KIRI

ㅤ/ᐠ - ˕ -マ

➤ ɴᴀᴍᴇ

Kɪʀɪ

➤ ᴘʀᴏɴᴏᴜɴs/ sᴇxᴜᴀʟɪᴛʏ

Yᴏᴜ ᴄʜᴏᴏsᴇ! / BI + Aʀᴏ

➤ ᴀɢᴇ

[DATA EXPUNGED]

╰┈➤ ʟɪᴋᴇ’s ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪsʟɪᴋᴇs ꩜ .ᐟ

/ᐠﹷ ‸ ﹷ ᐟ\ﾉ

➤ ʟɪᴋᴇs

✎ᝰ.Aʀᴛ

ᝰ.ᐟ Pᴏᴇᴛʀʏ

☀︎♫જ⁀➴⭒Gʀᴇᴇᴋ Mʏᴛʜᴏʟᴏɢʏ

[+..••] RPG

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. Fʟᴏᴡᴇʀs

➤ ᴅɪsʟɪᴋᴇs

× Iɢɴᴏʀᴀɴᴄᴇ

➤ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅᴀʀɪᴇs .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

⚠︎ Dᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴀsᴋ ᴍᴇ NSFW sᴛᴜғғ

⚠︎ Dᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴀsᴋ ғᴏʀ ᴍʏ ʀᴇᴀʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇ

╰┈➤ ᴅᴍ’s ꩜ .ᐟ

/ᐠ > ˕ <マ

➤ ᴅᴍ’s? 「ᴏᴘɴᴇᴅ」

Bliss

Pure, absolute bliss

A feeling I chase

Over and over again

Every night without fail

I indulge in this habit I've made

It starts with me

In a cold dark room, alone

I'm not quite sure what comes next

But one moment I am indifferent

The next, a hand is down my thigh

My own

The other scouring the dark parts

Of the internet

Websites filled with debauched images,

words that describe ecstasy in pretty words.

It starts with me,

Being filled with that same ecstasy.

I want to stop.

But alas I am a slave to my desires

It isn't long before I lose myself in it

That bliss

That overwhelming feeling

I am out of breath

I do not stop

I chase whatever the feeling of bliss

Leaves for me to find

I imagine myself in different bodies

Different situations

But my mind only traces back

To two moments

Where hands have touched

A body too young

In places they should not have been.

I feel tears drip onto my pillow

And It takes only a matter of moments

Before I feel too much on my body

It starts with my now filthy hands

And skin sticky with sweat

I rush to the bathroom

The door locked and the curtains pulled

The hiss of the shower fills the room

I rush to grab the soap and scrub

Lather it up on my hands

And I pray it's enough to cleanse me

As if scrubbing my skin

Till it was red and raw

Would erase everything that has happened

Everything I have done

The confusion and disgust I feel

I am not sure how long I spend

in the shower

An hour or perhaps

Just a few mere minutes

It does not matter to me

I emerge with damp hair

And clothes so thick

Not an inch of skin is showing

Still it doesn't feel enough

To cover the shame

That coats my body evermore

I fall into bed,

A blanket wrapped around myself

As if it would cover the disgust I felt

If it tried hard enough

I lay there, eyes half lidded

As my mind tries desperately

To erase these moments from my memory

It does not work.

It starts with me

Unwittingly chasing bliss

and momentary pleasure

In exchange for dignity

I am not sure I still have

And it ends with me

Laying on my bed

Shame and disgust

Enveloping me

Like the blanket I have

Wrapped around me, in hopes to hide

Those very same feelings

And as my body slowly drifts off

My mind tired of these repeated thoughts

I whisper one last thing:

"I... am so—

I have put faces

To voices I believe

Are more human than me

Voices that are more me

Than *me*

Are they me?

Parts of me?

Am I them?

Who am I

What am I?

I'm human

I am human

Then are they as well?

What are they?

Voices?

Humans?

No... They're not..

Not humans

Others can't see them, hear them

I can hear them

So voices then?

No

I.. have given them faces

Bodies

Traits and features

...

They

Look like...

Me

But they aren't me

They aren't?

Yes, they aren't

But

We have the same eyes

...

We have the same hands

...

No.

They aren't me

They aren't human

They weren't human

But I gave them life, didn't I?

I have them that horrid laugh

Taught them

Those taunting words

Gave them those disgustingly gentle hands

I created them

They live because I live

Because I let them live

And now I've made them more human

Than me

They are

An extension of me

The images I don't want to see

When I see me

————————————————————————————————————————

Doll

No, puppet?

No, too cliché

Pet?

Ew, kinky

Then...

Creation?

Maybe

Really?

Hm actually no

Then...

Sheep?

Cliché again

Property then

Really?

What?

Are you so desperate

To objectify yourself?

Excuse me?

All these titles

And you never thought to say "person"?

....

Not even "human" at the very least?

How hilarious!

Stop.

You would rather be called "property"

Than "human"?

Shut up.

This is entertaining

Is it?

Very.

...

That makes you feel nice, doesn't it?

And?

And it's pathetic

Why? Is it so wrong to be praised?

You call *that* praise?

Is it not?

Of course not, unless you're *that* desperate

I'm not desperate

Then why consider it praise?

...

See? Pathetic

Even just a hint of anything positive said to you

And you're sat obediently

Aren't you embarrassed?

...

Gone all quiet now?

Then I suppose I'll take over the—

I'm not pathetic.

Oh?

I'm not desperate—

I'm not any of those things

Then why—

Is it so wrong to wish

For a moment to not think?

To wish that I

Was just told what to do?

For someone to tell me

Every little thing they want from me

To be ordered around

And for me to follow mindlessly

Instead of having to make decisions

For myself?

Is it so wrong?

To wish to be praised for my obedience

To be told

when to stand,

when to sit,

when to blink,

and when to breathe?

To be someone mindless to control

To not have to think for myself

For just a short time?

...

Aren't you going to say anything?

Hm

What?

So desperate for validation?

What-

That was an oddly complicated way

Of saying

That you desire to be a little ragdoll

Honestly you were better

When you were quiet

...

There we go, that obedience does have a use after all

———————————————————————————————————————————————

Idek if this counts as poetry but wtvr, I'll post this and see if anyone can tell me what this actually falls under so I can edit the tags

TW:

Paranoia

Hallucinations

Violent descriptions

Mild gore

They're here again

In the shadowy corners of my room

Pressed up against my bedside window

Behind my headboard, peeking down at me

Beside my bed, looming over my sleeping body

At my feet, waiting for an opportunity

I pretend I don't see them

I try and tell myself

They aren't real

Just tricks

Made by my tired mind

But I blink, and one of them is closer

I feel my heart racing

What will they do to me?

What can they do to me?

Skin me?

Tear into my flesh?

Carve out my organs?

Or maybe just consume me whole?

I blink again

The one at the foot of my bed

Is standing now

Do they know

That I can see them?

Do they want me to know?

No

I need to ignore them

They're just shadows

Just my mind telling me

I need to sleep

But how can I?

The banging on my window is so loud

Can no one else hear it?

It's getting so loud

Will they break the window?

What will happen if they get in?

I feel my breath getting shorter

I'm really trying

I really am trying to ignore them

But the looming one is so close now

It's like they're begging me

To let my guard down

Waiting for me to drift

I can't

They'll get me if I do

I need to keep my eyes open

But I'm getting tired

I want to sleep

I really, really want to sleep

But they're all staring

It feels like they're all staring

No

They're not real

They're just shadows

Shadows

If I turn on the light

Will they go away?

If I get up

And turn on the lights

Will they go away?

I look to my right

Where the switch is

My heart drops

The one in the corner

It's too close

To the switch

It's laughing, I think

Has it figured it out?

Can it sense my fear?

What will it do

If I get close?

I don't want to know

I really don't

But how will I get rid of them?

I just want to sleep

Please just let me sleep

I flinch

One of them is reaching out

They figured it out—

They're going to kill me

Going to hollow me out

Take me apart one by one

I can't run

They'll know

I can't let them know

The banging is getting louder

They're all getting closer

They're all going to tear me apart

Piece by piece

Organ by organ

They're closing in

Grinning

Laughing, maybe?

What are they laughing about?

Do they find my fear funny?

Can they feel my fear?

Have they known this whole time?

What are they going to—

I blink

Oh

The sun is... up

The banging is gone

All of them are gone

Nothing was in the corner

Or pressed up against the window

Or behind my headboard

Or at the foot of my bed

Or beside me, looming over me

The sun's up

Finally

I can sleep

————————————————————————————————————

LMFAO if y'all FR thought I'd give a soft cheesy poem without immediately following it up with something depressing then y'all haven't been here long enough

Yearning is supposed to burn

That's what I always thought

That's how people said it was

That yearning was burning

All consuming

It was supposed to tear your heart apart

And put it back together

I was taught yearning was something painful

Something that made your chest ache

With all the love it couldn't yet give

I've never felt what it was like

To yearn so deeply before

So I assumed

It was just something

So naturally painful

Until I met them

And like a burst of colour

On my blank canvas

They seeped in and embedded themselves

So deep into my life

That I couldn't imagine

How it would look

Without them by my side

Every time they look at me

It's like the world gets brighter

And I'm reminded

I have such a special person

To walk through it with me

They smile like the sun

Laugh like soft chimes

Their eyes—

Warm burnt honey

—they twinkle with passion

And their voice

Smoother than the finest silk

And softer than wool

Gentle like the breeze

It was then I felt it

Not the burning or aching sensation

They told me yearning was

But the warmth and comfort

I felt as I watched them

A flower so beautiful and resilient

By my side

So close to my heart

How could I ever ache?

To love such beauty

grace

And brilliance

I should be lucky

To even get to say

That they are beside me

That they are with me

It's enough for me

Because even still

I get to let them know

How much I truly adore their presence

Even if they don't exactly know

The full extent of it

It truly doesn't burn like I was taught

When I am with them

When I see them smiling and joyful

As they deserve to be

I feel like the ache fades instead

Truly, they have opened my eyes

And shown me

How it feels to truly yearn and love

It's a deep, all-consuming

But warm feeling

Of wanting to show them

How much

I truly desire to be theirs

And accepting that I may never be able to

Yet still

I show them anyway

Even if

They don't understand

What I truly mean

——————————————————————————————————————————

Don't save me, I don't need it cause I am EXACTLY where I want to be

One box

Managed to fit all my books.

Some I’ve finished,

Most I haven’t even started.

Each one I put away,

I feel the weight on my shoulders lift,

Bit by bit.

The second

Had my trinkets,

Gifts from friends.

Ones that stayed,

And ones that didn’t.

Nonetheless, it never mattered to me

Who came and went.

I still cherish each one.

The third has my companions,

Ones that I wept into

During the lonely nights.

Ones that’ve seen it all,

Good and bad,

So they have a special place.

The fourth has my memories.

Papers with faded ink,

Written by people who’ve long since

Forgotten me.

Pictures of people—

Some bring a smile to my face,

Most I no longer know.

And books of my suffering.

I wish to seal this box the fastest,

And I do.

It sits behind the others,

For it is the smallest one amongst them.

I brush off the thought and look around

At the room I dared to call my own.

My walls feel bare,

Despite the messy imprints of where

My passion once hung.

My bed feels empty,

For my companions have already been

Safely tucked away,

Save for the ones I cannot do a night without.

I decide to stop at the fourth box,

As I felt sleep begin to make its way

Behind my eyes.

I take one last look around,

And I sigh—

One of relief.

As if

The pressure

That has been choking me out

Was finally lifted.

And suddenly the sight of my bare room

Felt less like the loneliness

I desperately wanted to cover up

And more like the escape

I always longed for.

I lay back down on my bed.

Sleep begins to embrace me,

But silly thoughts keep me

From melting into it.

"It’s quite funny."

"You know,

There was a time that I thought

This would be the room that imprisoned me,

The room I would rot in,

Or the one I would take my life in."

"No,

That’s not really funny…”

My thoughts start to drift.

Perhaps this room

Wasn’t as great as I used to think it was.

There were more bad memories

Than happy ones.

I think back on what memories I had here.

None bring a smile to my face.

This was the room

I drew my own blood in,

Night after night of this horrible addiction.

This was also the room

That shrunk at night,

That gave me horrible visions

Of even worse scenarios.

Worst of all,

Shameful as it is to admit,

This was the room

I had planned my own death in.

Pen to paper,

Knife in hand,

I had planned my own end.

Then sobbed,

As my own guilt and cowardice saved me.

I snap back into the present as something—

Perhaps another trick of my mind—

Moves in the corner of my eye.

I look around again,

And I laugh.

Because they won’t ever know

That just at the very back

Of the second drawer

Of the cabinet I had just emptied out

Sat a small envelope,

With paper written in neat writing,

And hands too steady

For someone who always trembled.

A letter.

One that told of everything—

Of my joy,

My sorrow,

My anger,

My pain,

And my gratitude.

One that was a testament to my end.

I sit in silence as my thoughts blur.

Then I laugh again,

Because it isn’t funny.

It really isn’t funny.

I’m just relieved

I’ll never have to come back.

And for the first time

I fall into sleep's embrace

Without any horrible visions.

——————————————————————————————————————————

Was too lazy too lazy to use italics so you, yes, YOU the reader can decide where the stress is

Anyways have fun with this one! I didn't use much flowery language nor did I bother hiding it behind a metaphor

Nights feel cold again,

quiet too—

and lonely.

It’s not just nights, actually,

it’s every day.

Everything feels dull

and colourless.

Every day is a routine,

a boring one,

an empty one—

the kind that makes me ask:

is it even worth it anymore?

I miss the warmth,

the breeze,

the cold mornings

with warm breakfast on the table,

the afternoon naps,

the comfort that came with nighttime,

instead of the ever-consuming silence

that creeps into all the little corners,

that whispers bad things before I sleep,

that reminds me of the inevitable.

I don’t want to be reminded of the inevitable.

I want to believe that

you’ll be here—

always.

You promised you would.

You’ll always be here, right, Mama?

You’ll keep hugging me,

telling me it’ll be okay?

Please tell me it’ll be okay, Mama...

Tell me you’ll still be here.

Please don’t go.

I don’t wanna be alone.

I don’t wanna live in the silence.

I wanna keep waking up

to breakfast you made,

to keep eating dinner together,

to keep having you hug me

and comfort me,

and tell me I’ll be okay—

that everything will be okay—

every time the silence says otherwise.

I don’t want you to leave, Mama.

Not ever.

Don’t ever.

I don’t know what I’ll do without you...

—————————————————————————

My mama's not dead, she's thankfully still here and still with me but the silence just kept telling me one day she won't be and I'll never know when.

I love my mama a lot if you couldn't already tell, and I have regrets from when I left her all alone to live with my dad due to infidelity, I thought it was her karma, that it was her punishment for choosing someone over me but now I realise that wasn't the case, cheating under no circumstances is okay nor am I condoning it but once I pierced together the story I couldn't really blame her, my dad isn't a good dad and was an even worse husband and I truly can't blame my mama because I know if others went through what she did with my dad they might've done the same thing. I just wished I realised sooner before I lost so much time with her but at the end of the day it was necessary for me to go with my dad, because if I hadn't he would've remained jobless and would've refused to leave my mama and kept making her miserable

atleast now I get to see her again, she looks better without my dad there to drag her down, I'm happy for her

Gold is a beautiful colour,

no?

It glimmers and glows

like sunlight at noon.

People see gold and they think

it's warmth,

it's success,

it's wealth,

it's beautiful.

And you think that too.

You love gold, don't you?

You think it's pretty.

You think everyone loves gold—

everyone should love gold.

How could they not?

It's a symbol of so much good things.

Most people love gold,

so why not them?

They don't seem to care much for it.

How come?

There's so much

beautiful shades and variations,

it's impossible not to find one you love!

Yet—

they don't seem to care for any version of it,

at all.

Not amber,

not honey,

or champagne,

or rose,

or even blonde!

They just

don't seem to like it?

It's confusing, isn't it?

Gold is such a beautiful colour.

You could pair it with nearly anything!

Black, blue, pink, purple, white, red—

you could even pair it with green and brown!

How can they not see how amazing it is?

Maybe

they just haven't found a variation they like yet!

...

No.

I don't like gold.

It's pretty,

really pretty,

and it does mean good things!

I know that.

But it's just not for me.

I'll pair gold with my favourite colours

sometimes,

but I don't really care for it.

Well, why not?

You just said it's really pretty—

how can you not like something pretty?

How can you know how much good things

gold symbolises and not like it?

Because—

even if it's pretty,

even if it's a symbol

of wealth,

and sunlight,

and warmth,

and success—

silver suits me better.

———————————————————————————————————

for once I don't have anything to rant about here

HMMMMMM what do I say...

OH RIGHT I wrote this after seen an Instagram reel that had text that said something like "it doesn't matter how pretty a shade of pink you are if their favourite colour is blue" and I was like damn, that's actually so hard imma write something about that

Mold me,

carve me,

sculpt me

into whatever figure

pleases your heart.

Smooth my sharp edges,

or enhance them.

Do what you will—

I’ll be pliant in your hands.

Shape me into your ideal,

and I’ll let you.

Though,

I doubt you’d be successful.

You’ll always

find something wrong—

a detail carved too shallow,

or a line far too rigid.

Too many flaws.

Obvious flaws

that ruin your vision.

So you tear me apart,

crush my clay in your hand,

and leave me

as a formless lump—

until you remember once more

the joy you felt

when you shaped and sculpted me.

So you decide:

“I’ll try again.”

And like always,

oh what joy you feel,

thinking of concepts,

shaping its base,

even laughing at your failures.

Then come the details.

This is where

the cracks in your enthusiasm

begin to show.

Your breaths of laughter

turn into sighs of annoyance.

Every little imperfection

chips away at the high you had

when you started on me again.

Will you ever finish me?

Or better yet,

will you ever be satisfied?

Will you ever step away

from all the tiny little details

and see the masterpiece you’ve created?

No.

We won’t.

Because we will never

see a masterpiece—

all we’ll see is flaws

and our mistakes.

And I’ll crush the clay again,

and leave it a formless lump

at the corner of my workspace.

Because I’ll never be satisfied.

I’ll keep finding flaws,

keep focusing on the tiny details.

Because—

if I can’t make something

and call it even just “good enough,”

how will I ever be more than that?

——————————————————————————————

I failed you.

I think.

I'm not sure.

Maybe I did, but

I did what I had to.

You were an amazing part

of my life

for a bit.

I'm not sure

when things had begun

to shift, exactly,

but I fear it was

simply too late

once I noticed.

Your rot has began to seep

deep into my skin,

like claws

digging into soft flesh.

Or perhaps it was me instead

who'd held on

too tight

to someone who

would've been better off

let go.

Rationally, it would be both of us

that is to blame:

I held too tight,

and you needed to be set free

to feel what it would be

without the crutches

that held you up

most your life.

But I am not

rational.

I blame myself,

for perhaps,

if I'd let you fly

more freely,

you wouldn't

have felt the need

to lean on us as much.

Maybe

you'd have learned

sooner

how to treat

your own wounds

rather than

finding others

to treat them for you.

Still,

I wish you the best.

Please,

fly freely,

happily,

so that

I won't feel as if

I've failed you as bad.

————————————————————————————————————

better to loose connections than keep toxic ones, no?

A star that doesn't burn.

Pathetic, is it not?

It burned too bright,

exhausted itself too soon.

Now it's run out of fuel.

What good is a star

when it won't shine?

When it refuses to shine—

it's ridiculous, no?

That's what stars are meant to do:

they shine,

inspire,

ignite hope in the hopeless.

They're the building blocks

of the universe.

So then why

won't this one serve its purpose?

Why is the very thing

that's meant to ignite hope

hopeless?

It did once.

It shone bright—

brighter than any star.

Its light rubbed off on others,

inspired them,

gave them hopes and dreams.

Perhaps it gave too much of them

that it did not remember

to keep some for itself.

Now it floats about,

dull and listless,

a hopeless bringer of hope—

a flame that burned too bright,

too fast.

It's aimless now.

I'm aimless now.

What is it meant to do?

What am I meant to do?

My dreams have burned bright to the ground;

my hope has been snuffed out.

What do I do now?

I cannot fulfill

my one purpose

in this life.

For what is a hope-bringer to do

when they've run dry of it?

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Not my best work, probably because I forced it out of me instead of how I usually write where I kinda just let the words do whatever the hell they want, also I wasn't feeling too emotional when writing this so maybe that's part of the reason it feels really sloppy to me compared to my other works

but eh, I can't always make good things so have this one for now, at least until I become extremely emotional and sad again because I know damn well I am NOT writing happy poems, I will have to be put at gun shot to make happy poems that aren't dedicated to someone

Rip my soul out

of this wretched body.

I don't belong here—

there’s been a mistake.

I beg you,

please,

do not leave me here.

I don't belong here.

Free me,

for this body

does not twine well

with my soul.

It is not mine;

it is not what my soul wants,

not what it needs—

for it is not a body

that warms it.

The face in the mirror

is the wrong one.

It is not my face,

because this body isn’t mine.

It is wrong—

all wrong—

its features,

its mind.

It has the wrong parts

and it is missing the right ones.

It must have been a mistake—

it has to have been.

It is a mistake.

My soul would never, ever

want a body like this:

all soft and curvy

instead of sharp,

lean, strong.

That is the body

it belongs in—

not this one.

This is wrong.

They forced me

into this one—

the wrong one.

They made a mistake.

I am sure of it.

They must have,

for if they haven’t…

No.

It was a mistake

to be in this body.

Why else would I feel

so out of place,

if this body

were truly mine

to inhabit?

I am in the wrong body.

For if it wasn’t—

if they’d meant

to give me this one—

then I would rather die

than continue

living in it.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Forgive me,

my God,

for I have committed

the sin

of always desiring

what others have.

Forgive me,

for I fell

from grace

and gave in

to my envious thoughts.

Hear my plea—

I beg of You,

let me earn my wings

and return

to Your grace.

Oh, forgiving God,

I beg of You,

forgive this angel—

for was I not

Your most favourite one?

Had I not been

virtuous enough?

Do I not deserve

at least

one more chance

to redeem myself?

My dear God,

are You not

supposed to be

forgiving?

Forgive me,

Your grace,

for questioning

Your benevolence—

but what else

must one do

when faced with such…

such unfairness?

I have been loyal.

I have been virtuous—

the most virtuous.

I have not strayed once

from Your guidance

until now.

You have told me that Yourself

if that is truly the case—

if I was truly Your best—

why must I be sentenced

to lose my wings

and fall from grace

without so much

as a chance

at redemption?

Why?

Oh, my dearest God,

why must I be held

to such a standard?

I am Your best—

yet You see me

as not worthy

of even a small chance.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

This isn't meant to be disrespectful to anyone of this religion, I'm simply sharing my experience with the guilt and trauma I received from this religion, my church, and my church members

yes I'm aware my church's actions don't connect to the actual religion but it has genuinely brought me so much trauma and destroyed so much of myself that even thinking about going back makes me sick, even if it's a different church.