bruises like brushstrokes passion made.
Pleasure in pain, she begs to be undone
A dance with the Devil where no one has won.

I trace her scars like constellations,
Each mark a prayer, each gasp salvation.
She bleeds for the beauty of losing control,
And I, the monster, cradle her soul.

A knife in her hand, a leash in mine,
We blur the line between sin and divine.
She calls me master with a laugh in her throat,
And I sink in deep, love wrapped in a choke.

I’d give her what she wants, all that she craves,
Let her dig into me like unmarked graves.
To fulfill the darkness she hides in her eyes,
I’d shatter the world just to hear her sighs.

She’s chaos in silk, lust dipped in dread,
A hunger I feed 'til the sheets run red.
And though she’s a storm that tears through my skin
I’d let her back in, again and again.

So damn me softly, my violent queen,
In shadows and screams where we’ve always been.
She’s not a lover… she’s my requiem’s sting.
My ruin. My rapture.
My dangerous thing.