Pink Night

But am I disgusting? Truly, how disgusting am I? I am, was, truly disgusting, for eating rectangular pieces of cake, ignorant I was in that moment, for the impression of its taste, yearning to touch my tongue and fall down my throat, sticking inside my head. A sweetness of comfort unnegotiable here. Creamy, crammed, sugary treat, whipped cream, frosting, neon red jelly letters carved to it's life-less body, were calling to me for the same reason why I hate it. It lands below my belly, melting down like a disgusting sea creature. Oh, truly, oh God, how disgusting I am. But I cannot stop for the same reasons I do what I do. Without knowing why, I deeply despise my body, weight, and nutrition labels attached to sons of bitches, so it ends with Cake as a mockery of my sanity. Cake, so sweet to the mind and a broken heart, until it sabotages you through day and night. Of how disgusting you are. The jester, unlike Cupid, does not love me here.

Yall pls help me out with this one. Im so confused fr,

inspo: "The eyes are the window to the soul."

I want to miss this little room someday and not hate it as much as I do today. It was the room where my adolescence came and left. A room cast by spells, and a room furnished with flowers in a vase that screamed back at you or gave you a sense of joy. And a room with four lonely corners, vigorously pondered at, has now left a scar—what did I ponder? I pondered, wondering of my self leaving my little room, growing as tall as Jack’s magical beanstalk...or something. Reaching point B from point A, eventually.  All while the world grew. Doors open, lights awaken after being dimmed for so long. I stood stagnated until I detached myself from the walls that sealed my identity. Could I have been tickled by the grass stalks and buds beginning to sprout beside me, among my vulnerability? My flesh, which had yet to find a source of warmth after being so cold for so long, found its source. My hopeless notes became poems, ballads, or some form of meaning to dissipate the misery I bore in me. A mind and a stomach finally waking up at ease, waking up to a world that isn’t just in my head, waking up to true characters, the awakened troll who left their tavern, who at first detested. It was the poem I wrote about myself when I was 12. Now, 16, soon to be 17 (now 18, soon to be 19) [now 20, I find myself reading this again]. And once more find myself in the same squared space, encompassed by thin walls. In a constant rearrangement frenzy of furniture for a better change within a new slate. The only change was the room—subjective as I could be, the clothing rack was black, yet now it is white. Yet still, a rack is a rack. How can differences be broad yet at the same time slim? And idk where my head was at the time, but ever since I lived here, I could only overshoot the past or the future. The echoes of my fears hardly seem to be tamed. The misery clutching my bust never seems to want to let go, the world around my body was unfortunate enough to rise to my head, the world up above my neck is thicker than stone, tormenting me. “Help!’ I yell, yet I remain unheard as the cry is never out loud but in my head. Because the trauma is continuing, from the tip of a stem that hopes to bloom a flower. The time ticks—my time is frozen, slowing, freezing until the ice breaks again, back to water. Or my time is rapid, as is the speed of sound. This everlasting cycle is yet to subside and let me have a solely present time

I feel as if I am at a constant starting or ending point in my life. "My life," what is your life? Well, it's MINE. Like, mine personally. So different according to everyone else. It is exclusive in its own right. But I am told it is not. The birth of someone, something new, or/and the death of it. Just waiting to emerge, anticipating noise. Noise, not of any sort, because it isn't a sound at all. Yet a knowing, profound in its own right. Unrobotic, Unheard, Unfelt, or Unseen, Invisibility. As a ghost easing its way through town in peace. A Cat staring...into a tree that stares back at it too. I want to leave, but then people call that escape, and so it is. Stop pretending to be someone. You are no one because you are just One. One eye. An eye for an eye, which is your own in its right. Transcend Soul into the Light.

Anonymously written by me 🤭

Anonymously written by me tehe

The Female's body, a Woman's body is so pure, light lit up in the spotlight as heaven was. She has the Perfect, praised for, lusted-over looks that are drooled upon like a sweaty piece of raw medium-cooked steak. Yes, I am talking about that body; history has been anointing over the centuries. From smoothly sculpted statues with pear-like hips and perky breasts, the emperors roared over with their mouths and swords. To camera capturing film by movie-making producers; poised shots of skeletons with skin in lacey lingerie, hypnotically dancing the night away to a sexual city scenes in the front cover of a magazine. How can her body ever be resisted when she looks as she feels so pure and light, into heaven's gateway when it is entered through her. It’s not her fault her body’s been used in this way, all of her body parts are the extra pleasures of delicacy from what it is like to be a woman like her so don’t blame her.

Maybe I'll never understand, and that is okay because you promised to be there with me forever, in spite of not knowing each other. Hang on to hope, dear, and don't let go, but what if I did to only be closer to you? Is that so? You then say to me, " Yes, I guess so.

I wish stuff, things, objects in space in quick, mindless motion, halts for an eternity within a second of your sacred attention. From there, you go to tell me that we are nuns disguised as humanitarians, buildings of transparency. And that I barely know how to do anything except hide behind those walls you build around yourself. Guarded by the dogs adopted by you, protect and hide your true form for the sake of your supposed sanity's safety. My nerves pulse for your very own, for we were one in anticipation of the unknown. Behind us were crows scurrying to the end of cosmic lenses of the spiritual inner eye.