"talktomepleaseomg"
19 - Midwestern - Broke
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Category: Writing and Poetry
I thought I’d drown in guilt, choke on the weight of what I’d done— but murder only matters when the body belonged to a man. And he was not a man. Men are made of soft hands and warm hearts, of gentle words that do not cut like rusted teeth. Men do not take with clawed fingers and hungry breath, do not tear skin like wolves r » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I. (The One Who Strikes) My hands were not always weapons. Once, they built, they held, they traced soft lines down the curve of a cheek, the slope of a spine. Now, they leave bruises where warmth used to be. » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
You’ve been spilling for some time now. Not all at once—no grand, tragic flood. Just a slow and bitter leak, seeping from places you stopped checking. It pools in your footsteps, sinks into the floorboards, » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
Beneath a bloodâred, whispering sky, A soldier treads through cursed fields of night, Armor etched with scars of bygone honor, Haunted echoes trailing each faltering step. His eyes, twin voids of fractured dreams, Reflect t » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
What is my place in this? What do I get to claim? Do I get to call it abuse if you call it love? Do I get to hate him if you keep choosing him? Am I still your friend if I can’t smile when you say his name, » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I see the bruises you pretend aren’t there, yellow blooming over purple, like dying flowers across your skin. I hear the way your voice folds in on itself when you say his name— small, careful, a thing too fragile to break. » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
The hunger came like a sickness, a gnawing thing with teeth of its own, twisting, clawing, whispering: Eat, or be eaten. We held out for days. We » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I wear each day like a tattered shroud, my life unraveling in slow, relentless decay— a ceaseless ache, a fading color in a world once vibrant but now marred by pain. Yet you linger near, clinging to the ghost of what we once » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
They were right to leave me here. The walls do not whisper their names anymore, only the wind, slipping through the cracks, only the dust, settling where footsteps once were. I do not call out. What would be the point? » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
The thief ran, heart pounding like a war drum, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The thick, tangled forest clawed at him—branches tore at his sleeves, roots snagged his boots, the damp earth sucking at every desperate step. Behind him, the city guards crashed through the undergrowth, their shouted orders sharp as the gleam of their drawn swords. Flickering torchlight wove through the trees, casti... » Continue Reading
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Category: Writing and Poetry
It starts in silence, soft and slow, a whisper where the dark things grow. A bloom of rot, a breath too damp, a creeping stain, a swallowed lamp. It feeds on air, on time, on bone, on things once loved, now overgrown. A sickness slouched in shaded eaves, a hush that clings, a ghost that breathes. No teeth, no claws, no need for haste, just patient hunger, silent waste. A kingdom built in sp » Continue Reading
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Category: Writing and Poetry
In the black womb of the heart, despair oozes— a slow, venomous bleed from every shattered pore. Each breath is a dirge for a soul rotted by agony, every heartbeat a funeral march in the caverns of endless night. Wander a wasteland where hope lies in ruins, its embers snuffed by the relentless tempest of regret. Every memory is a festering wound, raw and unyielding, dripping the bitter ichor of dr... » Continue Reading
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