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what
what
i write to bleed aloud. to let the ink stain your hands, so you might know my insides - the unfiltered hum of thoughts scribbled on scraps, buried in drafts, too raw to say but too alive to kill. this is the altar i have built - a space for my small, aching mind to unfold, unravel, be seen.
not wilde, not tartt, not even close to their powers, but this is mine. this is what my decaying bones can still carry to the fire. this is the offering.
who
who
a pretentious cryptic boy - hedonistic, half-asleep, a soft monstrosity adrift in a world too loud - searches not for heaven but for hush, for hymn, for a room where his many selves can speak freely. he does not yearn to rise. has no hunger for apollo's golden reins or the fevered flight of icarus - only admiration for their ruin. what he craves is the in-between - where myth brushes against breath, and language becomes a sanctuary for all the voices inside him that refuse to compromise. he writes not to soar, but to name each flickering self inside him. to honor them. to house them. to let them breathe, beautifully, without shame.
for
for
this is all made for the messy and nameless people inside of me; the audiences who continue to wander; all the lost souls; those who live with confused minds; the forgotten ones. i hope we connect in ways i intended to, or more so, in much greater ones.
contact me
don't. not here, not like this. i do not answer in this world. but if you must, find me in your dreams - burning, barefoot, otherworldly. yes. i could go with that.
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