//implied abuse//
There's a dead man in my bed.
I am not afraid, for I know this man more than I would like. Though, I do feel as if I don't know him at all. That I never did. It's a shame I can't just pry open his mouth and fish out all those answers to questions I never asked; every time I open my mouth to ask them, spiders crawl out of my throat. I deserve those answers anyway, digging into his skull to find them. It is a debt that must be paid. He took everything from me, so I will do the same.
Perhaps it is all a sick game to be played. A test of some sort. He loved these tests- more commonly known as cruelty- what sin have I committed now? Greed, right? When I ask for survival, that grievous, unforgivable thing, god forbid a child needs food, right? Ungrateful. A hundred years ago you would have been beaten for this, but I am kind. Doesn't he know that lying is a sin too? Or was it never about my actions and all about the sickness running through his veins. It's in mine too. I can feel it pulsing. Tainting.
Why?
I want to believe that things didn't have to be this way. But then that means there was some element of choice within it all. A choice to destroy. I don't know which is worse. It didn't have to be this way. This was the only way it could have been.
There's a dead man in my bed and I lie next to him to curl into his chest, unmoving. I have spent most of my life wishing it away and now death sits on my bed, next to my pile of dirty clothes. It's gaze burrows under my skin. There's apologies carved into my tongue from how much I have muttered them. My greatest crime was saving myself.
12 February 2026
//mentions of blood and the slightest of gore at the end//
The canvas has grown worn.
Stained by origins unknown, some parts marked with angered scratches and tears. Layered on top of this ruin, the beautiful juxtaposition of it all, there she sits. Head slightly turned to the viewer, black curls framing her face as she sits at a desk littered with paper. The midnight maiden dons a simple black dress, bathed in the warm glow of a nearby candle. Her face is empty. Featureless.
You pick at the hangnails on your fingers, chewing your cut lip between your teeth. Staring at the painting so long has made your head fuzzy, tunnel vision making the world surrounding you seem more like a memory than a current reality. You have to finish this. When you lift your shaking hand to the canvas, you find that it's already dry. When you caress her lifeless face, it stains her jaw red.
How long has it been?
The midnight maiden gazes out the window across the room, facing away- always away. She looks the same as her painting, illuminated by the oil lamp on the table. You pick up the paintbrush again, dipping it into some fresh oil paint. Just her face remains, why can you never seem to remember it? You know her. Know her more than anything you have ever known.
The contours of her face, the bow of her lip; downturned, a perpetual frown. A mole kissed onto her left cheek, under her eyes black as night. Her eyebrows are slightly furrowed and none of this is right- the paint has dried again and everything is wrong.
Tossing the paintbrush onto the floor, you choke down the sob threatening to erupt from your chest. Everything is wrong.
I have to finish-
Finishing it is an impossible task, love. And you know that.
Forgoing the brush, the oil paint makes no noise as you submerge your fingers in it. The colour doesn't matter anymore, smearing desperate lines onto the canvas, all shaky and lacking purpose. It vaguely resembles a face in the same way that shadows merge into monsters. Some hair escapes your ponytail, so you rip it out.
There's a cold hand on your shoulder. Grip weak yet firm. You ignore it, scratching wildly at the canvas, it's not done yet.
Stop this madness and look at me.
Her voice is miles away, but you can still feel her breath on your ear, Please.
Eyes shut tight. Arm falls limp to your side. Her hand hasn't moved. You have to finish the painting before you forget. The taste of salt in your mouth is a familiar one. The smell of rot invades the air.
You will not look at her, you avoid what you know awaits you behind those eyelids. Sunken cheeks, paled skin. There's a painting to finish, a memory to dig up and cradle in your arms to take to bed. It's such a cold night, isn't it? You must be granted this freedom, surely. There must be some sort of-
Please.
Twisted mimicries are all that these are, it is not real, do not allow it to trick you. There's a cold pressure on your cheek- three, no four, whispers of touch- it's barely there but it's still too much to bear. Those tendrils try to guide you, try to yank your face to the side. You will not look. Eyes squeezed tightly, cowering away into your skull. Push them in deeper. Ignore the horrific squelch, ignore the building pressure, you refuse to submit.
You have a painting to finish.
12 February 2026
//warning for mild descriptions of injuries stemming from domestic abuse//
There's something to be said about basking in the destruction of a god. To see the immortal fall is to get a taste of it for yourself, a taste that will linger on your tongue and coat each word you speak. Until time loses itself.
Yang has never seen a god fall, but she has seen empires that believed themselves to be eternal crumble like ash, littering the Earth with their ruin. Such foolish souls. The more they resist their own fates, the tighter they seem to seal it.
She has seen the evolution of every creature, big and small. How they adapt to this world, so simple and young. The birth of jungles that man has yet to step foot in. Lost worlds reclaimed by nature, knitting over a forgotten past with their vines. The rise of each empire and how they destroy themselves before she can even blink- it's a cycle, as most things are.
Time seems to slip away so easily.
.
Yang's job in all of this is quite simple. To observe. Never act, never interfere. Resisting the urge to do something- anything- never gets easier, only grows familiar; just another thing to watch over.
It gets quite monotonous after a few million years. Until Blake.
.
In the slums, a woman stands incorporeal, ghost-like. Shoulders hunched like the air itself is weighing her down, smoke suffocates the sky above and her eyes harbour a weight a soul so young should never have known. As she wraps her arms around herself, it's clear she's trying to hold herself intact. Whole.
As time floats by, the overwhelming passion inside her makes itself known. It stays strong, despite it all. It blinds her to many things
At 23, Blake goes to her first protest, streets bustling with noise and it's the first time Yang has seen her look truly free. Midnight-black hair whips wildly around her in the wind, matching the determined glare in her eyes. As Yang watches on from a nearby rooftop, she reminisces on the many rebellions she has bore witness to in her time. They all sort of blur in her mind now, indistinguishable. Though none of them had Blake before. And Blake intrigues her in a way she hasn't been for eons.
How she wields purpose like a sword, teeth bared at the world. There is meaning behind every action she takes, there is care behind every word. Blake knows exactly who she is and what matters to her. All she does is act, defying everything she was told to be, doing everything that Yang is forbidden from. It is freeing to witness.
At 24, Blake meets a masked man with promises of revolution and justice. He is passionate for all the wrong things, but charm can disguise a lot. Yang knows how these things end and for once she can't bear to watch.
.
In the blink of an eye, Blake is 27. Blake is 27, a soul so young yet so beaten down. It is not right nor just and yet it happens anyway.
Yang has seen love in every form it can take. She has seen it and what Blake has is not love. It is cruel. This false love is one that has too many attached to its cold frame. Too many bodies painted black and blue, apologies uttered with a silver tongue. It is the wolf in sheep's clothing, the dastardly deception of it all.
.
One night as midnight strikes, the world holds its breath. An overstuffed bag hidden away is now on the back of a dead woman walking. Her footsteps are the only sound in the otherwise silent street as she slips away into the crisp air of the night.
But it never ends there, does it?
He follows her. Waits until the world blinks. Yang can't bear to watch, but this time she can't look away. Her chest aches.
.
It is not right nor just. Yet it happens anyway.
.
With wheezing breaths, Blake crumples against the brick wall, clutching the wound in her stomach, hands stained crimson. Her panicked gaze darts around the alley. Skin paling, body shaking. She doesn't even try to scream for help.
Yang has seen an infinity of life and death, a far-away concept that will stay forever unknown to her. Maybe it feels a little like this, watching helplessly as an inevitable creeps closer with a crooked grin. Death is less than a memory, but as the life withers away from Blake's eyes, she swears she can feel it crawling up her throat, prickling up her back. Whispering of sealed fates.
For the first time, a mortal's eyes lock onto Yang's own. Golden.
Hesitantly, she walks to her side, kneeling down. Their eyes stay locked, clinging to each other like an anchor. None of this is right. Blake’s grief wraps around her neck, a lifetime fading away from her. Yang can't bear to watch.
And she won't. Not this time.
No. You're not dying here, not now. Not like this.
Her voice breaks, clutching Blake's trembling hand, I- I won't let you.
Blood drips from her mouth.
.
In the blink of an eye, Yang stands in the hands of a weeping God. Skin made of black holes and dead stars. Hair that coils through time, never-ending. Her eyes contain everything and nothing, a paradox within the incomprehensible. God cries a river of silent tears.
You know you mustn't interfere with mortal lives.
God sounds alive. Her humanity is overwhelming, an uncanny valley.
I know.
Oh, my child,
her brow furrows, You know what this means for you, don't you?
I do.
Her lips quirk up into an awkward smile, Never liked being an observer much anyway.
God is brimming with a supernova of love as she plants a kiss to her temple.
Very well, then.
.
Yang wakes and feels as if the entire world has shrunk down around her, clinging to her now feeble form. All she feels is rot. With each breath she takes, she can feel the decay of her flesh. The smell of it taints the air.
(Beside her, Blake sits slumped against the alley wall, eyes closed.)
Lifetimes are running away. Forever is unfathomable. Her right arm is gone and Death's shadow lurks around the corner, waiting.
(Her soft breaths fill the air. Alive.)
This inevitable sees her for the first time. Yang knows, she knows what this means. The immortal has fallen, a price has been paid.
Mortality.
25 August 2025
I often think of you more than I should
sometimes pure
sometimes obscene
I was repressed for a long time,
I guess that's just what happens
there's times I lay restless
at the stroke of midnight
picturing different strokes
of finger against skin
an act of worship
mapping out each detail-
there's things I want
but mustn't
too carnal. animalistic. raw.
god, I want to destroy you
I want you to destroy me
tear my fucking skin off
I'll scratch yours, red and aching
kiss me and I'll fold the universe in on itself
you want to know what I'm thinking?
come closer, darling
be a good girl and I'll tell you
show me how pretty you are when desperate.
June 2025
//strong sexual themes//
tonight we sit on the precipice of
something unholy.
no longer sharing food to know the taste of your mouth
baby, I need to know it first hand
need to taste the atoms that make up
your smile
god, no more words please.
never been good at patience
come here.
paint the stars with me, they miss you
there's no shame in this home
that we have created in each other
come here.
tonight, the stars have fell to the earth
but you've been here for years so
who fucking cares?
let the world crumble,
mine is looking at me with hooded eyes
desperation's a pretty shade on your face
you, you minx of the night
blowing sultry kisses
from the shadow's shadow
temptation's a door better left open;
I need you a devastating amount
and I want you even more.
as my hand slips down down
down
civilisations fall. you cry out.
each decibel i swallow down
lips pressed against each other
I swear I can see universes rise from nothing
I swear they're here for you
they say to breathe in your moans is a sin
to that, I guess I'll write down my confession
between your trembling thighs,
forgive me father,
for I am a dirty sinner
who refuses to repent
mouthing words of a prayer
with my fingers crossed.
I don't need to go to heaven to see it
it's in the reflection of your hazy eyes
right there in between each cell,
made in your image
together we have carved ourselves a haven
walls made of soft touches
and a ceiling made of
kiss me's
all breathless and laced with want,
I'm going to breathe my love into your lungs
in hopes that you'll unfurl
like a spool of silk
devotion is a heavy word I don't
utter lightly
can you feel my devotion for you?
I'll leave it's imprints on your skin
bite them down
shut me up, for once.
6 February 2025
so in the hands of a weeping god
I stand
and I pray, does it weep at the sight of
my ungodly form?
can it regret? can it grieve?
if I dip my hands into the river of tears,
will I know?
why, god? why must you look at me?
why must you see me with
eyes so sorrowful?
it makes me wonder things I shouldn't
let me hold onto this contentment for you,
it is so much easier-
what ails you?
why, you have fingernails chipped,
a calloused palm, a furrowed brow,
stop this mimicry.
you are a god, above it all
stop it at once.
you are supposed to know better
stop this humanity-
who is it you weep for?
oh why, god?
why do you cry?
30 December 2024
why should I have to be a perfect victim?
survivor?
I don't even know what I am
and yet
you want me to suffer correctly
kindly
fuck you, I've been kind.
maybe I would've stayed good
if you were kind too.
7 July 2024
I tire of all the metaphors and
beautiful imagery
I tire of being voyeuristic with my pain, whittling it down
into something easy on the eyes
something easy to swallow.
I do not bleed a vibrant red that rivals roses
I bleed a murky brown. I bleed a blood filled with clumps.
I am not perfectly cracked porcelain ready to be
glued together with gold
I am a weeping wound. I am open sores.
I am bleeding blisters. I am not a pretty sight.
I am not supposed to be.
when my wounds stung so much I couldn't sleep,
there was nothing beautiful about
my destruction. my withering away.
you do not know- you have no fucking idea.
I don't care if I'm crude or rude
I was hurt, I am hurt, so god forbid
I am angry at the years lost to a
slow death
I tire of a pretty pain.
if someone reads these, I want them to weep.
do not be grateful I suffered just so you
can read a pretty picture,
I want you to be uncomfortable.
feel my teeth crawling under your skin
hear my flesh be ripped apart
taste my vomit soaking your lap
my blood in your mouth,
sitting in my own piss and blood was not a noble act
don't you dare
romanticise the rot.
don't you dare congratulate
the ones who pushed me deeper into the water
they did not make me write, I did.
I am the one who made me stronger.
all they ever did was feed me my own scabs,
telling me to be grateful
fuck you
fuck suffering beautifully
I am angry.
and no one can take that from me
17 June 2024
we were girls together picking daisies
now we are 17 with bruised knuckles
and a heaviness in our eyes we are too young to understand
I know how to speak now but i do not know how to live
lets just pick daisies one last time
we can put the petals on our eyes and sprinkle pollen in our hair
lets be girls again
lets exist with no apology armed on our tongues
let us live just because we can
28 May 2024
after the long night of unconscious searching,
after sleep-filled hands roam
through fields of bedsheets
searching,
I wake up to see the familiar sight of your back
it's funny how such a simple act feels like
so much more.
a living metaphor
laying next to me
you know, a few months ago I changed the side of the bed I sleep on
nothing changed.
your back always facing me;
half expecting the folds of your shirt to form eyes
shadows crawling over them to be their eyelids
taunting
taunting
biting my blood-stained lips
I hold myself back from
grabbing your shoulder
pushing you on your back, hands in your curls to scream
look at me. look at me. look at me.
I shut out the sun
I shut out the birds for you
look at me.
my teeth could sink into my wrist
make a waterfall out of me, I'd whisper
let me pour myself into you
let my blood dilute the whites of your eyes
please.
wrap your lips around my veins and suck,
love me until I'm gone
love me after too
love me. love me. fucking look at me
6 April 2024
if there was ever proof of a god
it would be you
how could any part of you be up to chance?
not sculpted by particular hands
made in the image of someone
incomprehensible
29 July 2023
that golden hearted girl
I was,
I killed her.
she did nothing wrong
and i killed her.
for what?
I fall to my hands and knees
to ask forgotten gods
what was it all for?
they tell me
nothing.
14 July 2023
long ago
when life was simpler
I used to roll my eyes at the girls who craved
boy's attention
dolling up in shiny jewellery
bright lipstick to draw their eyes.
I thought it was silly
naive
late at night I'd press my fingers to my lips
that same lipstick on my mind
how would it feel against my own lips?
between us?
I'd scribe those thoughts obsessively
before I'd lick them away
do girls taste sweet?
are their lips chapped like mine?
June 2023
I wish I could remember better things
things like chocolate cake at 4am,
the comfortable silence
wrapped snug around us,
you made me feel safe
like you're supposed to.
in the dimly lit living room
I was lying on the floor
and we were talking about the future
the future you never got to see.
I wanted to be a vet
and you believed in me,
i don't want to be a vet anymore.
I don't want much of anything anymore.
all I know is the need,
the yearning for something more
than the smell of cider
that shouldn't make me feel
so close to you.
I wish I could remember you
by the smell of chocolate cake,
I wish I could remember you
when you weren't drunk.
your face is fading,
your voice is fading,
the cider is still strong
and I don't think I'll ever be able
to get the smell out of the carpet.
2022
I'm glad you're dead.
I'm glad you're gone now,
no more drunken phone calls
or empty promises
because you're gone and
you're never coming back.
I hate you
my childhood is tainted,
she still cries
and it's all your fault.
she didn't deserve this
I didn't deserve this,
you said you'd do anything for me
yet the smell of cider on your breath
is still
fresh;
2022