God, I’ve never even pitied myself.

Fine then: I sympathize with you, I ache for you, I grieve your injustice.

Ah, slipping into self-loathing again. How pathetic. After all, the few obey the many. Should I blame others?

Then let this grave seal itself—bury it here.

grave as an oracle’s verdict,

like the intoned verse at the footer of a serpent devouring its tail.

Discerning the illusion,

shattering the foam of this fleeting, triple-thousand world.

_

a beautiful aesthetic vessel, now ritualized by mass consumption.

Under order, we fear the untamable desire,

deem it filth, yet crave liberation.

In loneliness, we ache for love—

yet dare not shed our armor.

_

But really, I'm just watching to see if you'll prove I'm worth desiring.

I can ease the disguise a little—someone always insists on peeling off the pretty shell,

yelling light and love into this hollow frame,

like I’m unaware of whatever goodness you think you see.

Fine. I can respect the obsession—if you can survive my innate repulsion.

After all, I never move.

I only stay still and radiate what you think I am.

What you want me to be.

Definition is the origin of power; consensus, the gentlest form of control. Silence is no exception—it, too, is a means of dominating the terms of discourse.

I learned this mechanism as a child—not out of love, but out of fear.

I understood then: either become the one who uses language, or become its byproduct.

The desire for control? The symbol of power?

I trace it back—not to ambition, but to the defensive overreach of a boundary far too fragile.

_

Right. That tracked. Maybe that’s why my hands felt off the entire time. I kept blowing pigment while drawing like that meant something.

My friend, sitting next to me, nearly choked. At one point he looked over and said he’d wipe my mouth with his shirt. Not as help. More like a sentence.

English versions aren’t “translations.” They’re reductions, remappings.

Sometimes I keep a paragraph just for the final line.

What you’re seeing is someone trying to reassemble themselves in a language not quite theirs. Still learning how to dream in it.

Storefronts overflowed with gift wrap and gold ribbons. Plastic wreaths hung above the doors. Frosted snow spray glazed the windows. The scent of spiced candles clung to every street corner.

They said, “You are a blessed child.”

I knew they weren’t talking about me—but I didn’t mind. I’ve always been good at imitation.

Whatever fantasy you choose to cast my way, I suppose I’ll just sigh and smile and let it settle.

Stare into your little obsession, pretend not to notice—there’s no real need to correct you, is there?

You can pray to me too, if you'd like.

It's not as if I can’t conjure the illusion of forgiveness.

stilled in mercy, undone by love.

Beneath all veils, flesh and spirit are made one.

From that place, golden ichor seeps—

toward the radiant heavens, toward the ever-unfolding,

where the truth of the soul unveils itself.

_

(Not even sure I like this one. Just mimicked the tone.)

We don't always crave love—we crave to devour the other,

to dissolve them into the self, to digest and erase their difference.

-

-

Delirious ornate speech — shattered, viscous,

this red-white entwined foul mouth spills brilliance

across the ground, piercing the triple crown of glory.

Within the haloed laurel of twilight,

speak not of metaphor — nor pity —

only prayer: to bathe in this soft illusion of peace,

to close eyes upon the sour fall and tears.

It is the mirror of mildew-blackened drought demons,

sinking, vanishing into sea fog,

and so the ragged waves, puddled like pools,

are sealed into silence.

-

this cavity, shriveled and faded, wheezes with memory.

With thread spun from guilt and ruin,

I stitch together a finale of flesh and blur,

trembling—

like it’s all been stuffed with cotton, yes,

because maybe then these trembling, fragile feelings

might finally go quiet.