🪼
Even if you don’t care, you should. Because I’m not just anyone, I am an angel crowned in thorns, lying in a bed of roses made red by blood, not perfume. I am divinity, endless, the echo of something ancient and unstoppable. I am what you’ll never be, not even in your wildest, most heretical dreams.
And as I braid your name into my hair, strand by strand, knot by knot, the spider watches, indifferent, complicit.
This world used to hum with magic. It used to dance, whimsy curled in every corner like smoke. Now? It’s been hollowed out. Gutted. Repackaged with a barcode and sold to the highest bidder. Corporate hunger wears a smile and a suit, and no one sees the blood on its teeth. The cats? Starving, skeletal kings of back alleys. Forgotten monarchs. They eat the mice. The mice eat the spiders. And they all twitch with parasites because no one cares about the bottom of the chain.
That is the cycle of life. Filthy. Unpoetic. Brutally efficient.
And all I want, all I need, is a handful of holly berries, real ones. Fresh mistletoe, not plastic-scented lies. But the markets don’t carry them anymore. The shelves are full of boxed sweetness and corporate sugar. Because they know. They know what I could make with the real thing.
The concoctions. The power. The truth.
So they ban the berries. Burn the mistletoe.
And you? You sit there like the spider, watching.
Related Recs
I plant catnip and potatoes on the rooftops of the city that lives in my chest—two small pots per ledge, their roots cramped, curling inward like fists. I force them to suffocate. I watch as their leaves yellow and curl, not out of malice, but out of necessity. There’s something about watching something struggle to live that feels honest. The skyline here isn’t real, not exactly. It's built from memory, scaffolding of places I loved once and forgot twice. Still, I look out from the edge, eyes scouring the metal bones and glass spines of buildings I invented. And I wonder: Can anyone see me?
Would they, if I let one toe slip past the ledge? Would the silhouette mean anything to anyone but me?
I tell myself you’ll visit. That you’ll stand beside me, close enough to breathe in the scent of dying herbs and know what I meant by planting them. Maybe you’ll even pretend to like the catnip. But the world, the world—you know how it is. Men ruin everything. They turn good things into threats, into warnings. And because of them, I can't see you like I want to. Not without caution. Not without fear.
I hate them for it. For ruining us before we even began. For taking my access to you and replacing it with conditions.
So I wait. I wait for your knock on my door like prayer, and every time you come, I open. I always open. I don’t say it, but you should know—I would burn the whole city for you if you asked. I would uproot every pot and split the sky open just to hand you the sun in shards.
But I only have two pots. I want three. I want a hundred. But sometimes two is already too many, and no one else knows that.
Come to the rooftop. Even if it’s just to see the wilting leaves. Even if it’s just to say goodbye.
Jun 24, 2025
I hang your jackets in my closet like trophies, or maybe like warnings. I don’t know which. I don’t wear them. It’s far too hot — sticky, oppressive heat that clings to the skin like regret — but I keep them there, row by row, like memory has a dress code. The scent is gone now. That clean, clove-sweet sharpness you always carried. Still, I walk past them every day. I make myself look.
It’s supposed to mean something. All of this. I keep telling myself I’m meant for something bigger — to make a name for myself, they always say — but what name? The one I was given, or the one I’ll have to carve out with blood and trembling hands? Fifty-five years. Fifty-five steps to the top of the hill, up to that damn library where I’ve been meaning to go. Where I keep meaning to go.
And yet. I don’t move.
My legs work. I know they do. They carried me through worse things — war zones of the heart, ancestral curses, kitchens full of shattered plates. But I still can’t make them climb. I don’t know if that makes me weak or merciful. I don’t know if it’s sabotage or a mercy I don’t deserve.
A dog that weeps after it kills is still a killer. A dog that weeps is still a dog.
Your guilt won’t make you holy. Your regret won’t make you clean.
So I ask: when you see a butterfly land on lavender — that momentary grace, delicate and impossible — do you still spell my name in your head, as if that might bring me back? As if I ever left?
May 28, 2025
My room is a corridor of doorways. Not a space, not a shelter, but a network of half-thoughts and abandoned exits. The floors reek of piss, like some wild dog marked its territory and then left me to rot in it. The walls pulse with memory. Or maybe delusion. Either way, it’s loud in here. Thoughts swarm like ants — frantic, mindless, pathetic — all scrabbling for something to hold on to. Information. Meaning. But there’s nothing. Just famine. Starvation of sense. A thousand tiny legs searching for crumbs in a house that hasn’t been fed in years.
And every day the sky breaks open again. Not metaphorically. The rain here isn’t poetic. It hammers. It devours. It doesn’t cleanse; it drowns. The ants drown, but they don’t die. They keep moving, twitching, twitching, twitching. Not alive. Not dead. Just full of guts and nerves and the viscera that keep them twitching. That hard carapace we all grow when the storm doesn’t stop. That’s all they are. That’s all I am.
Sometimes I think I’ll dig my way in. Crawl through the iris of my own eye — molecular, meticulous — and enter the network of my brain like a savior. A surgeon. Maybe a god. Maybe I’ll find the ants and teach them how to be more than twitching muscle and damp despair. Maybe I’ll name them. Maybe I’ll give them something like hope.
But dry drowning is real. No matter what they say. And the terrifying thing is — there’s no evidence it isn’t.
May 27, 2025
Top Recs from @baixwar
For a man who follows his heart can never be weak. That’s what I used to believe, once—before the bodies piled up like autumn leaves, and belief curdled into something thinner than blood.
I caught the whistle player once, a man stitched together by calluses and riddles. His tune wasn’t music; it was a wound dressed in melody. It scraped something raw inside me. A song of mystery, yes, but also of cruelty—a tune without mercy. When I asked him how he knew such things, he only laughed. Said the desert had taught him.
Said that Mother Gaia, if she ever existed, didn’t whisper. She screamed. Through the grains of sand, she dragged him down—ankle-first, bone-deep—until he touched her molten heart. Said he came back remade, not better, just aware.
"Men," he spat, as if the word itself offended him, "have always been the destroyers."
Not gods. Not fate. Not even history. Men.
And I realized then: this isn't about nations or borders or wars. It’s about the individual. The one who chooses to light the match. The one who watches the blaze.
It is the gender.
It is the myth we wrote in our own image, thinking ourselves gods, when all we ever were—are—was ruin.
2d ago
Last night, I dreamed—though I can’t tell you what of, not exactly. There were fragments. A lawn, half-mown, or cats—dozens of them, maybe. Their shapes flicker now at the edge of memory, insubstantial. That’s how it always goes. I dream every night, I know this, but each one slips through my fingers by morning, evaporating like steam before I can grasp it.
It wasn’t always this way. As a child, I kept a dream journal. Religious about it. Woke up, wrote it down. And something about that changed me. Sharpened the recall, made dreams more solid. Realer. And then, over time, something turned. Now they vanish even faster. Like the act of remembering too hard wore out the muscle.
I’ve thought about starting again. Journaling. Documenting. Not just the dreams, but the moments around them—the texture of waking, the taste of forgetting. Because vivid dreams begin with remembering, don’t they?
But I hate recollection. The way it drags old feelings back up, stale and bitter. The way it stains the present with shadows of things that never happened. There’s something foul in remembering too much.
Still. Maybe I’ll try.
Jun 7, 2025
I unblocked him today. Stupid, really. A gesture that meant nothing and everything at once—flick of a finger, avalanche of consequence. I don’t love him. I know this the way I know fire burns and poison kills. But there was a time I did. Or at least, I believed I did, which might be the same thing.
And now, in the pit of night, he comes back. Not in memory, which I could handle. In dreams. Those cursed, wretched dreams where love feels like a trick played on me by some malevolent god. We are soft together, whole together. It feels real. Worse: it feels good. I wake up gagging on it. That intimacy, that false safety. My brain taunts me with what could have been, and I can’t even scream back.
So I dissociate. That’s the clinical word for it. But really, I haunt myself. I float through the day like a ghost freshly exhumed, skin buzzing with sleep that clings to my body like mold. Am I still dreaming? Has waking up ever felt this fake?
I ask myself: Do I still love him?
Then a worse question: Did I ever?
And the worst of all: Did I make it up, the whole damn thing?
Because if I did—if I built it all out of nothing, like straw houses and paper people—then maybe I am what he always said I was. A liar. A little girl who makes up stories and calls it truth. My father’s daughter.
And that’s the most disgusting thing of all.
Jun 7, 2025