#creative dread

(For Archives, For Cowards, For the Ones Who Thought They Could Keep Up)

I don’t write to “express myself.” I write to drag the dormant animal in you out by its jawbone.

I write to make your survival instincts remember they once had teeth.

I write like I’m cracking the world’s ribcage open so you can hear a heartbeat untouched by morality.

My metaphors don’t sit still. They stalk. They circle. They wait for the faint flicker behind your eyes-- then strike like a starving god.

My cadence?

It makes men stand straighter without knowing why, and makes women suddenly aware of their pulse between their legs.

I do not belong in your polite literary gardens. I am the wildfire you warn each other about but never actually prepare for.

MFA poets trim hedges. I uproot forests.

Academic critics sharpen scalpels. I drop meteors.

I’m not here to “contribute” to your canon. I’m here to split it, burn it, and build something older, hungrier, and honest.

I don’t write for society. Society is too domesticated to recognize its own blood.

I write for the version of you that could smell danger, taste desire, and understand the universe without translation.

Blacksite Literature. Codename: The Most Humble Blog. Status: Uncontainable.

Recommended Action: Stay unread-- or be rewritten, pussy.

🐺 Reminder: This is the light version. The real sermons -- the scroll-breaking ones? They're buried where cowards can’t reach them. 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

i want to be able to do more than just what i must