A Cataclysmic Thesis

Welcome to my one and only poetry blog:

A Cataclysmic Thesis

"I would consider my very existence a cataclysmic thesis in and of itself."

I write poetry that lives in the body.

I write about what it feels like when your own flesh turns against you — when your own mind, your skin, and your bones become the enemy. I use visceral, physical imagery to talk about the things people look away from: decay, betrayal, consumption, the horror of being known too deeply, and the loneliness of being trapped inside yourself.

I don’t write to make you feel better.

I write to make you feel something.

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Content Warning: 

This collection contains graphic depictions of body horror, gore, psychological trauma, and violence. Themes include self-harm, loss of bodily autonomy, medical trauma, dissociation, emotional abuse, and existential dread. The imagery is visceral and unflinching, these poems explore: pain, decay, consumption, and the horror of being trapped within (or outside) one's own body. Some pieces depict parasitic invasion, autopsy while conscious, self-cannibalization, body parts sold at auction, death from neglect and the slow erosion of identity. 

If you are struggling with mental health, please reach out to a trusted person or crisis resource. 

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If you’re prepared for that then welcome to my poetry blog, I hope you enjoy my work as much as I do!

Do not lie to me— I can do that to myself. I've rewritten my own history so many times I don't know which memories are real anymore.

Did you actually say that, Or did I imagine it to justify leaving? Was it really that bad, Or have I exaggerated it in my mind?

I gaslight myself better than you ever could. I doubt my own experiences, Question my own pain, Rewrite my story until I'm the villain. So please, don't lie to me. I'm already drowning in my own distortions.

Falling, sinking,

deeper down.

My arms push against the cold water,

futility.

No matter how I scramble,

I’m descending still.

I look into the darkness below,

glimpse your fingers,

wrapped around my ankle.

It’s you—

this reason I can't breathe.

The pressure in my chest—

building steadily.

As the air leaves my lungs—

you look up at me.

Your eyes—besseeching,

save me.

I feel your nails,

digging.

My vision—darkening.

My fist meets your flesh,

as I fight to survive.

You grab my arm,

your lips—a grin.

You plant your legs against my back,

push yourself up—

now with momentum you had lacked.

As the final bubbles of my air rise,

I see you surface—

your salvation—my grave.

Two pins sink deep into my wonderful wings.

I squirm as I try to escape.

You watch with interest,

your gaze does not waver.

I’m attached to a foam board,

but it may well have been stone.

I cannot push through either,

I’m imprisoned no differently.

The next pin punctures my thorax,

holding me still.

It would have been a mercy,

had I been killed.

Instead you have pinned me,

selected for display.

I will be forever preserved,

it’s just a little pain,

you mutter that it's worth it,

that it's okay.

You may see it as an honor,

a beautiful thing.

But to me,

you have simply poked holes in my wings.

The surest things we think we know:

love, beauty; hate, ugly.

They shift from eye to eye,

share a single plane of meaning.

Lovely to one, reviled by another.

Beautiful to some, ugly to others.

"You can be the side character or the main character." "It's based on your decisions." "It all depends on you."

Can I be that?

Is it true? Does choice matter? Because last I checked, the dullest protagonists still get to be protagonists, and the favorite side characters— they die on cue for the hero.

Of course you can have it,

you asked so politely.

I give you my pinky,

it wasn’t useful anyway.

A gorgeous calla lily takes its place.

I like it better, so it's okay.

You need an eye?

Of course you do,

I knew there was a reason I had two.

A pink hydrangea takes its place.

I love it so much,

so I do not complain,

when you reach into my chest,

and rip my lung away.

In its stead is a wonderful rose.

I barely notice when its thorns start to grow.

You come so often now,

sometimes you bring others.

You take both my arms,

but that is alright,

because the willow branches,

are more majestic anyway.

You take both my legs,

but it's fine.

Now I have strong trunks,

and I disliked movement in any case.

My only complaint,

I can’t run away.

So you begin to take more,

everyday.

The fear creeps in when you take my other eye.

I can no longer see the beauty,

and I begin to cry.

But it only worsens the pain.

As my tears water the rose,

and the thorns pierce my skin.

You came again, asking for my heart.

I told you no,

but you didn't stop.

Just snatched it yourself.

It was replaced with an anthurium.

Which I suppose is close enough,

after all, it is heart shaped.

It's not as if I could escape.

My hair becomes begonias,

my veins turn to briars.

Till even my skin is nothing but petuntias.

Yet still you come each day.

When I think there's nothing left to take.

You find something new,

and the vines tighten,

and the thorns grow,

and the roots deepen.

Until finally,

you request my brain.

It’s all that I have.

But I know you’ll take it anyway.

So I use my last conscious thought,

and I give it away.

Falling, sinking,

deeper down.

My arms push against the cold water,

futility.

No matter how I scramble,

I’m descending still.

I look into the darkness below,

glimpse your fingers,

wrapped around my ankle.

It’s you—

this reason I can't breathe.

The pressure in my chest—

building steadily.

As the air leaves my lungs—

you look up at me.

Your eyes—besseeching,

save me.

I feel your nails,

digging.

My vision—darkening.

My fist meets your flesh,

as I fight to survive.

You grab my arm,

your lips—a grin.

You plant your legs against my back,

push yourself up—

now with momentum you had lacked.

As the final bubbles of my air rise,

I see you surface—

your salvation—my grave.

I sip it slowly, relish the taste. I then feel an oddity, a tightening of my entrails.

Setting it at nought, I continue to drink, I see your eyes widening with each swallow I take.

"Is something wrong?" "No, no it's alright!" "Are you quite sure? You look on with such delight." "Yes yes, just relax!"

I take another quaff, a long pull. It's been exquisitely prepared, yet the candlelight begins to dull.

As I swallow, I look to you, I think I hear a titter, a sound so cold, so bitter.

"Are you really quite sure nothing is amiss?

You seem so enraptured by my simple sips."

"Don't worry about me dear, I've simply had too much to drink, I fear!"

I trust you — I've known you so long. So I finish my drink. I ignore my instincts speaking: Something's wrong…

I stand to leave, yet my head meets the floor. You never really loved me. My world — now darkness. Forevermore.