madcap

You read my name like a secret you weren’t meant to keep. You traced me with your tongue. Now you taste nothing else, and carry that ache in your throat. Still warm. Still mine. ∴

she said kiss me like her secret. so i lied with my mouth open.

My words don’t entertain. They haunt. That’s why I don’t need metrics. I've already colonized your mind.

i pour silence down the throats of memories

you’re still waiting for someone to call your bluff and mean it.

You imagine you're awake. But the dream watches you between the grey scenes. Managed. Final. Empty. The dream is bored. ⸸𓂀⸸

Your joy is outsourced. Subscription-based. Your grief is curated. Even your silence comes with a service plan. There is no soundtrack. Only inbox chimes and cheap dopamine. ⸸𓂀⸸

You scroll past wars and weather updates with the same dead thumb, the same dead eye, the same dead mind. The end of everything is trending, and you're still late for work. ⸸𓂀⸸

madcap | 3:33 The owners sold you the idea that freedom meant choice. So they gave you 800 kinds of cereal and no time to think. ⸸𓂀⸸

You know the voice. But the mask is better this time... fused to the face. Madness whispering in a clean room. Too good to be new. Too old to be traced. 〄

It wasn't songs I shared. I gave her spells... pieces of my afterlife, blended with hers, stitched together woven in keys and blood. Now the magic is muted. Gated. She now hums to silence and calls it healing. † 3:33

You kept reading. That’s how it binds.

Your reflection blinked first. That's when it started. It wasn’t fear. It was the invitation. This is where the lines wrap around your throat. Soft. Warm. Voluntary. (and you’ve already let it in)

She knelt in a chapel of teeth and whispers. Her hands wringing, the memory of ruin. 3:33

I shed the old shape. Its hunger served faithfully. Now something smolders, it stirs beneath your skin. Not a haunting... a becoming. You noticed it when you looked away. 𖤐

'Lade Madeline' from Edgar Allan Poe's 'The Fall of the House of Usher' illustrated by , 1908 #illustration #AlbertoMartini #EdgarAllanPoe

soft men write softness hard men carve mercy from flame

I’m quieter now. Soft as breath on your collarbone. Fingers quiet, dancing. No need to speak. You know I’m still here. Where the sighs settle to dream. Where your pulse forgets the one it’s beating for.

there are five of us. four wear masks one stares into the blue find them. or don’t. they all see you.

Aphrodite In Water, Edward Sheriff Curtis (1920)