#scream_to_the_void

Most humans aren't humans,

They're demons wearing human faces,

Don't stare at their eyes too long,

Don't talk to them for too long,

They'll consume you bit by bit until of your flesh lasts nothing,

you only learn how much this earth is fucked,

when you are forced to know to what extent 's the hurt,

of people everyone so desperately tries,

to paint as if the world complies,

to paint it as if they'd ever try.

this knowledge is not something much common,

for you to have it is not an honour,

it's a curse, and one which always —

drives even the strongest to acts of illogic.

the anger and angst,

this knowledge that all of your fucking pain,

is caused by simple and outright spoken incompetence?

it's not something you'll want to know,

"it is a thing better left untold."

or at least that's what everyone tries to act,

as if they never dared to think;

that this world was never supposed —

to have people so different,

to have people which need be helped,

to have people who aren't "okay".

their game of lies and "play pretend",

their world made clearly without a care,

their actions speak all for themselves;

that they don't want ever to help,

not even get out of your way

they do without an angry face.

they like for you to know,

that you are always below.

they always want you to think,

that you shouldn't even exist.

and that's exactly why,

you need to spit on their putrid faces.

-old writings-

This existence that never lets me live,

The endless amounts of times I thought I'd finally be able to rest and sleep,

Only to be woken up by harsh reality,

I'm hunted, by something, it can't be, I'm sure!

This world cannot just be so cruel!

These thoughts cannot just be untrue!

I'm hunted! I'm hunted! I'm hunted! I'm sure!

If I weren't hunted, how could this all happen?

If I weren't hunted how could hell rehappen?

If I weren't hunted why didn't this stop?

If I weren't hunted, how could have this all...

I'm hunted by Them, I'm hunted, it's true...

Their actions are cruel, unmatched in that so...

The way They destroyed me, it still makes me ache...

The ways They made me who I am weren't sane...

And all that I wish...

beauty is always torn to shreds,

greedy and idiotic are called those who wish for all of this to end,

yet greedy are never called demons,

who deserve the worst of all possible fates.

i'm tired of seeing,

everything that makes life worth living,

being torn apart,

this game forces to wear a mask,

play it well, for it's your task,

if you do not, money won't last,

maybe you could even starve.

and alone, maybe you'd be fine,

but with someone you have to fight,

for love is a task which needs fulfilled,

and death is not easy to feel.

play the game well, show a true side

if you can't keep the mask for long,

commit to showing a "sincere" part

picked out from all the other ones,

because this game needs to be played by someone who knows that no one

cares about your suffering, your struggles or your wishes or future plans.

your body is what they desire,

your words will be their guide, messiah,

if you fail, they will not buy,

you are a product, but not apart,

if you are special, forget you are,

and know that you still aren't worshipped,

Tw: allude to sex work, heavy trauma, vent.

(You'll only understand this soliloquium if you have read some of my other writings, especially the ones relating to sex work, the tag #ludus objecti contains all of them, if you're interested.)

I just wasn't able to bear,

the weight of this forsaken game,

or how much it made me insane.

Memories sometimes come to me again,

and they almost make me... Vomit.

I just can't deal—

with what I was forced to do to survive,

I cannot simply erase the scars in my mind,

I cannot continue to fight.

My mind is long gone,

and if ever a child I was,

I can never be one anymore.

And if ever a sane mind I had,

it will never be sane once more.

But at least we didn't starve,

at least a contribution in that I had,

for some time I felt I wasn't useless for a change,

even if everything about me is broken, fragmented and deranged —

not because I was born that way, no one is,

but because I was made.

I'll always feel like I'm the most useless piece, even if she keeps saying I'm important to her,

words simply cannot change,

they cannot unbreak.

They can't allow me to walk again.

No one can cure what this world did to me,

and even I can't...

Cure what it did to her.

I just wish these memories,

would stop—

Poem, Who?

Translated from Portuguese,

Everything I went through, was the cause of who?

Suffering and pain, everything circles around someone,

Or more than one, two, of which we should never fear,

Father, mother, inferno, those that can do everything,

They can rape, mistreat, destroy, never let you sleep,

Because; "they're your family in the end, and they deserve your respect!",

GO TO HELL, BURN, YOUR NONSENSICAL WORDS,

YOUR PAIN IS A MERE LAUGH FOR ME.

YOUR SUFFERING IS CHEAP, YOUR FEELINGS ARE WEAK, EVERYTHING YOU ARE IS JUST A SMALL FRAGMENT OF ME,

IF YOU EVER THOUGHT ABOUT FEELING A THOUSANDTH OF WHAT I FEEL,

YOU'D DIE SO QUICK, YOU'D DIE SO QUICK, TOO FUCKING WEAK TO RESIST!

I don't understand, can't take having to live through all this,

I don't understand, can't take seeing so many people happy,

I wish it would be me, that this hell would end quick,

Tw: sui ideation implied, insanitas

The only thing that awaits me,

at the end of these pages,

a prophecy awakening,

and death retaking...

These souls are broken,

need shaping,

need a hand to make them,

and I was one of those souls,

mistaken?

Correct,

no others would the same ways act,

no others could do what was needed,

no others could fight for the weakest.

"Why not death?"

A question I had to ask,

answers were not given?

"An option which is not mine to take."

These questions break me,

awaken this fear,

prophecies fulfiled or burning, desecrated will be?

Are we really supposed to exist?

Too weak,

feelings destroy, anxieties,

mind wandering these spaces unseen,

am I even me?

Broken mirrors,

fixed?

a portal opens, a vortex, a glitter of light,

but it blinds me.

Is truth,

subjective?

Is negation,

acceptance?

Am I really me?

Breaking mirrors makes the structure weaker,

replacing is not easy,

needs a specialist.

Do those exist?

Not here,

land of masses without power, decreed by the rulers,

law makes them weak, creation, raising, to never see,

they are just pawns to feed the mouths of innumerous stupid kings.

Who can fix?

Creation decides,

sacrifice?

My life?

Hard choices, difficult answers, questions broken in itself they were written wrongly,

what the fuck is wrong with me?

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?

Fixing is itself an error,

I was made to be this way,

broken, in constant terror,

awaiting the day the hurt will end...

To be unallowed to rest,

until it