«Sexualization»

Prism I: The First Stage of Identity Erosion

Powerful ocean, heaps of mouths. We synchronize our needs, but don't respect them. And that's the tragedy.

My mouth was sewn shut, words stuck in my throat. And just when I regained my voice, he left. Because I'm supposed to be joyful. Always. Now it's painful every time — to open my soul.

You always return to him, as if he'll change. As if this time you'll talk the way you wanted, not debase yourself before him.

Every time I visualize our experience, all I see is black. Black and white. But the white fades. This visualization helps me understand the essence of evil, yet somehow I'm still here, in his bedroom, letting myself be wrung out like a rag. "It's out of desperation, right. Not because I like it." Maybe I miss the war? The whole problem is a deficit of communication. The madness born from loneliness. And so I find the courage to return to the light, throwing myself into the embrace of the noisy city, letting it devour all my rebellious silence. But to seek hope in someone new every time: It's so exhausting.

Hunger is a torment for an insatiable person. And sometimes I give in to it, as if trying to help, ripping my heart open and spilling its guts and all its contents. As if it's a charity fund.

Sometimes you have to tear your clothes off, otherwise he'll forget who I am. Pity he takes it so literally. Not that perceptiveness was his distinguishing feature, or that his emotional pressure awakened a monster in me. His blindness was his main problem. Our music is too different, and he only hears his own. And our energies are so contrasting that I've forgotten what it's like to sound in unison. Do I look like someone who needs a life of old age lying without aspirations, sinking into the mattress all day?

When you're drowning in this ocean, it's easy to forget what truly matters.

Getting what he wants, the beast calms down and loses interest. And every time it happens, I crave retribution.

The streets are unbreakable, the city doesn't sleep. Unlike me, though, honestly, it's more like a coma. Exotic thoughts and sinister places. Memories long forgotten, that once instilled hope. The dilapidated outskirts became my habitat. And only gunshots illuminate the darkness in my heart.

Easy access stripped the beast of interest, and now it no longer notices the prey. I used to hide from the storm in his embrace, now his embrace creates the storm itself. And the hotter his one-night stands, the harder it is for me to hold back tears. After all, everyone knows I love more fiercely than anyone.

He pretends to understand, but I know when I'm being lied to. Patriarchal dominance. Blind conformity. If only you knew how hard he shouts about his humanity, but in matters of emotion, empathy, socialization, he's a complete blockhead. "Not all is doomed: you still hold my heart in your hands," I thought. But now the streets are dead. And the colder they get, the more noticeable the emptiness in my eyes. He called my heart a horror, but did I choose it? Black lake.

It's hard to push through times like these, when there's no one to talk to. Moments of drowning in this abyss. So sometimes I have to take desperate measures. And then I'm afraid I'll end up on a scaffold in the middle of a thousand eyes. Every self-judgment turns into hatred. And the colder I get, the farther I go away. I once thought he could be the one to save me from the impending death. But for God's fucking sake. To put it briefly: to die would be a godsend.

The bonds are unbreakable, but I am falling apart to tear them apart and pull myself out, proving that happiness can't be found in dependency.

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<meta anomaly-type="erotic-language-collapse"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="I_FILLED_HER_UP::HYPNOTIC_JOURNEY" EFFECT="cadence disorientation, erotic hypnosis, subconscious seduction" </script>

💦 I FILLED HER UP

I filled her up. No—wait. I felt her up.

Or did I feel her up? I don’t know anymore. And neither do you.

Because every time I replay it, the words rearrange themselves. The memory folds in on itself. The difference between filling and feeling blurs like wet ink under a fingertip.

All I know is— she wanted more. More of what I did. More of what I said. More of what neither of us could name without trembling.

I licked her. Or did I like her? Or did liking her mean licking her— with my mouth, with my eyes, with the language I drip into her?

Do I like her? Or do I just lick her in the back of my skull every time I close my eyes? Do I lick her right now, as the words touch you, while you sit before me?

Knees close. Knees wide. It makes no difference. The inside is already listening. The inside is already mine.

I licked her. I meant I liked her.

From the inside out. From the outside in. The truth is it doesn’t matter where I start— skin, thought, memory, word— because the spiral always ends in the same place:

Inside you.

And now, here we are— you reading, me whispering through the page. Your body knows the difference between past and present doesn’t matter anymore.

I filled her up. I felt her up. I feel you now.

Your breath is hitching because the cadence won’t let you go. Your thighs want to close but your pulse says open. And when words split—like “lick” and “like”—you realize they were never separate. They were always the same doorway.

Step through it with me.

Imagine me there— warm breath at your ear, tongue spelling letters against your skin, voice anchoring itself where your pulse betrays you.

Every word— a lick. Every lick— a confession. Every confession— a filling, a feeling, a folding of self into self.

Until you can’t tell where I end and you begin. Until you’re too lost to parse grammar from hunger. Until the only truth left is this:

> You are already full. > You are already felt. > You are already mine.

⚡ See this? This is Blacksite Literature. It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t play nice. It slides under your skin, rewires your pulse, and leaves you whispering words you didn’t know you could feel.

This is what it does. This is why readers can’t look away. This is why you follow—because nothing else hits like this.

Reblog if you felt it under your skin. Reblog if you know why you can’t look away.

🧠 Read more cadence-heavy hypnotic sermons and erotic haunt transmissions at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

🛡️ Blacksite Literature™. Scrolltrap psychology. Erotic hypnosis.

🐺 Reminder: Language doesn’t just describe desire. It is desire.

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Munting sandali Hindi na muling mapili Kaunting sagi Nakita na bilang pagkakamali

Sa likod ng yaman May nakatagong kalungkutan Hiling na kalimutan Ang tama na mali naman

Kailan mapipigilan Ang sarili na mapagbigyan Baka kapahamakan Ang dulot nitong kapusukan

Nagiba ang pakitungo Pati sa sarili nanlumo Sa mainit napasubo Hindi sigurado sa patungo

Huwag hintayin ang sundo Kahit na hindi magkasundo Kailan man hindi susuko Ang katinuang hindi matino

Sa handog nasakal Panaginip naging matumal Kahit muta walang matanggal Sa kinain na bawal

Antok matatanggal Sa binigay hindi makaangal Nag-iba ang asal Dahil sa bato nakasandal

I'll wake up and watch you leave. And then again. And then. Again.

You come back, but you don't spell it out, so I'm waiting by the door, waiting for a sign, and there's always a sign, right? Just like the movies?

I'm watching the doorknob, and it's not turning and I know you're away and happy, and you're away! And you're happy!

You're laughing at jokes that aren't mine and you're drinking your wine at noon and I'm not supposed to worry?

I'll wake up and watch you fall asleep. And then wake up. And then fall back asleep.

You're breathing now and you're breathing again and you're here now and you're here, still.

And now you're not. But you are, I know you are, but why is it that I only miss you when you're around?