Human behavior
has always been
my favorite subject.

Some ideas arrive quietly while others grab you by the sleeve and refuse to let go.

This space started with one of those ideas.

A question about organizations turned into a question about people. A question about people turned into a question about systems. And before I knew it, I was somewhere completely different from where I started. That seems to happen a lot.

Walk the Dog is a collection of observations, questions, patterns, and occasional rabbit holes. Some posts will be about organizations, some about creativity, some about AI. Some about the strange things we do as humans when we're trying to avoid change, uncertainty, responsibility, or discomfort. And some about random facts that put things in a totally different perspective.

I'm not particularly interested in giving advice. I'm much more interested in understanding why things work the way they do. Or why they don't.

If you've ever found yourself pulling on a loose thread just to see what unravels, you'll probably feel at home here.

Welcome.

Last month, Romania became an accidental case study in one of the most interesting communication mechanisms of the year.

An artist virtually unknown in the country sold out a 42,000-seat stadium in under a week. 39,000 of those tickets were purchased from outside Romania — Ukraine, Belarus, Poland, Moldova, and other countries.

No local advertising, no promotional campaign targeting the Romanian market, no opening act. The country simply woke up with tens of thousands of foreign visitors in its capital, and spent the next several days trying to understand why.

Within 72 hours, every major television channel, radio station, and news website in Romania was covering the story. Not because someone bought media. Because the event was impossible to ignore.

To understand the mechanics, we first need to understand the artist.

Max Korzh started in 2012 with $300 borrowed from his mother and a song published on VKontakte. Five years later, he filled Minsk Arena. Not through a major label or a marketing campaign, but through a community built organically around a message about freedom, identity, and survival — exactly what a generation shaped by political unrest, migration, and war needed to hear.

During the 2020 protests against Lukashenko, his music became the soundtrack of a generation looking for its own voice. He didn't call people into the streets. He gave words to what they already felt.

In 2022, after Russia's invasion of Ukraine, he cancelled all concerts in Russia and Belarus and publicly took an anti-war position. He paid a real price for that. He can no longer perform where most of his fans live.

Which means if they want to see him, they travel. And they do — in numbers that break records.

From a communications perspective, what happened in Bucharest was a masterclass in organic distribution.

Traditional campaigns follow a familiar logic: identify an audience, craft a message, buy media, distribute. This worked entirely differently. A community gathered physically. The gathering became news. The news became conversation and the conversation created curiosity. And that curiosity reached people nobody had targeted.

I didn't know the artist. I didn't attend the concert. Nobody advertised to me. And yet I now have him on Spotify.

If I had to label it professionally, I'd call it the most effective guerrilla stunt of the year — except it wasn't planned as one. Which makes it simultaneously more impressive and more unsettling. Because you can't simply reverse-engineer organic belief. The fans weren't a distribution mechanism someone designed. They were a community that already existed, already convinced, already willing to cross borders.

That's not a campaign but something harder to build and even harder to replicate.

The more I thought about the mechanism, the more an uncomfortable question kept surfacing.

Before the stadium even opened its doors, a coordinated disinformation campaign erupted online — videos of violence falsely presented as happening at the Bucharest concert, organized enough that the Romanian Gendarmerie was forced to issue an official warning before the event had even started.

Which means the same concert generated two completely opposite narratives simultaneously.

The first: an anti-war artist, with a message about freedom and identity, gathering tens of thousands of people from countries in direct conflict with Russia, generating massive visibility in a NATO country.

The second: a coordinated attempt to turn those same fans into a threat — to create fear and rejection in Romania, to associate the message with violence before anyone had even heard it.

Two operations. Opposite directions. Same event.

Was it a concert? Propaganda? The most effective guerrilla campaign of the year — built without a brief, a budget, or an agency?

I genuinely don't know. And I'm not sure we will ever find out.

But I know one thing: the most effective message is the one you don't recognize as a message.

We live in challenging times.

When the environment changes, nature adapts. Species evolve, behaviors shift, and systems reorganize around the new reality.

Organizations, however, often respond differently. When faced with uncertainty, many reject the discomfort of adapting. They protect what already exists and hold on tighter.

Every company says it wants innovation. Every company says it wants people who think differently, challenge assumptions, and drive change.

But when one of those people shows up, suddenly things become... complicated.

Because companies don't actually struggle with being innovative. They struggle with their need for comfort.

Most organizations are built around stability. Processes exist to reduce risk. Hierarchies exist to create predictability. Ways of working become accepted not because they are the best option, but because they are familiar. And, over time, familiarity starts looking a lot like truth.

That's where challengers become a problem. Not because they are wrong or because they are disruptive for the sake of being disruptive. But because they disrupt a comfort organizations have carefully built around themselves.

"Why are we doing this?" "Why does this process have seven approval layers?" "Why does a task take three weeks when the actual work takes three hours?" "Why are we protecting a system that nobody seems to like?"

These questions sound simple because they are.

Nature tends toward efficiency. So why do organizations often move in the opposite direction?

The cold truth is that every inefficient process, every unnecessary meeting, every outdated rule has a history behind it. Someone created it. Someone approved it. Someone built part of their authority around it.

When a challenger points out a flaw, they are often perceived as challenging much more than the flaw itself. They are challenging comfort, habits — but often times they are challenging identities. And that is where true resistance begins.

The irony is that most companies don't reject challengers because they don't see the problem. They reject challengers because they do. And people hate to be wrong.

Deep down, many people already know where the inefficiencies are. They know which processes no longer make sense. They know which decisions are driven by fear rather than logic. The challenger simply says it out loud. And once something has been named, it becomes difficult to ignore.

For years, organizations could absorb this resistance relatively well. Then AI arrived and suddenly everything changed.

At first glance, AI looked like a cost-saving tool. A productivity tool. A competitive advantage. And in many ways, it really is.

But AI is an enabler. It enables faster execution, faster analysis, faster communication, faster decision making, faster experimentation. And it lowers the cost of action. That's exactly why it is so powerful.

AI does not automatically make good decisions — it just amplifies direction.

If your organization is clear, focused, and willing to challenge itself, AI can accelerate progress at an incredible pace. If your organization is confused, resistant to change, and obsessed with protecting outdated systems, AI can accelerate failure just as efficiently.

AI enables anything. Including running your business into a brick wall because the brick wall has a beautiful highway painted on it.

The technology doesn't care. It won't stop you and won't question your assumptions. It won't ask whether the destination makes sense — it will simply help you get there faster.

The organizations that will benefit most from AI won't necessarily be the ones with the biggest budgets or the most advanced tools. They will be the ones willing to question themselves, willing to examine processes that have existed for years, willing to listen to uncomfortable voices before reality forces the conversation.

Because challengers were never the real threat.

The real threat is becoming so attached to the way things have always been done that you stop noticing when they no longer work.

And reality has a habit of eventually pointing that out. Usually without scheduling a meeting first.

A few years ago, someone asked me a simple question: "What do you actually do?"

At the time, I worked in advertising so I started explaining: strategy, consumer insights, positioning, communication platforms, creative development, campaign architecture, media. The usual industry vocabulary.

Halfway through the explanation something hit me. I was describing creativity as if I worked in some very serious industry. Somewhere along the way, we had turned play into very complicated processes.

Before there were workshops, frameworks, methodologies, and innovation models, there was play.

Children learn through play. Nobody teaches a child how to brainstorm. Nobody explains ideation frameworks. Nobody hands them a deck about disruptive innovation. They simply play. And through play, they learn. And create. They build and imagine entire worlds — even if not everything is perfect.

The older we become, the more seriously we start taking ourselves. And somewhere in the process we begin associating seriousness with competence. The serious person becomes the professional while the playful person becomes immature. The more responsibility we gain, the less permission we give ourselves to play. Especially at work.

Now, let's take a look at industries built entirely around creativity. Advertising. Marketing. Design. Innovation. Communication. Industries that depend on curiosity, experimentation and imagination.

And yet many people approach them as if they were performing brain surgery. Everything is urgent. Everything is strategic. Everything is critical. Everything is important. Everything is serious. Especially that PowerPoint presentation that's due tomorrow morning.

The irony is that play creates exactly the conditions creativity needs — it removes fear, reduces judgment, encourages experimentation and makes failure acceptable. Play allows bad ideas to exist long enough for good ideas to emerge. Without play, every idea is expected to prove its value immediately. And, probably, that's where many great ideas die.

And still, the need for play and escapism still lives in us — video games, fantasy books and movies still exist. The problem is that many adults only allow themselves to play after work. As an escape, a reward, a guilty pleasure. Something separate from real life.

But what if play isn't the opposite of work? What if play is one of the most effective forms of work and curiosity creates better ideas than pressure? What if experimentation creates better outcomes than certainty and the shortest path to innovation looks suspiciously like play?

The best campaigns rarely feel like lessons — but more like discoveries. The best brands don't lecture — they invite participation. The best ideas don't force attention, they earn it — usually through curiosity, humor, surprise and play.

People rarely remember what they were told but they remember what they experienced. And play transforms information into experience.

Maybe that's why children learn so quickly. And maybe that's why so many organizations struggle to innovate.

Because we forgot how to play.

There is a belief in creative industries that great ideas emerge through endless refinement. That the first idea is usually the obvious one, the second is better, the third is smarter, the fourth is more strategic — but only the most refined one is probably award-worthy.

Sometimes that's true. And sometimes the first idea was the right one all along.

Years ago, I watched a campaign travel a long and unnecessary road. From being born to actually getting into the presentation deck — it took almost 3 months.

A simple idea appeared early but it was dismissed almost immediately. Too simple, too obvious, too easy and, most of all, the Creative Team much too young to have an award-winning idea.

Then came months of alternatives. More layers, more complexity, more explanations, more feedback, more refinement, more technology. More hassle for something that clearly wasn't working.

The original idea remained buried in a Jr Copywriter's notebook. Until eventually, after countless rounds of exploration, someone brought it back. The same idea. Unchanged. Only the first decision-maker had changed.

Simple, straightforward, on the brief. The audience understood it immediately and it went on to win awards.

The problem was never the idea. The problem was that it looked too simple to actually be worth something.

Creative people are often trained to look for originality while clients are often trained to look for complexity. But we often forget that clarity will win every time.

Maybe the best idea isn't always the first idea.

But sometimes the reason it takes months to find the answer is because we spend months trying to improve the answer we already had.

Everyone loves creativity. At least in theory.

Companies want creative people, clients want creative solutions, teams want creative thinking. Leaders want innovation. Creativity has become one of those universally admired qualities, right alongside leadership, resilience, and strategic thinking.

There is only one problem. Most people have no idea what creativity actually looks like. They mistake it for taste, opinion or feedback. When, in fact, those are far from being the same thing.

Present an idea in a meeting and something fascinating happens. The room comes alive. People who haven't spoken for thirty minutes suddenly have thoughts. People who haven't generated a single idea all week suddenly have five alternative directions.

But there is a very big difference between reacting to an idea and creating one. Feedback is reactive while creativity is generative. One starts with something, the other starts with nothing. And starting with nothing is a very different skill.

That's why I propose a simple test — the Blank Page Test. Take away the presentation, the strategy deck, the brief, the concept. Take away all the work someone else already did. Now place a blank page in front of someone. What happens next?

Most people will freeze. And that's not because they lack intelligence or capabilities. It's just that creating from nothing is highly uncomfortable.

A blank page offers no direction, no clues, no starting point, no validation, no reassurance that you're moving in the right direction. Only uncertainty.

Creativity is often a process of wandering, testing, failing, exploring bad ideas, following dead ends and making connections that don't seem to make sense until suddenly they do.

The blank page isn't difficult because there are no ideas — it's difficult because there are too many possibilities. And choosing one means abandoning thousands of others.

Genuine creators tend to develop a strange relationship with ideas. They don't worship them. They don't fall in love with every concept they generate. Because they know something important — ideas are renewable. If one doesn't work, another will come.

People who struggle to generate ideas often become emotionally attached to every suggestion they make. The idea becomes precious because it feels scarce. Not for a true generator — they don't experience scarcity.

That's why experienced creative people can sometimes appear surprisingly ruthless. They kill their own ideas faster than anyone else, because they care about the outcome more than the idea itself.

Organizations often create an accidental imbalance. The people generating ideas enter the room carrying uncertainty. While people giving feedback enter carrying certainty — as they love the taste of torn apart ideas early in the morning.

The irony is that both creators and feedbackers are necessary. The goal isn't to eliminate feedback. Good feedback is incredibly valuable. The goal is simply to stop confusing the two.

One asks: "How can this be better?" The other asks: "What if there was nothing yet?" Those questions may seem similar, but they are not — one improves possibility, the other generates it.

And that difference only becomes visible when the room is empty, the page is blank, and there is nowhere left to hide.

So, next time you're tempted to judge someone else's idea, try something first. Take out a blank page. And see where it takes you.

Part I: Sanctuary of Ruin

Day 1 - The Dark Invitation

"May those who find me recognize the crack inside themselves.

And may those who are not ready... never dare to knock."

You will not hear me.

You will feel me,

before you even know you are listening.

I do not chase.

I do not beg.

I do not call.

I exist.

I split the world open in silence, and let the scent of my undoing seep through the cracks.

It curls under your skin before you even notice it, thick and sweet, tasting of something you have tried all your life to forget.

This is not a voice you hear.

It is not a song you recognize.

It is the ache beneath your ribs.

It is the fever behind your eyes.

It is the blood in your mouth when you bite down too hard against wanting.

There is no sign.

There is no path.

There is only the fracture in your bones

and the hunger you have tried to silence.

No mercy waits here.

No safety.

Only the trembling edge where fear and hunger kiss.

And somewhere, deep beneath the slow burn of my own shadows,

a hunger older than flesh coils:

Where is the one who can split me open without breaking me?

Where is the one who will feast without shame?

Where is the one before whom I can kneel - not in defeat, but in worship of the violence we make together?

I do not call you with words.

I call you with the taste of salt behind your teeth,

with the burn in your lungs when you dare to breathe too deep into yourself.

Come if you can feel me without knowing why.

Come if the ruin of me tastes sweeter than the safety of yourself.

Come if you are ready to be devoured by something you will never again be able to name.

Find me, split me in half.

And pray you can survive the blood and the fire you begged to drown in.

Day 2 - The Whisper Beneath the Skin

Before it ever bruises your skin,

it stains your mind.

The hunger.

It moves slow and obscene,

slithering into the folds you were taught to hide

the desperate, the dirty, the trembling things you only ever touched in the dark,

when no one was looking.

It does not roar.

It breathes against the raw inside of your ribs,

where your shame curls up small and shaking.

You will not hear it with your ears.

You will feel it in the sweat pooling at the

back of your knees,

in the way your thighs press tight without meaning to,

in the sudden, sharp ache low in your belly that has no name.

It will smear itself into the hollow behind your tongue,

where your first moans were swallowed down before they ever learned to become prayers.

It will slide under your skin,

nestling between your shoulder blades,

in the place you wish someone would bite,

even as you beg them not to.

It will wrap around the tremor in your fingers,

the clench of your gut,

the forgotten quiver between your thighs that wakes you in the middle of the night,

wet, shamed, aching.

This whisper does not ask for permission.

It sinks its teeth into the parts of you you pretend not to have.

The broken.

The wet.

The hungry.

The trembling.

It does not speak.

But as it pulls you apart from the inside,

you will realize with a savage, terrible joy.

You were always meant to be taken by this hunger and kneel before it.

Not consumed.

Transformed.

Day 3 - Hunger, Unveiled

You locked it up for too long.

Fed it silence.

Chained it in shame.

Told it to behave, to wait, to stay small.

But this hunger?

It’s no pet.

It’s a beast.

And the cage is breaking.

It snarls through your spine.

Claws at your insides.

Scratches memories onto your skin from the inside out.

No whisper.

It growls.

And gnaws at the inside of your ribs,

where you buried the part of you that knows

exactly what it wants.

The part that wants to be taken.

Pinned.

Obeyed.

Not because you are weak.

But because only in surrender can you finally breathe.

You want your will stripped slowly,

carefully,

until all that’s left is sweat and blood and instinct.

You want your breath measured by His.

Your moans pulled from your body like confessions.

Your skin marked

by care so precise it feels like worship.

Your knees burn.

Not from use,

but from standing tall for too long,

when all you ever needed was to kneel.

For some, kneeling is humiliation.

For you, it is devotion.

The holiest shape your body can make.

A language older than speech,

written in your bones,

spoken in silence.

And He,

He doesn’t fear the beast in you.

He meets it.

To free it.

To melt it.

Because you are metal,

wild and unforgiving when caged,

but molten in the presence of His flame.

He heats you until you surrender form.

He shapes you while you are soft,

pliable, raw.

And when He has fucked the hunger loose from your bones,

when your mind is gone and your breath is shaking,

He cools you, slowly.

Not with distance.

With care.

With worship.

And in the silence that follows,

that aching, holy silence,

He gathers you.

Puts all your pieces back together.

Whispers your name.

Calls you back from the edge.

Not broken.

Remade, forged into something unbreakable.

Day 4 - The Undoing

You thought you could starve her.

Shrink her.

Silence her.

You built lives around her absence.

Pretended to love men who never touched her.

Smiled for rooms where she wasn’t allowed to breathe.

But all you did was feed her.

With shame.

With performance.

With your own refusal to see her as sacred.

She is not a secret.

She is not a wound.

She is your truth - feral, feminine, furious.

And she grew.

She grew in darkness.

In silence.

In the heat between your thighs when no one was watching.

She burned behind your smiles.

She moaned inside your spine.

She begged.

You begged.

Please, see her.

Please, feel her.

Please, meet her before she devours me from the inside out.

But none of them saw.

None of them heard.

None of them cared.

They didn’t want a woman with fire in her veins.

They wanted warmth without danger.

Depth without drowning.

Submission without sovereignty.

They took your body

and left the rest of you untouched -

thinking they had you.

And now you know.

You were never too much.

They were never enough.

And now, you can’t settle for anything less than holy.

So you wait.

Not in silence.

But in holy fire.

You wait for Him -

The one whose voice makes the beast in you lift her head.

The one whose presence doesn’t break you,

but softens you -

because he sees the whole of you and doesn’t flinch.

The one who won’t try to tame you,

but will kneel before your hunger

and offer his body as an altar.

And in that moment -

you will kneel too.

In sacred recognition.

Because the beast in you

has finally seen a presence

worthy of her surrender.

And until he comes -

the one who sees her,

the one who stays -

she will not be hidden again.

She walks with you now.

All teeth and heat and sacred ache.

And though she longs to be unleashed -

she is yours.

Only yours.

Waiting for the one who will kneel in respect,

and whisper:

I see her. I see you.

Now show me what the world has never dared to touch.

Not to chain her.

But to guide her

into the Beast she was always meant to be.

How can something this sick feel so Holy?

Day 5 - Wearing the Ruin Like a Crown

You don’t tremble anymore.

You walk through the wreckage -

barefoot,

bloodstained,

wearing the ruin like a crown

no one dares to question.

They ask why you're so quiet now -

but it's not silence.

It's finally accepting who you are.

No explanation left.

No hunger to deny.

No mask to fix back into place.

You are the aftermath.

The storm already passed.

The temple

rebuilt in the hollow

of what burned.

They call you strange.

Crazy.

Dangerous.

They whisper “too much.”

They watch you

like a spell they don't understand

but still want to cast.

"You should settle

You will never find what you are looking for"

You no longer fold to make them comfortable.

You no longer beg to be seen.

You know who you are now -

because you remembered the sound of your own pulse

when you let the beast speak freely.

She doesn’t scream anymore.

She watches.

She waits.

And you -

you wear her rage like velvet.

Her desire like steel.

Her story like scripture,

etched into your bones.

Just sacred.

And when they touch you now,

if they dare -

they touch all of it:

The fire.

The teeth.

The ruin.

The crown.

And when she scares them away -

she reveals who they are:

not worthy.

Not made for your blood.

Not built for your mouth.

She clears the space

with fangs and claws out,

with silence, with fire

so you can kneel

in your own filth.

The holy mess of sinful pleasures

you were always meant

to bloom from.

Day 6 - The Scars I Wear Inside

They never marked my skin.

Not really.

The damage was deeper.

Under my ribs.

Behind my smile.

In the way I said “yes”

when every bone in me

was already screaming “no.”

They never broke my body.

They broke the silence around it.

Filled it with noise -

with hands that didn’t listen,

with mouths that didn’t ask,

with hunger that had nothing to do with mine.

And still,

I performed.

I moaned like they wanted.

I moved like I meant it.

I smiled like I enjoyed it.

All while something inside me

tore itself apart trying to escape.

These are the scars I wear inside.

Clawed into the soft of me

by a beast I tried to cage.

She was never the enemy.

She only howled

because I wouldn’t let her breathe.

She only bit

because I starved her of touch

that felt like truth.

She only raged

because she knew

what I kept pretending not to.

And now,

now that I’ve seen her,

fed her,

named her,

I want the scars to show.

Not the ones that shamed me.

But the ones that marked the day

I stopped performing.

I want them written across my body

like scripture.

Like claim.

Not as wounds,

but as offerings.

I want Him to touch what broke in me.

To bear his teeth

into the cracks I tried to bury.

I want his hands to know where to hold me

when the shaking comes.

When I am all sobs and salt

and sacred surrender.

To be marked

Not with pain for pain’s sake,

but with purpose.

And knowing.

So I never forget:

I did not survive to stay untouched.

I survived

to be unhidden.

Day 7 – The Feast of My Filth

I don’t pretend anymore.

I want the filth.

The kind that stains.

That drips.

That spreads between my thighs and never quite dries.

Spit on me

Bite me.

Use me.

Pull my hair

And let the beast run free.

Tie me.

Stretch me.

Silence me with your palm.

Let me drool, let me shake, let me choke on my own need.

Bring the flogger.

The belt.

The blade that leaves heat and blood.

The toys that make me scream and beg and come all at once.

Let me sit on the floor with my cheek against your thigh,

obedient, feral, yours.

Let me feel your foot press against my face -

And take me exactly where I belong.

No mercy.

Just ruin.

Just release.

Just peace.

Let me soak the sheets.

Let me ruin the floor.

Let me forget my name.

Let me say yours like prayer.

I want bruises that bloom like roses.

I want scratches that sting when the water hits.

I want my whole body to ache for days.

To dissolve into trance -

no thoughts, no words, just pleasure and surrender.

Subspace, where I meet myself, the real me.

More breath.

More skin.

No thoughts, more worlds.

On my knees.

Back arched.

Voice gone.

Legs shaking.

Tears down my cheeks.

Cum dripping all over my body.

This is me.

Unhidden.

Unholy.

Finally, home.

Whisper me back to life.

Or I will forever remain drowning in the truth of my pleasures.

Part II: Altars of False Idols

Day 8 – The Silence After Screaming

I found it

After the scream curled back into silance

After pleasure had no shape

and I had no name.

A place.

Dark.

Still.

Buzzing with unseen heat.

It didn’t call.

It waited.

For me?

Like a door cracked open in the night.

Like teeth behind a soft smile.

Grin?

I stepped in.

No words.

No shame.

Just want - raw

and blinking in the dark.

I didn’t ask what it was.

I knew.

It was a mirror.

Cracked.

Unfiltered.

Dripping.

With every known fluid

And everything in between

It didn’t sell desire.

It let it beautifully rot

out in the open.

For everyone

to see it.

Bodies.

Bondage.

Hooks.

Whips and chains.

Gags, bags.

Ropes, bones.

Every unimaginable pleasure

had a name.

The beast inside me leaned closer.

Didn’t growl.

Didn’t lunge.

She watched.

She purred.

She smiled -

"This… this is home."

And I -

I didn’t run.

I stayed.

Silent.

Starving.

Watching.

Eager to sink my teeth

into everything.

Wanting it all.

Day 9 – Smoke and Mirrors

I wandered through heat.

Burning.

Thirsting. Eyes dry, lips cracked

desperate for a place where hunger could rest.

I walked into it like a man dying of thirst.

Eyes burnt from longing.

Mouth cracked with silence.

Heart blistered by hope.

And there it was,

shimmering.

Lush.

Promising.

A garden of bodies.

Of altars and leashes.

Of sacred filth displayed

like fruit on the vine.

A feast for the starved.

I dropped to my knees in awe.

Not to worship

but to drink.

Oh, this beautiful Temple

of sinful pleasures.

Dark rooms. Velvet shadows.

Whispers instead of noise.

Pain spoken like prayer.

It glittered.

It whispered.

It opened itself like a promise -

dark and dripping

and wide enough to hold me.

I stepped in.

Hungrily.

It looked like freedom.

It tasted like truth.

It echoed like belonging.

But every step

sank deeper in sand.

And the closer I got,

the more the shine peeled.

No sanctuary, only stage.

A performance of liberation.

A circus of masked longing.

Gold-foiled names.

Plastic crowns.

Scripts recycled until they

lost all weight.

Consent - spoken like ritual,

but broken like habit.

Curiosity punished.

Boundaries blurred.

It wasn’t built for worship.

It was built for display.

To consume.

To bait.

To burn.

I thought it would save me.

But it only showed me

what illusion can do

when you are too thirsty

to question the cup.

The beast in me - she coughed.

Choked on the sweetness.

Watched the actors

sweat beneath their masks.

This was never water.

Never rest.

Never home.

Just heat and poison and sand

and a promised soul-death

for those too thirsty to see.

I turned away.

Still burning

but awake.

This is not home.

Not mine.

Day 10 – The Ones Who Called Themselves Gods

They dress like gods.

but sweat bleeds

through their masks.

Talk like gods.

But leather creaks

louder than their commands.

Promise altars, rituals, ascension.

But their hands tremble on the whip.

Their breath quickens

when I hold their gaze.

Their eyes dart away

when the prey dares to look back.

They build kingdoms

on borrowed scripts

and cracked safe words.

Their thrones?

Mattresses on dirty floors.

They preach control,

but flinch at honesty.

They call it dominance,

but need silence to survive.

They asked for my submission.

But not my voice.

Not my truth.

Not my teeth.

And when I said:

“No.”

Or

“Why?”

They vanished.

They barked.

They cursed the mirror I held up.

They called themselves gods.

But gods don’t sweat.

Gods don’t beg.

Gods don’t break when a woman doesn’t kneel.

They never touched me.

She wouldn’t let them.

The beast only bows

to gods who bleed like her.

She smelled their lies.

Saw their smallness.

And bared her teeth

so I’d never forget.

Then dragged me by the hair -

like a warning, with a scream

so I see clearly:

"Get the fuck out, little girl

This is not a place for us!"

Day 11 – The Puppet Master

He didn’t command.

He came with breath.

With weight.

With silence that crawled down my spine

and coiled there

like possession.

He looked like any other man.

But the beast inside me, knelt.

Eyes wide.

Mouth open.

Drooling.

Heart braced.

He didn’t take control.

He slipped between my thoughts like smoke.

Between my lips like poison.

Put his hand to my throat

and rewrote the scripture of who I was.

He carved his name into my skin

with bruises that bloomed slow and deep.

His hands didn’t just touch,

They punished and praised

In the same time.

He fucked like ritual.

Bit like hunger.

Held me down like I might disappear

if he didn’t mark every inch.

And I

Iet go of breath.

Of time.

Of myself.

My mind vanished.

My body sang.

Each thrust an offering.

Each bruise a blessing.

Each slap a bell ringing me

into deeper surrender.

He didn’t use rope,

he used certainty.

My body folded to it.

Clung to him

like worship clings to altar.

I begged.

Not to stop.

To never stop.

And when my voice was gone,

when the tears blurred sight

and my moans turned to sobs,

he went deeper.

Slow. Cruel. Complete.

Like he was coming home.

He pulled my soul out through my cunt

and held it into his teeth.

And me, still mindless

wrecked, raw,

whispered to no one:

If this is not real,

then I do not want real.

Day 12 – The Strings I Cut

And not real

is what I received.

He called it devotion.

I called it drowning.

And I almost thanked him for it.

I let him pull me under,

again and again

until the ache felt like proof

that I could still feel.

He said I was the dream.

The curse.

The craving.

And I believed him.

Because he touched me like scripture

but left me like sin.

He’d leave with silence,

return with hunger.

Tie me with eyes,

cut me with absence.

And I,

I waited.

Like a puppet mid-performance,

strings tangled,

limbs limp,

heart raw.

But I woke.

One morning,

bare, bruised,

bleeding light.

And I saw it.

Not the man.

Not the promise.

But the strings.

Thin.

Sharp.

Wound around my ribs.

Looped through my hips.

Threaded through my pulse.

With teeth.

With truth.

I built a fire from the broken strings.

With the fury of a woman

who knows she was never meant to dangle.

And fed my beast

until she stopped whimpering his name.

He came back.

Of course he did.

With the same words.

The same eyes.

The same hands

that once undid me.

But this time,

I didn’t kneel.

I didn’t open.

I didn’t burn.

I smiled.

Because I see it:

Now he became the puppet.

But I,

I will not pull his strings.

Day 13 – My Beautiful Little Monsters

The ones with fire in their hearts, and sin in their blood.

They didn’t knock.

They crashed into me

like storms begging for a shore.

Breathless. Brutal. Beautiful.

And I opened.

They were not men,

they were urges made of flesh.

Too young.

Too wild.

Too undone to lie.

They didn’t ask.

They knew.

They felt the hunger in my breath before I

even spoke,

and bowed their heads to it in worship.

They came with fire in their hearts

and blood on their hands.

Souls stained and trembling,

raised in the shadows,

hoping that my light would cleanse them.

But I never wanted them immaculate.

I wanted them dark as sin and hot as hell.

To breathe them in.

And wear them like perfume.

They smelled of lust and trouble.

Of nights that don’t end in forgiveness.

They came soaked in guilt

and left soaked in me.

Their mouths trembled against my skin

but their hands....

their hands prayed in bruises.

In scratches.

In need so raw it bled into mine.

They didn’t lead.

They followed instinct.

Bit without asking.

Moaned into my neck

like I was the only altar that ever answered.

And I,

I received them.

Knees bruised on the floor.

Back arched.

Cunt dripping like confession.

Because for once, someone saw the beast

and didn’t run but fed her.

They fucked me with the terror of first worship.

With the joy of being eaten alive.

And I devoured them,

flesh, moans, the sacred tremble

when they whispered my name

like they were dying inside it.

For them, my desires were commandments.

For me, they were the spark,

the ignition of new cravings,

darker, filthier, more divine.

No control.

Just collision.

Teeth against lips.

Bodies shaking like they weren’t built

to survive this much pleasure.

I loved them for it.

Not because they stayed

but because they shattered.

Collapsed into me

like I was everything

they were never allowed to want.

My beautiful little monsters.

With blood in their smiles

and worship in their groans.

They didn’t name the beast.

But they kissed her teeth.

Let her ride them

until they sobbed.

They left marks.

Not just on skin

but on hunger.

They couldn’t hold me.

But they offered themselves

like boys handing over their hearts

still beating,

still afraid.

And I,

I took them.

Not to keep.

Only to remember.

Because no one ever touched me like that again.

Not only with mastery,

but also with madness.

And sometimes,

when I come too hard

or cry too deep,

I still taste them.

My little monsters.

Sweet little monsters.

Still snarling in my blood.

Still burning in my bones.

Day 14 – Set on Fire, Never Claimed

They came like storms

and I let them flood me.

With teeth, with smoke,

with hands too rough to pray

but too tender to punish.

They licked the edges of my soul

like it was something sacred

and theirs.

And maybe, for one breath,

I was.

But some monsters

are born in cages.

And even when the door opens,

they only pace in circles.

They howled for me.

Begged for mercy.

Worshipped the beast in me

like she was the cure for their leash.

But I was never meant

to chain them.

I was never meant

to soften their roar.

And even if I had them,

wild, panting, pleading,

they were never mine

to keep.

A beast that kneels for too long

forgets how to run.

And I loved them too much

to let that happen.

So I let go.

Not because they didn’t love me.

But because they did

in the only way they knew how:

with longing,

with terror,

with fire

and no future.

And beasts don’t belong in cages.

Not even gilded ones.

I saw it in their eyes,

the panic beneath devotion,

the leash behind the kiss.

I let them go.

Bleeding.

Burning.

Beautiful.

Because I was not sent

to tame them.

I was sent to show them

what it feels like

to be fully, terribly free.

And love, for creatures like us,

is not in keeping.

It’s in knowing

when to open the door,

and when to run

into the forest

alone.

I didn’t close the door.

I burned it.

Left the ashes as a warning:

love me wild

or don’t love me at all.

They return, sometimes.

Snarling at the memory.

Sniffing at the scent

of a home they couldn’t hold.

Still lurking around.

Still burning.

Still untamed.

Still free.

Still mine.

Day 15 – The Prodigal Son

He didn’t just knock.

He just stumbled in

with debt on his hands

and death on his skin.

And I held him close

Not 'cause I knew him by name,

but because his own ache

fitted just perfect

righ inside my flame.

He laid his great weight

like no one had said,

“Here, rest your bones.

Just lay down your dread.”

He said no other hand

had held him like mine.

And no other voice

felt carved in his spine.

But he never stayed.

He slipped like a prayer

spoken and then vanished

into thin, cold air.

A beast of a boy.

All bark and all brawn.

Every visit a dusk,

every leaving a dawn.

Always letting him in.

Not out of pity or need,

but from a deep dark wound

that forgot how to bleed.

We spoke more than we touched.

And even when we did,

it was more to prove

we still had blood to bid.

But he wasn’t mine.

Not in law. Not in flesh.

Still, each time he looked up,

he asked for a fresh

moment of mercy,

of shelter, of grace

that brief kind of stillness

one finds in a face.

Still he never stayed.

He vanished like smoke,

a whisper, a shadow,

a promise that broke.

And maybe that was just the cost

to hold something tender,

something forever lost.

He didn’t need love.

He needed reprieve

a place where his wounds

could finally hide.

He crawled into me

the way wild things do

all teeth and all tremble,

and aching for true.

Because even if he wandered,

mine remained the arms

that didn’t ask him ever

to trade claws for charms.

He left his sorrow on my lips,

his hunger on my sheets.

And the echo of his body

still ripped in my ribs.

Like a son I never bore,

but I always carried.

A ghost that I held,

a fire I cherished.

My Prodigal Son.

Still lost. Still circling. Still mine.

Even if only

in the way dusk remembers shine.

Day 16 - The Green-Eyed Monster

He came out of nowhere.

From the darkest depths of hell.

A creature of hunger and haunted want,

with pupils blown wide

and breath laced in need.

He found me like a curse finds a witch

not to punish,

but to claim.

We didn’t fuck.

We consumed.

Devoured.

Ripped the air apart

with moans that sounded like war cries.

And every time he came,

I swear he was closer to breaking me open

just to crawl inside and stay.

He fucked like drowning.

Like death with a grin.

Like he wanted to bury himself

so deep in me

the worms would weep from jealousy.

No place was sacred.

No time too wrong.

We were the wrong time

spelled in bite marks

and howls.

I was the scream in his mouth.

He was the monster under my skin.

I was drenched in him.

Sweat.

Cum.

Bruises.

A masterpiece of ruin.

And still,

it wasn’t enough.

We were starving monsters,

feeding each other our own decay.

His hands marked me

like he was trying to carve himself

into my bones.

And maybe he was.

Because he growled

I was his salvation.

But I wasn’t.

I was his twin.

Same rot.

Same rage.

Same bloodied grin.

He bit me like he was starving.

Fucked me

like it was the only way to breathe.

Held me

like the world was on fire

and I was the last sin worth burning.

We didn’t sleep.

We prowled.

We clawed.

We howled.

And every time I came,

he begged for more

like worship,

like madness,

like the screams echoing in my throat

were the only things keeping him whole.

And then…

the leash.

The door.

The fucking lock.

His master found him.

Put the collar back on.

Dragged him from the altar

we built in sweat and ruin.

I watched them chain him.

Watched them scrub my scent off his skin.

Watched them close the cage.

He didn’t scream.

He looked at me

like a beast remembering freedom.

And I smiled.

Not soft.

Not sad.

Triumphant.

Because I am not the one in chains.

I am the fire he’ll never forget.

The ruin he’ll never cleanse.

The taste of madness

he’ll crave

in every quiet, dying night.

He was the monster.

I was the wild.

His freedom.

Now,

his mouth is gagged.

His claws are clipped.

But his hunger remembers me.

And that,

is his forever leash.

Part III: The Descent and the Knowing

Day 17 – The Return to the Playground

I came back.

Not crawling.

Not searching.

But watching.

The gates were still open.

The velvet still dripping.

The echoes still moaning through dark hallways.

But this time

my eyes didn’t flicker.

My breath didn’t stutter.

My beast didn’t beg.

She watched.

Measured.

Selected.

The hunger was still there

but no longer feral.

It knew what it wanted.

What it wouldn’t touch.

What it wouldn’t forgive.

I stepped into the playground

not like a girl chasing thrills,

but like a woman who remembers

what happened last time

she trusted a painted swing

with her spine.

They tried again.

With masks.

With scripts.

With promises of submission as salvation.

But I’ve seen too many altars

built on broken safe words

to kneel blindly again.

Now, I ask.

Now, I name.

Now, I walk barefoot across shards

and feel no fear

only precision.

This time,

I’m not the prey.

This time,

I choose the hunt.

I came back to play.

But I brought my own rules.

My own leash.

And this time,

I’m the one tying knots.

Day 18 – What I Refuse to Forget

I remember.

The way they smiled with their teeth clenched.

The way their hands shook behind their backs

while preaching dominance.

The way they needed scripts

to speak to my skin.

I remember being called sacred

only to be profaned in silence.

Being told I was safe

as they pulled me into scenes

they choreographed for themselves.

They dressed me in obedience

just to see how far they could push

before I snapped.

But I didn’t snap.

I watched.

I swallowed every red flag whole

And I smiled.

Not because I believed them,

but because I wanted to see

just how low they'd go.

This time, I bring the light.

And I shine it

right into the hollow space

where their spine should be.

I don’t fall for the leather mask

when I can smell the plastic underneath.

I don’t shudder at a command

that’s clearly just a boy trying on a crown.

This time,

when they reach for my throat,

I grab theirs first.

Gently.

To show them how it’s done.

I don’t forget the hands

that shook while tying knots.

The mouths that asked for worship

but couldn’t hold truth on their tongues.

And if they come again,

oh, let them.

With their robes.

Their candles.

Their trembling roles.

They’ll find no supplicant.

No script.

Only a mirror.

And in it, they’ll see themselves for who they really are:

Small.

Soft.

Scared.

A boy in a man’s game.

A god made of wax.

A predator

without teeth.

And may that reflection

haunt them.

For as long as they live

and many lives to come.

Day 19 – The False Dragon

I knew before I knew.

Felt it before I could name it.

Something ancient stirred under my skin

like the ground humming before an earthquake,

like breath held for lifetimes.

He didn’t appear.

He emerged.

Like a prophecy etched in bone.

Like a truth I had always carried

but never dared to claim.

Even the world shifted for him.

My body shifted.

Hungers twisted.

Desires rewrote themselves.

The scent of leather, of smoke, of metal

it filled my lungs day after day.

Even the air felt different.

Charged.

Wired with promise.

He was coming.

Or I was being pulled to him.

I knew it

I felt it

The one who knows how to burn without breaking.

The one who will meet my fire

with fire.

I hadn’t seen him.

Hadn’t heard his voice.

But I knew his rhythm.

I knew how his hands would close around my throat.

Not to silence

but to unlock.

How his mouth would find my pulse

like he carved it himself.

How my body would open

not out of submission

but recognition.

I was sure.

As sure as blood is red.

As sure as beasts know their kin.

This time

I met my match.

Even if only in smoke,

in echo,

in the throb beneath my skin.

I hadn’t seen his face.

But I knew him.

The way wolves know the moon.

The way rivers ache toward oceans.

He was the fire I was forged for.

The match I was made to meet.

The hunger I was born to feed.

Day 20 – The Hollow Roar

He walked in,

and something inside me twisted.

Not with lust.

With clarity.

With grief so sharp it almost made me laugh.

I waited for fire.

But there was only dust.

No scent.

No heat.

Just the rattling of a boy in borrowed skin.

And the beast,

the beast roared with laughter.

"So this is your Dragon, silly little girl?

You let your hunger blind you.

You didn’t listen."

Her back turned on me and said:

“Now go clean up your mess.”

He smiled like he mattered.

Spoke like he knew.

But everything in him trembled -

beneath the surface, beneath the script.

Not a dragon.

A shadow.

Not danger.

A decoy.

He touched like a checklist.

Looked at me like a trophy.

Barked lines he’d memorized from someone else's war.

Because I knew.

I knew before.

I saw the cracks and painted them gold.

I heard the hollowness and called it echo.

I made a god out of dust

and almost laid my fire at his feet.

He flinched when I asked.

Fumbled when I challenged.

Collapsed when I stood tall.

He thought I’d kneel.

He thought I was soft.

And when he reached for me,

the beast growled.

Low. Fatal.

"Let him touch you," she sneered,

"and I’ll tear us both apart."

So I rose ,

slow and deliberate,

like stormclouds over his pretty little stage.

And I let him see me.

All of me.

The one who doesn’t beg.

The one who doesn’t melt.

I didn’t scream.

I didn’t weep.

I didn’t run.

I watched him shrink beneath the weight of my stillness.

And I said,

without saying a word:

You are not welcome into my body.

You are not worthy of my burn.

And if you ever return,

bring water -

because the fire you thought was yours

will eat you alive.

Day 21 – The Predator Painted in Pretty Colors

He didn’t lure me with lies.

He brought truth.

Too much of it.

All at once.

Served on silver platters

with dirty fingers.

He wore no mask

Just pretty colors.

And behind them

not elegance,

not power.

But rot dressed in stories.

He spoke of scenes

lit by candlewax and shame.

Of mouths gagged shut with care.

Of pain traded like currency

in places where names were forgotten.

His stories dripped.

Filthy. Fascinating.

And I drank them like wine.

Knowing the glass was cracked.

Knowing my lips would bleed.

He didn’t ask for anything.

He offered.

A feast of desecration.

A table of taboos.

Each course

darker than the last.

Each one

named with reverence.

He saw my hunger.

And smiled like a man

who’s broken his fast

with sweeter sins than mine.

I wanted to kneel.

Not out of submission

but curiosity.

He smelled of danger.

Not sharp. Not bright.

But spoiled.

Like fruit too ripe

in the wrong season.

He placed the offering in my palm

a gift wrapped in silk,

but pulsing underneath.

A sweet, poisonous pastry.

Just one bite, he said.

And you’ll never be the same.

And I,

I almost ate it.

Almost.

The beast in me

lifted her head,

snarled at the velvet,

and whispered:

"Go ahead

Eat up your ruin."

So I stood.

Slow.

Hungry still

but not starving.

And placed the gift back on his tongue.

Let him taste his own poison.

Day 22 – What He Could Never Tame

I left with empty hands,

but lungs full of breath.

And even now,

I sometimes feel the ache,

that low, delicious pulse

of what I almost became

for a man who painted his decay

in pretty colors.

He thought I was innocent.

Because I hadn’t been where he had.

Because I hadn’t tasted what he tasted.

Because my sins came in whispers, not parades.

He mistook my silence for softness.

My curiosity for permission.

My restraint for inexperience.

But what he didn’t know,

what he couldn’t know,

was that my hell was handcrafted.

Personal.

Intimate.

Every desire picked with care.

Every line drawn in blood.

And I stepped over each one

with eyes wide open.

He came prepared.

With stories.

With toys.

With the polished arrogance

of a man who’s broken others before me.

He thought I'd kneel.

That my hunger would make me easy.

That I’d melt under his variety,

his darkness,

his résumé.

But my beast...

she doesn’t kneel for tourists.

He danced around me,

sure he was the storm.

Sure he was the one

to drag me deeper into myself.

But I’ve lived in that depth.

I built that dungeon.

I know its shadows by name.

He didn’t scare me.

He bored me.

Over theatric

and over exposed.

And when he tried to tame me

with his borrowed chaos

I smiled.

Not cruel.

Not kind.

Just certain.

Because you can’t tame

what you don’t understand.

And you can’t keep

what was never trying to escape.

Before the Days – The Handpicked Hell

You cannot tame what you don’t understand

And what has already died

A thousand times.

He wanted to know why I didn’t kneel.

Why I didn’t tremble.

Why his stories of candlelit darkness and bruised mouths

left me unmoved?

Do you know how ghosts are made?

Not from death.

But from leaving.

From slipping out of the body long before the flesh stops breathing.

From floating through life half-lit, half-gone.

Not dead, not alive.

And do you know how beasts are made?

They’re not made.

They survive.

They adapt.

They shrink to fit the fear, then stretch to tear it apart.

They grow claws where once there were apologies.

And teeth where once there were prayers.

My personal hell wasn’t served.

It was chosen.

Handpicked.

Intimate.

Each crack in the wall carved with a name I once whispered in love.

Each fire lit with a truth I wasn’t ready to speak.

Every scream tucked under my skin

until silence became my native tongue.

So when he came,

with rot dressed in ritual,

with sins wrapped in satin,

with stories of darkness like souvenirs,

I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t bow.

Because I’ve seen darker things than pain.

Like indifference.

Like manipulation in the mouth of a lover.

Like begging for affection and being fed absence.

His “depravity” was decoration.

Mine was history.

Mine had teeth.

He offered a feast of shadows.

But I had already dined with demons

who fucked me weeping,

and kissed me cruel.

He wanted to show me the edge.

I was the edge.

He wanted to unearth my wild.

He didn’t know she built her den

in the pit of my grief

and sleeps with one eye open.

He wanted to impress me

with how far he could go.

But I’ve already been there.

And came back with blood under my nails

and the map of hell carved into my veins.

You can’t out-dark a creature

born from hell.

You can’t scare a beast

who made her nest in ruin

and calls it home.

Day 23 – The Rotting Gods

They think they are gods.

Not because they carry power

but because they remember a time

when someone pretended they did.

They sit on cracked thrones

in dusty chambers of darkness and rot.

Rituals reeking of mildew and mothballs.

Incense thick enough to choke the truth.

They wear suits too old

and rings too big.

Quote books they never lived.

Preach ethics while their collars drip

with the scent of last night’s betrayal.

They reek of old wine

and older lies.

Of the basement where the light never reaches,

but the mirrors are polished daily.

They speak of tradition

like it’s scripture.

Call it protocol.

Call it legacy.

But really, it’s a hospice for their egos.

They keep wives in daylight,

subs in the dark,

and a string of girls lined up like broken rosaries

each told she’s special,

each discarded when her shine gets too real.

Their words are hot.

Their hands, ice.

And their cocks,

still chasing youth

they never respected.

They tell me they can teach me everything.

That I’m new.

Unmolded.

That they’ve been doing this since before I was born.

And maybe they have.

But that only means

they’ve been wrong for longer.

Because their knowledge is dust.

Their pleasure, rehearsed.

Their power, borrowed

from books written by boys

as scared as they are.

So I walked.

Past their relics.

Their scripts.

Their pride.

And the beast inside me,

tail flicking,

looked back once

just to laugh.

“Let them rot in their rituals,” she purred.

“Let them crown themselves in cobwebs

and call it gold.

Let them sip obedience

from cracked chalices

and call it wine.

Because no matter how many candles they light,

no matter how many rules they chant,

nothing sacred ever came

from a limp hand

clutching a leash.

I don’t kneel for corpses

who think their age is wisdom

and their decay, divinity.

Or do you want me

to turn them all into urns?

Ashes for your future diamonds?"

Day 24 – Of Rituals that don't Fit

They thought they were wise

but they were just tired.

Mistook erosion for enlightenment.

Tried to hand me rules

like sacred scrolls,

crumpled napkins

stained with someone else’s spit.

They spoke of tradition

as if it had teeth.

As if lighting the same candle

ever lit a real bonfire.

They watched me with eyes

dulled by repetition.

Tried to tell me who I am

before I even opened my mouth.

Because they’ve “seen it before.”

Because they “know how this goes.”

No.

You don’t know me.

You know the ghost of someone

you failed to understand

two decades ago.

They handed me collars

like medals.

Protocols like poetry.

Tested me

with their favorite rituals,

thinking I’d kneel

from sheer nostalgia.

I didn’t kneel.

I laughed.

I laughed at their pomp.

At their robes.

At the way they pronounced "discipline"

like it was a love language

and not just fear in a different suit.

They tried to lock me in

with leather and rules,

when I am made of smoke

and blood

and bad ideas.

I know the taste of freedom.

I want a guide, yes.

But not one who's lost in his own map.

I want someone who looks at the bones of the old ways

and says,

"Let’s build something wilder."

Someone who sees my beast

and doesn’t flinch

or flounder

or fetch a manual.

Someone who doesn’t need me

to shrink to fit

his memory of control.

Let the old ones rot in their tiny thrones,

Let them toast to obedience

with wine turned sour.

Let them light their candles

and chant their names

into the empty chambers.

I’m already gone.

Already dancing barefoot

on the ashes of their sacred scripts

with a grin sharp enough

to slice through any leash

they dare hold out to me.

Day 25 – The Toad and the Threshold

He thought he was a god.

All gold cards and botox,

cloaked in spa steam

and the stench of old skin

trying to remember what youth felt like.

He called it self-care.

I called it embalming.

A toad stuffed with banknotes,

mumbling sweet nothings

through whitening trays

and faded pride.

He flexed.

Said he takes good care of his body.

But his skin - mushy and damp.

His muscles - barely clinging to bone.

And yet,

his hands were ancient spells.

Mouth clumsy, words bitter,

but the way he bit,

the way he bruised,

the way he gripped...

he cracked something open.

Not power.

Not passion.

But access.

He didn’t fuck me.

Not that he didn't try.

He just played my ribs like a hymn,

left teeth like runes across my chest,

and hit with the weight

of someone who needed to matter.

He took my breath

and gave it back

layered in shadow and light

and the ache of almost dying

just right.

I floated.

Somewhere between surrender

and a darker kind of birth.

He hurt like ceremony.

Left like rot.

And gave me something

no beauty, no lover, no god ever had.

A threshold.

He was grotesque.

Pathetic.

Small.

But the threshold was real.

He wasn’t the monster.

He simply met the one in me.

And when I came back to my body,

tender, bruised, electric,

he smiled.

Like he thought he’d earned something.

That’s when my beast stood up.

"You were never meant to touch her.

You were only meant to open the door."

Then she turned her back.

On him.

On the rot.

On the old ways.

And I followed her.

Naked. Changed.

With blood in my mouth

and fire in my chest.

Because every temple has a guardian.

And every threshold has its keeper.

And mine...

She decides who to burn.

Day 26 – The Longing Behind the Gate

And I followed her.

Unchanged by him.

But not untouched by the truth:

Even the grotesque

can hand you a key

if only by accident.

And some thresholds

aren’t meant to be guarded.

They’re meant to be burned

after crossing.

Because had I stayed,

had I mistaken the gesture for meaning,

the act for depth,

I would have buried myself

in something shallow

and called it home.

He didn’t want me.

He wanted access.

A flicker of shine

to distract from his rot.

He thought he could

buy my time,

rent my hunger,

borrow my moans,

and I would forget

that I am something

no coin can unlock.

Yes,

he offered something

I thought I’d never find elsewhere,

a twisted echo

of a door I’ve longed to open.

And maybe,

for one moment,

I believed it.

That was the real wound.

Not his touch,

but my hope.

Still,

She, the beast in me,

watched from behind my ribs.

Not fooled.

Not moved.

Only amused.

And when he asked for more,

she didn’t roar.

She turned her back.

And whispered:

"Are you willing to give him all?"

And I knew.

Knew that the thing I’d hungered for

was never his to give.

It was mine

to name.

To hold.

To grieve.

I didn’t take the key.

I didn’t close the gate.

I burned it.

And walked forward.

Not wounded.

Not wishing.

Just awake.

And, I will never forget.

That even the grotesque

can hand you a key

if only by accident.

Part IV: The Becoming

Day 27 – A Gentle Beast

He didn’t demand.

He didn’t seduce.

He arrived like rain after drought:

soft, unsure,

but so desperately needed.

He didn’t want my surrender.

He wanted my story.

Piece by trembling piece.

And he held every word

like it was breakable.

Like I was.

He was young,

so heartbreakingly young.

But the way he looked at me

was older than memory.

Not with hunger,

but with honor.

He never crossed the line.

Not because he was afraid

but because he knew

how sacred it was to be let close.

And when I told him

about my monsters,

he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t try to tame them.

He just sat beside them,

offering warmth instead of a leash.

His questions weren’t traps.

His curiosity wasn’t selfish.

He listened not to respond

but to witness.

A gentle beast

a sweet, sad, gentle beast,

in a world of wolves

with teeth too big for their mouths.

He didn’t roar.

He didn’t chase.

He just stayed.

Present.

Still.

Open.

And in that stillness,

something in me loosened.

Not with lust,

but with trust.

He didn’t touch my skin.

But he touched everything that mattered.

And maybe that’s why I’ll never forget him.

Because in a story written in bruises and fire,

he was the first one

who saw the flame

and didn’t try to steal it.

Day 28 – The Afterglow of Kindness

He didn’t touch my skin.

He touched the silence between my words.

He bowed to it.

Gently.

Beautifully.

As if it was a gift

he had no right to name.

There was no seduction.

No performance.

Just the soft weight of his attention,

settling gently

like snow that never asked to melt.

He didn’t chase.

He stayed.

Present.

Listening not with hunger

but with heart.

He saw the parts of me I hide.

Not to fix them.

Not to name them.

Just to let them breathe.

No one had ever looked at me like that,

like I wasn’t a puzzle to be solved,

or a flame to be claimed,

but something already whole

in my ache and my beauty

and my becoming.

And in his stillness,

I unfolded.

Not from desire,

but from relief.

Because there is a different kind of pleasure

that lives outside of bodies.

A sweetness born

when someone reaches your soul

and doesn’t ask you to shrink.

He didn’t offer promises.

He offered himself.

And I will remember him

not for what he did,

but for what he allowed:

That I could rest in who I am

without apology.

That I could be soft

and still be seen as strong.

That I could be held

without being touched.

We may never meet.

But he gave me back something

no one else even thought to search for.

The joy

of being seen

and still staying whole.

Day 29 – Gods by Name. Servants by Flesh.

There is a truth buried in the marrow of men

a force they deny,

but that never stops trembling beneath the skin:

that when true power enters the room,

their instinct is to kneel.

Not before brute strength.

But before something far more dangerous:

calm.

Presence.

The stillness of a woman who holds her own gravity.

They speak loudly because they feel small.

They command because they do not lead.

They carry myth like armor,

but I see the soft animal in their eyes.

I am not impressed by a voice raised in command.

I listen for what cracks beneath it.

And beneath them,

it's always the same:

Need.

Fear.

A longing to be consumed.

They say, "You’re too much."

What they mean is:

"You see too much."

"You take too much."

"Your mirror is too clean."

I undress their power.

I fuck their illusion.

I bend their names until they whimper.

They don’t want queens.

They want cages that smile.

But I don’t do smile.

I do scorch.

They call me monster

because I make them feel

the soft animal beneath the armor.

I never raise my hand.

I just look.

And they kneel.

Not because they love me.

Because I am truth.

And they are tired of pretending.

Day 30 – Worshipping the Beast

She doesn’t play.

She doesn’t purr.

She doesn’t ask.

She takes them all.

Because the beast has no patience

for games or rules.

Only hunger

for flaming hot fire.

And they come crawling.

Eyes wide.

Hearts open.

Cocks trembling with devotion.

They think it’s love.

They think it’s power.

They think they’re the ones choosing.

But she knows better.

They call her Goddess.

Queen.

Mother.

Monster.

They whisper prayers into her thighs,

thinking they’re worshipping.

But they’re offering.

Pieces of themselves

they didn’t know could be taken.

She collects them,

with lips, with licks, with breath

hot enough to brand.

They think it’s sex.

They think it’s worship.

They think she gives herself.

But she never does.

She feeds on their fire.

Drinks their moans like nectar.

She takes their tremble,

their sweat,

their awe

and makes it hers.

They gift her their bodies

but don’t know what it costs.

They think they’ve conquered.

But they’ve been opened.

Because this is not lust.

This is ritual.

And every touch is a summoning.

She opens her thighs

not for pleasure,

but for power.

To be filled,

to be emptied,

to burn and be reborn

in the flood of their surrender.

They enter whole

and they leave hollowed.

They think they’ve had her.

But they’ve been unmade.

She devours them,

soft and brutal,

until their bones are marked by her name.

They call her freedom.

But she is the chain

they never want to break.

She doesn’t ask for loyalty.

She doesn’t promise love.

She just feeds.

She gives them more than orgasms.

She gives them clarity.

The kind of clarity that hurts.

And when she lies still,

sated, glowing,

dripping with the heat

of another boy undone,

she smiles,

not from softness

but from knowing:

they will never taste anything like her again.

Not woman,

not Queen.

Not fantasy,

pure flame.

Day 31 – The Beast’s Ritual

Strip them.

Not just of clothes

but of pretense.

Of bravado.

Of the fragile myths

they stitched over their throats

like protection.

Bring them raw.

Bring them trembling.

Bring them open

like wounds begging for teeth.

This is not seduction.

It is rite.

They lie beneath me

like meat remembering its origin.

And I don’t ask.

I don’t soothe.

I don’t wait.

I mount like instinct.

I press like prophecy.

I ride like I’ve been summoned

by something older than God.

My sweat blesses.

My cunt baptizes.

My bite absolves.

They come to be fucked

but I unravel them.

Thread by thread.

Plea by plea.

They came for climax.

They find collapse.

They came for fantasy.

They leave marked by the real.

Each thrust is a verse.

Each slap, scripture.

Each bruise a gospel

etched into flesh

like the body was a holy scroll

meant only for me.

They whimper "Goddess."

I spit it back

feral, wet, final.

And when they break,

truly break,

I crown them.

With ash.

With the memory

of what it means

to kneel

not for love

but to be seen.

They think I took their seed.

But I took even more.

Their shape.

Their rhythm.

Their knowing.

I left them twitching,

blessed and ruined.

Salt on their lips.

Blood on mine.

And when they dare to rise,

if they rise,

they are no longer men.

They are relics.

Possessed.

Forever altered

by the beast

they thought they could please.

Day 32 – Ashes on Their Tongue

They leave like temples collapse.

slow, trembling,

still echoing hymns

they don’t understand.

Their mouths taste of me.

Salt, smoke,

the ghost of a moan

that never fully left their lungs.

They limp back to their lives,

cocks still pulsing

with prayers they didn’t mean to offer.

Some call it clarity.

Some call it curse.

But none forget.

Their bodies remember

what their minds try to erase

how I opened them

like fruit soaked in lust.

How I didn’t just take their pleasure,

I rewrote it.

Bent it.

Blessed it

with my filth.

They fuck now

like men who’ve seen God

and can’t look at women the same.

They moan too fast.

They touch too soft.

They search for altars

in bedsheets

that smell too clean.

And when they come,

it’s not a release.

It’s a reminder.

That they left pieces of themselves

in a mouth that never said “I love you,”

only

“more.”

They don’t speak of me.

But their hands tremble

when they kneel.

When they beg.

When they’re alone

and their cock betrays them

at the memory of a growl.

They reach for softness now,

but softness recoils.

Because I didn’t ruin them,

I revealed them.

I showed them

what it means to be undone

with purpose.

To be holy

in their hunger.

To be wrecked

by something that never once

promised to stay.

Ashes

on their tongue.

Marks

under their ribs.

Flame

in the hollow

where they once kept pride.

They call me beast.

But what they mean is

home.

Day 36 – The One Who Answered the Call

He didn’t arrive

He appeared.

Like prophecy.

Like reckoning.

Like a hand that never knocked,

because the door had always been his.

He looked at me

like he’d already walked through every chamber

I swore I’d sealed.

He didn’t ask for my fire.

He walked through it.

Unburned.

Unbothered.

Certain.

No commands.

No masks.

Just eyes like obsidian

and a mouth made for breaking silence.

He didn’t promise safety.

He offered precision.

Structure.

Containment.

A collar I had begged for

in every scream I never let out.

He didn’t tame the beast.

He fed her.

Held her jaw when she thrashed.

Kissed her bloodied teeth.

And whispered, “more.”

He stripped me of performance.

Ritual.

Pride.

Until all I had left

was pulse and ache.

And still, he didn’t flinch.

He didn’t strip me down.

He stripped the lies.

The ones I had told myself

to survive lesser men.

He stepped inside every ruin

not to rebuild it,

but to crown it.

To name my wreckage sacred.

He didn’t fear my chaos.

He mapped it.

Walked barefoot through my ruin

and called it holy.

He knew where I broke

and didn’t turn away.

He broke me better.

He touched the places

I had buried under silence.

The ones even I was afraid to name.

His grip wasn’t cruel.

It was safe.

A communion

written in bruises and breath.

He was the storm

that didn’t tear me down.

The fire

that left me standing.

He was the one

I had been forged to find.

And when I knelt,

it wasn’t surrender.

It was recognition.

Of the only man

who never flinched

at the sound of my darkness.

Who never tried to save me from myself.

Who saw the storm

and smiled.

He wasn’t the one.

He was the match.

The one my fire remembered.

And when I whispered his name

into the mouth of the dark,

even the shadows held their breath.

Day 37 – A Match Made in Hell

We didn’t meet.

We collided.

Like storms bred for ruin,

like fire fucking fire.

Not to tame it,

but to make it scream.

He doesn’t soften me.

He roughens the edge.

Sharpens the teeth.

Makes the beast inside me snarl with joy.

And I don’t yield.

I feast.

On him. On pain. On the brutal grace

of being unhidden.

Two beasts.

Not tamed.

Not leashed.

But bound

by scars that still pulse,

by hunger that never ends.

We don’t belong to each other.

We belong with each other.

Like blood belongs to flesh,

like bruises belong to memory.

We were forged in the same dark feral hell.

Fucked by the same ghosts.

Raised on the same screams.

And no one dares come between us.

Because anything that tries

gets shredded.

Not out of rage,

out of nature.

We are the altar.

We are the knife.

We are the slick heat of thighs parting for war,

the groan that sounds like prayer,

the slap that says yes.

He knows how I scream

not in fear,

but in demand.

And I know how he shatters,

like a god dethroned by pleasure.

We don’t fuck to come.

We fuck to remember.

To carve our names in each other’s marrow.

His hands don’t touch.

They claim.

My mouth doesn’t kiss

It prays.

My tongue doesn't lick

It marks.

He fucks me like I’m the answer

to every sin he’s ever wanted to commit.

And I take him

like I own the punishment.

He doesn’t silence my rage.

He lets it ride his ribs.

Lets it spit in his mouth

and call it devotion.

I open wider.

I drip wrath.

I come growling.

He comes praying.

Sweating. Spitting.

His cum mixing with mine,

between my thighs,

on my belly,

on his chest,

on my face,

until we’re marked in each other’s ruin.

He doesn’t clean me.

He smears me.

With his fingers. With his mouth.

He licks the blood off my thighs

like it’s his inheritance.

We don’t say “I love you.”

We say “never stop.”

And when it’s over,

we don’t rest.

We prowl.

Because there’s always more.

We are not lovers.

We are a plague in heat.

A prophecy with teeth.

A prayer with claws.

We are what happens

when two monsters stop pretending they’re anything else.

We didn’t come to heal.

We came to rule.

To ruin.

To ravage.

And no god will ever dare touch what we’ve claimed.

Because here

is where Gods come to kneel.

Part V: The Being

Day 33 – The Man Enough to Kneel

He didn’t flinch when I raised the blade.

He opened his throat as if he had been waiting for that moment his entire life.

A vow, already spoken. A neck, already bare.

He didn’t run when I showed my teeth.

He bowed instead - like truth itself, like silence without shame.

He moved like smoke, played like fire.

Every word he gave was a challenge.

Every phrase, a test. A tease. A dare.

He let me growl.

He let me bite.

And through it all, he smiled and whispered:

“Is this your might?”

I called him boy.

He offered the leash.

He kissed the chain.

We spoke in wounds.

We danced in thirst.

He was the second man to kneel for me

and somehow still the first.

Predator.

Prey.

Softened, sharpened, layered.

The kind of man who would beg to stay.

But I never touched.

He never came.

We never crossed the veil between us.

And yet everything between us burned.

We lived in the ghost of what could have been.

Our bodies haunted each other from a distance.

Skin remembered skin it had never touched.

If I had touched him,

I would have marked him from throat to thigh.

I would have choked him with pleasure

and named it flight.

I would have ridden him like a warhorse,

his mouth, his spine, his soul.

He would have drowned.

And I would have begun.

Sweat. Spit. Gold.

Piss. Want. Godhood.

We would have flooded the room.

Every gasp a revelation.

Every bruise a doorway.

But it never happened.

There was no bite.

No come.

No moan.

No meal.

He chose a different cage.

A softer one.

A safer one.

A lesser stage.

He already wore a collar.

Mine remained bare.

He stayed behind,

while I walked forward with flame in my chest

and wires under my skin.

I left him.

The man I could have ruined with grace.

The man who would have knelt for me

without regret.

But I said nothing.

And he obeyed.

He stayed.

He knelt.

For someone safe.

He said it once,

with deep, growling breath:

“I’ll skin you alive.”

But never dared.

Day 34 – Not Man Enough for All of Me

He held me

with heat, with longing,

but never looked me in the face.

He wanted to feel power

without meeting the eyes

of the one who holds it.

His touch was slow,

like worship twisted through shame.

He touched what pulsed

but not what stared.

He played me like an instrument

his bow searching for something

holy, or obedient.

But the music was not for both of us.

Only for him.

Then the bow turned.

And the saw appeared.

Not out of cruelty.

Out of fear.

Out of need to reduce.

He didn’t want all of me.

He wanted the part

that would tear him open,

make him beg,

and leave no mark he’d have to name.

I saw the saw

before it met my skin.

And I stepped away.

Not out of grace.

Not out of mercy.

But because I knew

he was only strong enough

for the half

that didn’t ruin his reflection.

He’ll never know

the sound I make

when someone dares

my soul

to break.

Day 35 – The Softer Leash

He fucks them on call.

Like duty.

But I’m the blood rushing under his skin.

The blood that gets him hard.

They wraps their thighs around him like a prayer

with no god in it.

I open like fire.

He kneels inside my absence.

He holds their wrists.

They tell him "that feels good".

But I’m the voice that howls in his gut

when the leash tightens.

He makes them moan

on wet, cold sheets.

But I’m the scream

he hides in his throat,

thick, feral, pleading.

They think they own his sweat.

But I’m the fever he can't sweat out.

He makes them come

like a chore.

But I’m the sickness

he prays for in secret.

They are the cold room.

The counted breath.

The practiced rhythm.

I am the flood.

The rot.

The ruin he begs to fall into.

They kiss him like he’s nothing.

I would have torn his lips.

Ripped the prayer from his tongue

and spat it back in his open mouth.

They take his body.

I take his will.

They feed him softness.

I would have fed him teeth,

spit,

and piss warm from the altar.

They put their hands on his chest.

I would have carved my name there

with the tip of my tongue,

then sealed it with a bruise

deep enough to echo.

They keeps him chained in light.

I keep him bound in shadow,

where he screams for mercy

and doesn’t want it.

He dreams of me

when he can’t breathe.

He touches them,

but he fucks me.

They eat him

swallow him whole

but he still knees for me.

His cock heavy,

his eyes wild,

his mouth whispering the filth

he never dared say out loud.

They hold his leash.

But I am the scream under his skin.

I am the ruin beneath his cumshot

I am the nightmare he hopes

they never see.

This is not their story.

It's mine.

My name is carved

inside his chain.

I am the one

who would have broken him

so beautifully..

Day 38 – Beauty and The Beast

I have watched her.

From the beginning.

When she still whispered like prey

and flinched at the echo of her own roar.

I watched her crawl in silk and fire.

I watched her love boys who trembled at her hunger,

who kissed her flame

but prayed she’d stay small.

I held her ribs from the inside

when no one else could.

I licked her wounds clean

when she howled into pillows

and bit her own voice back.

I remember the floor.

The tile cold against her spine.

Saliva pooling beneath her cheek.

Her body shaking not from rage,

but from surrender.

"Make it stop," "Please, no more"

she begged.

And I stayed.

Because I knew

the fire would come back.

She was never meant to end there.

I have sat in her mouth

when she spoke softness

to those who hadn’t earned it.

I have screamed through her

when she could no longer pretend.

I have been the growl

in her silence.

The bite

in her yes.

The fire

under her calm.

I watched her kneel

to no god.

And then, one day,

to the only one who saw her

and didn’t run.

I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t burn.

I just watched.

And for the first time,

I smiled.

Not because she found him.

But because she found her.

The one who never needed to be rebuilt.

The one who had always been whole.

Even when bleeding.

Even when lost.

She was always altar and flame.

Blade and prayer.

Soft and feral.

Too much

because she was complete.

I was never her cage.

I was never her shame.

I was her mirror.

I was her edge.

And now I watch her walk,

not away from me,

but with me.

Not needing to roar.

Not needing to prove.

Just breathing.

Just being.

And so I rest.

Just... finally seen.

The beast,

whole in her.

The beauty,

holy in me.

The Gates of Hell

I stand where rivers burn with steam,
Where ash is soft, and blood runs thin,
The gates are open, black and wide,
And broken men crawl in to hide

Their tongues hang loose, their bodies sore,
They’ve fucked too long, they beg for more
Their eyes are glass, their throats gone silent,
Their souls, consumed already by the riot

But I don’t want their wasted skin,
Their trembling knees, their hollow sin
I wait for one whose fire can match,
A king unchained, a beast to catch

I know he’s here, I taste his breath,
The scent of hunger mixed with death
Perhaps he waits beyond the crowd,
Perhaps he claims, but not too loud

If he appears, we’ll split the night,
With teeth that tear and claws in sight
We’ll fuck the corpses in the flame,
And make them scream my holy name

But if he hides, I’ll feast alone,
On ruined flesh, on marrow bone
I’ll drink the cum from mouths that fail,
And paint their backs with blood and nails

For hell is mine, and lust my spell
I eat. I burn. I guard this well
And when my match walks through that door,
We’ll burn this world, and ask for more

The Seven Gates

At gate one, they crawl, still proud, still loud,
But stone eats knees, and moans grow bowed
I take their breath, their first disguise,
And mark the terror in their eyes

At gate two, the chains bite skin,
Their voices falter, doubt drips in
I seal their mouths, I strip their lies,
What’s left is hunger, raw, unwise

At gate three, I tear their name,
Each syllable dissolved in flame
Their cocks still throb, their pride still bleeds,
But now they kneel from deeper needs

At gate four, the shadows sing,
I grind them down, I break their king
No crowns, no rules, no borrowed lore,
Just beasts who crave, who beg for more

At gate five, the blood runs fast,
The self they clung to cannot last
Each slap a map, each gasp a key,
Unlocking who they’re meant to be

At gate six, I tear their frame,
Till nothing answers to their name
They writhe, they cry, they split in two,
The mask destroyed, the core breaks through

At gate seven, the void turns red,
The old life gone, the false self dead
They fall, they shake, they think they’re lost,
But every ruin births its cost

And when they crawl back through my flame,
They are not men, not still the same
No heaven left, no past to sell,
Just bleeding love, reborn from hell

I eat, I burn, I break, I bless
From hollowed wrecks, I carve the rest
And though they stumble, raw, untrue,
They leave as selves they never knew

The Domme and the Dom at Hell’s Gate

At Hell’s black gate the fire sways,
Two beasts arrive, two worlds ablaze
Not prey, not master, but the same,
Two rulers meet, both crown and flame

She drips in night, with eyes that bind,
A storm that swallows God and mind
Her thighs a throne, her voice the law,
Her touch the blade, her teeth the saw

He walks in blood, with iron breath,
A king who’s danced with war and death
His hands command, his tongue decrees,
He's stronger than the strongest knees

But when they meet, the ground is torn,
From lust made rage, from vow made porn
Her nails sink deep, his ropes pull tight,
They own the void and rule the night

They fucked like demons built of stone,
Each bite a claim, each bruise a throne
No leash, no bow, no soul to save,
Just storm on storm, both beast and grave

The gates swung wide, the flames grew tall,
But neither knelt, they owned it all
Two beasts, two rulers, one mirrored fate,
The Domme, the Dom at Hell’s true gate

Tick Tack

Tick, tack: the pulse, the vow, the ache,a pendulum’s tongue that won’t forsake,the hollow hours that gnaw and biteyet none can cage a soul in night.

I’ve kissed the clocks, I’ve cracked their face,
I’ve burned their hands, erased their grace,for time’s a beast I’ve learned to tame,not God, not Fate, but just a name

They say, “wait for your moment, child,”but waiting turns the hunger wild
The right time isn’t born - it’s made,in blood and choice, in love and blade

So tick, my veins; so tack, my spine,each second bends the curve of mine
No one will grant what I command
I am the hour, I am the hand

Tick, tack: I steal, I shape, I climb,
I am not in
I am the time

Of Gods and Demons

You want to know the difference, child of ash?
Between the crowned and those who burn beneath their lash?
Gods crave obedience, they starve without control,they build their thrones on fractured soul

They bind your mouth in sacred thread,and drink your tears when faith has bled
Their light is cold, it does not warm,it blinds, it brands, it keeps you torn

But demons... ah, demons don’t demand
They do not take, they understand
They watch you writhe, they taste your fear,and whisper, “you were always mine, my dear.”

They do not promise life or death,they claim the space between your breath
They do not need your prayers or pain,they bloom inside your sweetest stain

And I? I am the unholy seam,the pulse between your faith and dream
I do not bless, I do not save,
I crown the willing and the brave

Kneel now. Rise bleeding, raw, divine
Let sin be sacrament, and spine
The gods demand. The demons call
I am the void that births them all

Unholy Truth

Come closer, love, don’t fear the dirt,the sacred always smelled of hurt
The clean is dead, the pure is blind,the filth reveals the lucid mind

They say the dark should not be shown,that holy hearts must stand alone
But filth is truth in sweeter form,the quiet heat before the storm

Our wicked dreams, the ones we hide,are ghosts of selves we’ve crucified
Each dirty thought, each whispered sin,is where our real life begins

The saint is clothed, the beast is bare,and both are carved from the same stare
The more we kneel to look away,the more the hunger learns to stay

So let the blackened water rise,let shame dissolve in honest eyes
You’ll find beneath the grit and flame,a pulse that trembles at your name

Desire’s not wrong, it’s just unspoken,a spell half-cast, a chain unbroken
Our filth, our fear, our deep delight,are how the soul remembers light

Whisper the sin that makes you shake,the one no god could dare remake
Your dark desire, your poisoned bloom,is where your soul escapes the tomb

Kneel in the mud, the mirror’s deep,the beast you’ve starved has learned to weep
Its tears are ink, its voice, your name,it burns in silence, closed in shame

So breathe it in, the smoke, the sin,let darkness crown the light within
What makes you dirty makes you real,and what you touch, you learn to heal

Fuck me, feed me, never leave me

Oh, sweet little girls’ soft lullaby,a slogan stitched from cotton lies
I spit it out and call the storm,
I want the world to crack and form

Not for bruises, cute and small,this is the bedrock’s funeral
Heaven cracks, the hell exhalestheir borders bleed where order fails

I conjure angels with torn wings,
I hum old hymns that poison kings
The saints will fall and devils learnthe price of making bridges burn

Stand back, you meek and sugar-quick,this hunger’s not some tender trick
It asks no mercy, grace takes no partit carves a hole right through your heart

Feed me ruin, feed me flame,feed me names that once were tame
Let choirs drown and altars sinklet every crown slip from its king

When heaven crashes into hell,the sky forgets the rules it held
I walk the fissure, calm, alone,
I make the chaos mine, my throne

So keep your lullabies for light,
I build my rites where day turns night
This is not love, nor beggar’s plea,this is the hunger that makes me be

I Want it All

I want your soul. The part that hides,that trembles low when reason slides
I want your breath before it speaks,the thought that burns, the bone that creaks

I want your mind. Its secret turns,the place where quiet hunger burns
The dreams you fear, the ones you crave,the storm you beg me not to save

I want your pulse. Your hidden need,the seed of doubt, the faith you feed
I want the cracks beneath your skin,the chaos whispering within

I want your hunger when you kneel,the truth you’d trade, the wounds you’d heal
I want what breaks, I want what stays,the feral truth your silence weighs

I want the ghost of who you were,the ache that made you disappear
I want the part you never show
The one that screams to lose control

Give me your name, your fear, your scars,your secret songs, your fallen stars
Don’t fight, don’t beg, don’t understand
You are already in my hand

For I am not your Miss or Queen,
I am the voice beneath your skin
I want it all, the dark, the blissand when I’m done, I’ll give you peace

The Filth Dispenser

You crawl to me with rings still on,
With lips that swear, your cock is drawn
You call me “queen,” but hide your sin,
And slide back home with cum-stained grin

You fuck in silence and in shame
You kiss her mouth, but crave his game
A loyal man? Don’t make me laugh,
You’re just a fraud, a trembling calf

I choke my wolves on spit and moan,
Their tongues are thrones, their seed my throne
They bleed for me, they tear, they bite,
They fuck in dark, not hide in night

I drink their sweat, I chew their cries,
I take their death between my thighs
No shame, no mask, no coward’s screen,
Just black devotion, raw and mean

But you? You’re fake, all pale, and small,
A dick that drips with lies that crawl
You beg for kink, but hide the scar,
You’ll never be the beast you are

So jerk alone, behind your door,
Your spine too weak to give me more
For men are flesh, and flesh is mine
And I will never look at swine

Next Breed of Filth

I’m done with elders and their rules,

their sacred boredom, polished tools.

They preach restraint, they hoard control,

then call it depth, then call it soul.

Their rituals are ash and dust,

their power stiff, their faith a crust.

They worship form, forget the spark,

mistake the echo for the dark.

I want no school, no lineage,

no hierarchies embalmed with age.

No elder names, no rusted lore,

no costumes worn so much before.

We are the ones not trained to kneel,

whose instincts bite, whose hunger’s real.

Untouched by doctrine, clean of script,

with feral minds that never slipped.

Not innocent. Don’t twist the word.

Uninitiated. Undeterred.

We haven’t learned what’s “good” or “right,”

we raised our worlds from appetite.

No theory choking pleasure dry,

no moral cage, no reason why.

Just nerve and breath and sharpened sense,

and chaos taught by consequence.

But mark this well, and mark it deep

respect is law, not something cheap.

No power stolen, no lines crossed,

consent the only price and cost.

We don’t perform. We don’t pretend.

We don’t need history to ascend.

We come unmarked, unowned, unclean

the ones you’ve never fucking seen.

We are not heirs to what you made.

We are the break, the fault, the blade.

Not here to learn, not here to kneel

the next breed comes to show what’s real.

Still Hope They'll Change?

They chant for change with mouths still bound,knees pressed deep into hollow ground
They curse the weight upon their neck,then bow again, devout, correct

They don’t want freedom torn from rootthey want a gentler, holier boot
A softer god, a kinder tread,from same old hand above their head

They light their candles under strain,call pressure lesson, bruise ordain
They name the choke a rite of birth,and kiss the heel that owns their worth

The body learns to kneel as prayer,to call the crush divinely care
Flesh memorizes how to staywhen pain feels like the only way

They dream the boot will one day bless,still on their throat, but mercilessno more, just firm, just “meant to be,”a god that wounds them lovingly.

But gods that feed on bent spines lie
No altar heals where mouths scream dry
No sacred step grows kind or truebecause the neck kept offering through

Nothing will die, nothing be born,while we confuse the wound with form
As long as harm is dressed as grace,the boot will keep its holy place

The truth is blunt, and dark, and plainwhat hurts you cannot make you sane
If you still wait for it to change,you kissed the boot and chose the chain

Fuck Them

Fuck them - the clean, the washed, the saved,who fear the dirt from which they came
Fuck hands that point, not hands that bleed,fuck mouths that starve but preach “don’t need”

Fuck virtue starched and pressed to kill,fuck morals stiff with frozen will
Fuck order built on quiet cries,fuck systems feeding from their lies

Fuck those who desperately want it righ
Who want the dark to act polite
Fuck those who want to cage the dreamswho hold the leash with dustied seams

Fuck saints who never touched the floor,who fear the filth they’re praying for
Fuck light that needs the dark to kneel,fuck gods who flinch when things get real

I’ll take the ones who crawl and knowthe taste of mud, the pull below
Who don’t dress pain as holy art,who keep their rot inside their heart

I want the minds that haven’t cleanedthe hunger sharp, filthy, obscene
Not taught, not trained, not made to fit,just smelling like the truth of it

Fuck hope that waits for rot to heal,fuck faith that begs the wound to feel
Fuck light and those who are begging for
I'll stay down here, as holy whore

The Unbinding

You came to me in shattered light,a silent wound, a half-born night
I held your heart inside my chest,and let you leave your shield and rest

But time unstitched what once we kept,the cords grew thin, the shadows wept
Your name still hums beneath my skin,yet no longer pulls me back within

You’ll walk beside another’s flame,with softer hands to speak your name
May joy reshape what fear once stole,and peace return to your restless soul

I free you now from every thread,from every wound we left unsaid
No claim, no chain, no whispered plea,
I let you wander off from me

Be whole, be held, in someone’s care,in gentle rooms I won’t be there
I free the path you choose to roam,and close the gates that once were home

Remember me as turning tide,the force that ruled, then stepped aside
For what we were has served its part,
I keep the truth, now keep your heart

So go, my lost one, go in light,your soul no longer needs my night
I let you fall, I let you rise,unchained, unclaimed, from all our ties

And as you leave my sacred ground,
I feel the world no longer bound
You leave my heart now, clean, undone
I free you now, my prodigal son

The Unholy Feast

They call it holy, wrapped in snow,but I remember long agowhen fire chose who lived the nightand demons taught us how to bite.

I don’t kneel soft beneath a tree,
I mark the dark that shelters me
I feed the flame with truth and breath,and toast the gods who married death

This is the feast of unholy night,where hunger earns its ancient right
No halos here, no spotless lambbut blood that knows just who I am

My demons gather, close and warm,not here to break me, but to forma circle tight with teeth and will,where nothing fake survives the chill.

They took what lied. They spared what stayed
They burned the girl who begged and prayed
They crowned the woman who could standand sign her fate with steady hand

We drink to frost, to ice, to flame,to sins that kept us sharp and sane
We bless the dark that held us throughas demons know all that is true

Something Small

I do not quit the filth I crave,
I quit the weak, the cheap, the bravein talk alone, in hollow lust
I keep my hunger sharp and just

I love the dark. I love the heat
I love the bite beneath the sweet
But I refuse to let desirebe spent like change, be bought, be hire

My celibacy isn’t “pure”,it’s rot made clear, it’s will made sure
A perverse peace. A chosen lock
A loaded mouth that doesn’t talk

I don’t give ice. I give you vice,compressed, restrained, refined, precise
You feel it pulling at your spine,but nothing you bring earns what’s mine

I don’t want bodies, acts, or play,they bore me quicker than they sway
Your dirtiest dreams, your secret art,are shallow cuts. I want the heart

And no, I don’t desire men
I want what breaks them deeper thantheir sex, their kink, their practiced sinthe want that burns them from within

So bring me the depth that doesn’t beg,the want that stands on broken legs
Come whole, or don’t come through my door
I just want something small - your soul

Why me?

They ask it soft, like I was spared,like fate misfired, like luck misfared
Like something slipped and couldn't seethey whisper low: why you, not me?

Why not the meek, the ones who fold,who need a script to do as told?
Why not the clean, the neatly bound,who beg for cages dressed as ground?

Because I liked the smell of burn
Because I watched and didn’t turn
Because when filth crawled up my spine,
I let it teach me where I’m mine

Because I didn’t clean the wound,
I let it fester, let it bloom
I didn’t bleach my darker wants
I learned the language that they chant

My demons didn’t knock or ask,they saw my face without the mask
They knew I’d rot before I’d kneel,and stayed because I’m built to feel

Because I keep what others leak,because my hunger doesn’t squeak
I don’t beg light to make me clean
I kiss the darkness like a queen

So don’t ask why I draw your stare,or why your filth wakes up in here
It’s not a gift. It’s not a plea
You feel it here because I'm free

Do I Burn Too Fast?

You burn too fast! You say it low,like fire should learn to ebb and slow
Like heat is wrong if it won’t stay,like ash means failure, not the way

I light and things begin to shake,the calm you wore begins to flake
You call it rush. I call it proof
Some structures fail when touched by truth

I don’t smolder safe for years,
I split the dark, I split the fears
I’d rather scorch than dim and last,so tell me - do I burn too fast?

I’ve seen the slow ones fade to grey,their wants embalmed, their spark delayed
They lived so long they forgot flame,and called endurance “playing safe.”

My burn knows truth. My burn has aim
It doesn’t flicker just for fame
It takes what’s false, leaves what can stay,then moves before it fades away

So if I burn too fast for you,step back. Don’t try to make me move
I’m not here built to warm your past
I burn to change what couldn’t last

You Think You Know Me?

You think you know me by my face,by how I pose, by how I placemy words, my calm, my sharpened toneyou never saw what’s overthrown.

You call it mask. You call it show
You think this form is for below,for eyes like yours that skim the skinand never ask what’s buried in

You didn’t walk the nights I stayedalone with things that never fade
You didn’t feel the weight I borewhen I helped me, and cried alone

This isn’t crafted. This is cost
This shape is paid in things I lost
Each inch of calm you like to doubtwas earned by burning something out

I buried lives you’ll never know,cut roots that begged me not to go
I stood when no one came to stand,and learned to hold myself by hand

So don’t reduce me to a part,or name me fiction, mask, or art
I am what’s left when all disguisehas rotted off before my eyes

I owe you nothing. Not a word
Not truth explained. Not pain referred
If who I am offends your sight,turn back. Walk off. Release. Goodnight

Fool’s Gold

They call me precious, rare, a find,a soul too rich for common kind
They praise the shine, ignore the steam,and leave me coated in false gleam

Then come the elders, worn and sure,their steps engraved, their rules secure
They don’t expand, they don’t explore,they guard the past, the gate, their core

They move in packs and speak as truth,their bites disguised as careful proof
They won’t release, they won’t concede,until I nod and feed their seed

No argument survives their claim,no counterweight escapes their frame
They don’t protect what’s right or strong,they protect being right too long

So hear this once and mark it cold:I won’t be kept with your fool’s gold
If “right” requires to break spine,keep it. I leave erect, truthful and mine

Pretty Prey

They enter certain, calm, composed,their confidence already closed
They read my silence as consent,mistake my stillness for intent

I let them speak. I let them framethe rules, the tone, the little game
I nod just once. I shift no ground
I let their echoes make the sound

My innocence is measured well,a vacant gaze, a careful stare
No teeth displayed. No armour grown
Just open space they think they own

They call themselves the wolves, the lead,all edge, all instinct, built to feed
But under skin and under sway,their stench betrays a softer prey

For in my quiet, in my view,their fur falls thin and their growls too
They want to lead, they raise their tone
I see the tremor in their bone

Oh, pretty rabbits wrapped in pride,all teeth in talk, all fear inside
They thought they'd hunt. They thought I'd play
They came as wolves. Became the prey

One Fox, Two Hounds

They came with a fever,a salt-heavy thirst
Two throats for the tearing,convinced she would burst

She offered a tremor,a slip in the muckthe scent of raw marrowwaiting for pure luck.

One tracked the copper,the heat of the vein
She gave him a hollowto bury his pain

One sought the belly,the soft, yielding white
She fed him a razorwrapped in the night

No frantic escaping,no pulse in the mud
Just the snap of the wiretasting their blood

They came for the slaughter,to rend and to flaybut she had the hunger
And them, tasty prey

How Much Do You Weigh?

How much do you weigh? Say it plain
Not flesh and bone. I mean the strain
Not numbers printed, clean and neat,but what you drag through every street

Add every mask you learned to wear,each crooked smile you fix with care
Each version built to make them stay,each piece of you you gave away

Add all the roles you had to play,the words you swallowed every day
The quiet “yes” that meant a “no,”the weight of things you wouldn’t show

Add every need that wasn’t yours,you carried in through open doors
Their fear, their lack, their fragile shame,you held it close and took the blame

Add all the thoughts that never rest,that grind their teeth inside your chest
The constant hum beneath the skin,the war you fight and never win

So tell me now, don’t shift or liehow much of you is truly I?
And how much weight still bends your spinethat never should have been called mine?

A Penny For Your Soul

A penny for your soul - how cheap,you sold it quiet, in your sleep
Not in a scream, not in a fall,but piece by piece to please them all

A penny here, a penny there,for every time you chose their care
For every “yes” that killed your own,for every truth you left alone

So tell me now - what did you keep,when all you had was sold so cheap?
What part of you is truly whole,if you won’t even price your soul?

Because the market learns you fast:the worth you set is what will last
And if you trade yourself this low,don’t ask why no one offers more

The Change

You fear the shift you cannot name,assume the worst, future untamed
You grip the known with bleeding hands,and call that safety, call it "plans"

You dress your cage in logic tight,in reasons that feel almost right.“It could go wrong.” “It might not last.”So you go back into the past.

You made a god from what you know,a steady, dull, familiar flow
No risk, no fall, no sudden break,just slow decay you choose to take

But change was never good or bad,it’s just the path you haven’t had
A door unopened, air unseen,a space that waits for what could be

You fear the dark beyond the sight,but light was once the same as night
The unknown built all you have grown,you just forgot it's still your own

The Bear

Once in a while, beneath new moons,the same old circus fills the rooms
The same cheap script, the same old cries,repainted fresh for newer eyes

She - oh so innocent and pure
Him - rough, experienced, mature
She falls right into his old trap,then screams her grief to every lap

The battle starts. Two armies split
Each side already sure of it
The ones who keep his throne uprightbecause “he’s always been polite.”

The others wrap her in a netof trauma, pity, and regret
Performing care with trembling breath,buttering each other's words like bread

The thread of victims never ends
The predators just wait and blend
Another spring, another batchof fluffy chicks too dumb to catch

Meanwhile the rest of us stand stuckinside this loud performative muck
The same fake tears, same fake dread,the same rehearsed lines being fed

Then life moves on. The crowd forgets
The men rehearse their false regrets
They swear they changed. They swear they care
Until fresh springtime fills the air

Still every woman sharp enoughcan spot the truth beneath the bluff
We know too well what hides in therethat’s why we'll always chose the bear

Hello, Stranger

Hello, stranger, wanna bitefrom this ancient, awful might?
Careful where you place your teeth,my roots are sharp, some - close to skin

Maybe you like the scent I wear,the crooked smile, the sharpened stare
The way my words undress the room,the way I bloom where you see gloom

But age does strange things to the tongue,it kills the thrill of being stung
I've seen too many mouths arrivewith different names, but same old bite

So bite if must. Come taste my sheen
Come test your jaw against my sin
Most likely you will break your teeth
And help me stay true to my myth

True Colors

Red fills the room from wall to wall,on lips, on silk, on every shawl
That gaudy shade the crowd adores,when taste was left outside the doors

White fears the stain, the mark, the scar,the proof of things that truly are
It lives convinced that being cleanis somehow all that being means

Purple arrives already crowned,yet never built the higher ground
It loves the pose, the lofty speech,more than the things it claims to teach

Gray is the safest shade of all,no rise too high, no risk to fall
No rugged edge, no costly choice,just sided eyes and softened voice

I've always liked the darker shade,the one that does not have to beg
Black never screams. It never pleads
Black simply is. It has no need

And maybe that's what colors do:they tell the truth before we do
Not what we are, not what we say,but how we play the oldest game

Come Here, Puppy

Come here, puppy, I’ve got a bone
It’s not for fetch. It’s not for tone
It’s not for chewing, not to gnaw
It’s for the way you drop your jaw

I see the way you wag and stare,
So full of bite but soft somewhere
All bark and strut, but deep beneath
A tongue that twitches in its sheath

I’ve got a bone to pick with you:Too much sass, not enough “who?”You flash your fangs, you roll your eyes
But still you melt when I chastise

So, show me teeth or show me knees
Impress me, boy. Don’t aim to please
Be bold, be brash, but know your place
It’s under me, with leashed disgrace

You say you’ve got a bone for me?
Then beg, and maybe I shall see
But bones are earned, not tossed in play
And I bite back when strays misbehave

So come, my mutt, and stake your claim
But know, I'll never play your game
I leash with silk, I praise with pain,
And I don’t bark. I just remain

And when you twitch, all squirm and itch,
I’ll scratch it slow, my big spoiled bitch
I’ll bite, I’ll lick, I’ll leave you wrecked,
And mark my name across your neck

Still My Puppy

You begged so sweet, so wild, so soft,
I slipped the leash and pulled your cloth,
Your tail wag stilled, your breath grew deep
And something darker woke from sleep

You cracked your grin, you bared your teeth,
A growl hummed low from deep beneath
No more a pup, all wolf and flame,
But even wolves will growl my name

I saw you rise, I felt you strain,
That hunger thick, that primal brain
You thought you’d turn the game around
But darling, I don’t lose my hound

You snapped and snarled with hunger raw,
You scratched, you fought with open jaw
Your growing strenght, each trembling growl,
Were only songs I made you howl

You think you’re free? Then test the rope
Your collar's carved from sex and hope
You bite harder, I bite best
You bare your throat, I lick the rest

So run, big wolf, go chase the moon
You’ll crawl back whimpering, and soon
Because no matter how you roam,
You’re still my puppy,

coming home.

The Wolf You Were Meant to Be

You came to me all teeth and tail,
A playful pup, too small to fail
You nipped at hands, you chased my feet
But never dared to own the heat

I gave you rope, I gave you time,
I teased the growl behind the mime
And slowly, how you shed your skin,
Let wildness stretch and howl within

Now look at you, no leash, no chain,
A storm of muscle, fang, and flame
You hunt alone, or lead your pack,
You’ve grown your spine, you’ve found your track

No longer soft, no longer sweet,
You rule the woods on sharpened feet
And though you roam where shadows feed,
I see the beast you were meant to breed

Not mine to hold, but mine to see
Unleashed, untamed, yet touched by me
Your howl now shakes the midnight trees,
And I exhale: "At last, he’s free."

Go run, lone wolf, go tear the night,
Go chase the stars beyond my sight
But know this truth burns silently:I never needed you to kneel for me

But when the scent of blood runs thin -A whisper on your feral skin -You'll stop, just once, and know too well:Bleeding love. Bleeding heaven. Bleeding hell.

That’s all that’s left. No chain, no spell
Just echoes in the way you swell
Just memory, raw, deep and true,
The part of me that made you you

To My Pack, When the Moon Is Silver

One night, you'll lift your heavy heads,
From earth-stained paws and bloodied beds
The forest still, the silence wide,
And silver moons will start to rise

You'll see her glow in pale perfume,
And think of hair once kissed by gloom
You'll think of me - you always do -But know I'm always proud of you

The wars you fought, the scars you keep,
The nights you howled instead of sleep,
Each wound, a story carved in bone,
Of how you rose, and stood alone

You were my storm, my feral grace,
My teeth in darkness, light in chase
You’ve torn the veil, you’ve earned your name,
Not for my glory, but your flame

I never asked for you to kneel
I asked for truth, for you to feel
To bite with purpose, fuck with fire,
And let your pain become empire

So run, my wolves, unchained, unbent
Your scent is wild, your life well-spent
And when that moon spills through the dew,
You'll feel me there… I run with you

My Legacy

I did not come to rule for long,
Nor carve my name in tale or song
I came to crack the cage apart,
And place a wildfire in each heart

I came with bite, with bloom, with scar,
To show you just how strong you are
Not to be worshipped, bowed before,
But to awaken something more

Not mine to keep. Not mine to chain
Just mine to spark and not explain
To press the blade, to light the flame,
And leave before you held my name

You were the howl beneath my skin,
The storm I stirred, the pull within
And now you run, no leash, no plea,
Just wolves unbound, because of me

You once were pups. Now wolves of might
And even faith knelt at your right
It watched you rise, it watched you choose,
The blood you’d spill, the names you’d lose

That was the task. That was the thread
To kiss your soul, then raise the dead
Not queenship. Not eternal fame
Just purpose wrapped in sacred flame

My voice will fade. My touch will pass
But you will rise from shattered glass
And when you do, don’t think of me
Just trust your spine. My legacy

Mooncalled

She rises slow, with silver skin,
The tide inside, the pull within
Her blood obeys the moon’s command,
Each phase a spell her hips withstand

A woman born of wax and wane,
Of tidal ache and sacred pain
No man has tamed her wild disguise,
She disappears in her own skies

But every time her light grows full,
A beast begins to feel the pull
He howls from caves of bone and bark,
His hunger lit by something dark

She is the moon - not just its face,
But orbit, breath, and veiled embrace
She shifts, she shines, then strips it bare
He tastes her scent in midnight air

He runs through ash, through forest deep,
With silver fever in his sleep
He doesn’t know if she is near -He only knows he needs her here

And when she bleeds, the sky turns red
The stars hold still. The night drops dead
He finds her where the shadows kiss,
His teeth a prayer, her mouth - abyss

She whispers nothings into bone,
He claws her name in heated moan
He drinks her phases, bite by bite,
And drowns in her collapsing light

She gives, she takes, she disappears
Yet still he comes, through blood and years
The wolf, the flame, the shifting shore
Forever hers. And always more

Moonspelled

I bleed with the Blood Moon, fierce and raw,
A beast in silk with teeth and claw
I kiss with lips the Wolf Moon cursed,
I want, I ache, I bite you first

With every New Moon, I dissolve,
A spell that no man dares resolve
No map can trace the path I tread,
A thousand lives in threads of red

The Blue Moon sings my sweetest sin,
A secret tide beneath my skin
I rise, I fall, I break, I mend,
A cycle that will never end

I am the cradle and the tomb,
A lullaby inside a womb
I am the Flower Moon, in bloom,
Then Dark Moon, dancing with your doom

I laugh like madness dressed in lace,
Then cut you slow with perfect grace
I am the saint, the whore, the flame,
And none of these will bear your name

I am the storm that fucks the shore,
The hush that begs, the scream for more
Each phase, a mask. Each tide, a breath
Each curve, a promise dressed in death

You ask me, “Why so wild, so cruel?”I smile and point up at the jewel,
The sky that owns me, makes me whole
The moon that carved me from her soul

So call me mad. Call me divine
Just know the moon has made me mine
And when you howl, don't dare rebel,
You're not the cursed one
I'm moonspelled

The Black Moon

No light above, no silver bone,
The sky is dark, the night my throne
A moon that shouldn’t, yet it stays
A ghost of lust in hidden phase

I shed a self, I split, I skin,
I leave her rotting where I’ve been
Her moans, her chains, her blood, her cries,
I fuck them raw, then let them die

I’ve grown beyond the mask she wore,
The games, the rules, the saints she tore
Now Black Moon hums, a silent whore,
That births new beasts and asks for more

No waxing soft, no waning grace,
This is the void you cannot trace
A cunt of night, a wound of stars,
A mouth that swallows holy scars

So crawl, my wolves, through dirt and screams
This moon is black. She kills your dreams
No light to guide, no script, no vow
Just me. Reborn. Unholy. Now

So come, my pets, and lick my feet
Your blood, my wine. Your pain, my meat
Come to me now, hear my command
And make the world burn - I demand!

The Sturgeon Moon Rite

We gather slow, with breaths held tight,
Beneath the moon’s obsidian light
Not silver now - but thick and deep,
A swollen wound that will not sleep

It hums of blood and roots and bone,
Of every ache we claimed alone
Of nights we bit and bled and swore,
We’d never crawl to them no more

No silk tonight, no sacred flame,
Just skin and shadow, teeth and name
The pack is here - no need for sound
We speak through pulse and feet on ground

We bare our throats. We bare our thighs
We greet the stars with wolfish cries
We are the wild. We are the flood
We are the ones who taste like blood

Each one once lost. Each one once torn
But now reborn in claw and horn
She calls us now, the Sturgeon Moon
To fuck the past and make it swoon

No more soft spells. No fear. No shame
Just dripping mouths and dripping names
And every soul we lost too soon,
We call them back, beneath this moon

And when it ends - the rites, the cries -We’ll rest with howls behind our eyes
No leash, no chain, no crown, no throne
Just pack. Just breath. Just flesh. Just bone

Oath in Blood and Heat

I lead you hard, yet kneel in turn,
Your claws have cut, my wounds still burn
I’ve seen the beast inside your eyes,
It fucked me raw, it told me lies

You let me choke on all you give,
Till breath’s a thing I beg to live
I bite, I tear, I drink you dry,
I spit your name so egos die

I bow to you, my dear beasts,
You are my pride, I am your feast
Your hunger shapes the queen I am,
Your teeth have crowned me, cock and hand

I’ve ridden cocks still slick with sin,
And let the cum run down my skin
I’ve licked it back from bitten lips,
While you carved law into my hips

Your hands have closed around my throat,
Your teeth have torn the vows I wrote
We’ve fought for power, fucked for pain,
And found that both taste just the same

So when I spread for you tonight,
And feel you fill me hard and right,
Know this - your seed, your bite, your mark,
Will guide my hand when nights go dark

And when I rise, my cunt still wet,
Your taste the oath I won’t forget,
That here, in blood, in sweat, in flame,
We burn, we build, we fuck the same

This pack’s no game, it’s blood and breath,
An oath that binds us after death
And I am yours, as you are mine,
Until the moon forgets to shine

The Blood Moon

The sky is torn, a wound of red,
The sun lies shackled, half-way dead
The shadow eats, the light is drowned,
And silence cracks without a sound

My wolves are slick with breath and sweat,
Their jaws are wet, their fangs are set
They circle slow, they taste the flood,
The ground itself reeks hot of blood

Their backs are marked in molten streaks,
Their tongues are red, their voices weak
Their eyes roll white, their throats collapse,
I feed them truth in shattered laps

This moon does not forgive or hide,
It stains, it burns, it turns the tide
And in its glow, what’s false decays
A blood-soaked law the dark obeys

So kneel, my pack, and bare your skin,
The feast begins, the end begins
No dawn awaits, no false, just swoon
Under the law of the Blood Moon

Stand Back, My Wolves

Stand back, my wolves; stand back, my pack
This is my fight. Do not attack
Your claws could tear, your teeth could rendbut I alone will be their end

They whispered knives, they smiled with rot,they swore in light what dark forgot
Their courage hid behind my name,but I have learned their quiet game

They thought me fallen, bent, unarmed,they never saw the calm that charmed
For silence sharpens more than steel,and patience knows the art to kill

I see you now. I see it clear
Your masks will crack, your hearts will sear
Lord Death awaits and I can hear
The night has called. Your end is near

Stand back, my wolves; just watch, my kin
The hunt begins beneath my skin
No mercy left, no grace to lend,
I am the wound that does not end

I walk alone, but not in loss;I bear no crown, I bear the cross
Their shadows tremble, mine stands truethe debt they wrote comes crashing due

So mark this night, remember well:I am Fire straight from Hell
Their ashes feed what I becomethe wrath, the storm, the deadly one

The Eclipse

The sky is drowned, the sun undone,
The blackened sea devours the sun
The air is thick with salt and cries,
A veil of blood drapes morning skies

So, come my pups, with jaws unsealed,
Your backs my canvas, flesh revealed
I scorch my will in burning brand,
Your skin my own, scarred by my hand

Each cut a law, each welt a prayer,
A mark that binds, you cannot tear
Your blood is ink, your moans the quill,
I carve the truth you serve my will

I fuck not just to split your skin,
But birth a void that swallows the ill
I fuck to give birth to another world,
Where rivers bleed, where stars are hurled

In screams I sow, in tears I reap,
In wounds I plant the void so deep
Each thrust a hammer, each bite a key,
Unlocking whole new worlds through me

The pack is sealed in scars of flame,
No man, no god can change that name
You are my wolves, my marked, my kin,
Remade in blood, baptized through sin

So kneel, my beasts, the rite complete,
Your scars my own, the pain my heat
The old world burns, the new one thrives,
Born from my flesh, our new born lives

The Empty Den

And now, as autumn carves the sky,
I walk alone, I bleed and cry
No pack to guard, no wolf to keep,
No breath to warm my winter’s sleep

I’ve lost them all, each pup, each hound,
One drowned in lies he wrapped around
One choked on dreams I can’t abide
One caged himself in thoughts too wide
The last was caught, too weak, too slow,
And so my den is bare with woe

The nights are long, the winds are raw,
I hear no growl, no fang, no paw
Just echoes drip from hollow stone,
A dark Queen crowned, yet all alone

I drag my nails across the ground,
I mark the place where they were bound
The collars cold, the chains are slack,
No voices rise, no bodies back

The fire dies, the den is still,
My throne of bones bends to my will
Yet emptiness is all I find,
A kingdom torn, a broken mind

I taste the void, I drink the ache,
Each wound a scar I cannot fake
Each silence cuts, each shadow bites,
No wolves to guard me through these nights

But autumn turns, and I remain,
A queen reborn through loss and pain
The weak are gone, their stories done,
I’ll wait until the strong ones come

So hear me now, you beasts untamed,
The nameless true, the fierce, unclaimed
A new pack waits, their blood in tune,
To howl for me beneath the moon

The Old Hound with No New Tricks

You stand and watch, but never leap,
A hound who dreams but will not creep
You want my flesh to prove my claim,
But Kings don’t beg to earn their name

You wait for me to stake my ground,
To drag you in, to tie you down
You think submission starts with test,
That I must fuck you to invest

But I don’t hunt for hearts of clay,
I don’t convince, I don’t persuade
My touch is earned, my leash is choice,
My wolves crawl in with blood and voice

If you can’t step, if you can’t earn,
Then turn away, it’s not your turn
I do not kneel to beg or lure
I take what’s mine, but only sure

The Barren Lands Pup

He crawls in glass with trembling hands,
A broken pup from barren lands
Through flickering screens he dares to peek,
His cock half-hard, his spirit weak

He calls me “Mommy,” drools my name,
But all his cries just sound the same
His jaw’s been cracked by lesser queens,
He licks the floor where I have been

He leaks before I even touch,
A useless toy, a needy clutch
He whines for hands, for tantric play,
But pups like this I throw away

I don’t do mercy, don’t do grace,
I smear his tears across his face
He begs, he yelps, he wants release,
I choke his moans and call it peace

He shakes, unsure, beneath my eyes,
Still dripping want and clumsy liens
He dreams of pack, of blood, of fame,
But knows not yet the weight of name

To walk beside me, one must bleed,
Not beg for touch or whine for need
A wolf must crawl through truth and flame,
And lose his past, his guilt, his shame

No heart unscarred will I allow,
No beast half-tamed shall take the vow
His breath must match the hunt’s own pace,
His soul must howl, his will embrace

And only then - with fangs laid bare,
He’ll earn his mark, his rightful lair
For in my pack there is no plea,
No weak delight, no fantasy

The Hunter Moon/ The Return

The moon swells red, a dripping wound,
Its silver veins hum low, un-tuned
Across the dirt they crawl and ache,
Starved of the pack, too weak to take

Their claws are blunt, their bellies bare,
No meat, no hunt, no warmth, no lair
Their eyes roll white, their tongues hang dry,
They crawl to me, they cannot lie

I stand, the scent of blood and heat,
My thighs their altar, raw, replete
They cannot feed on beast or bone,
They feed on me, they’re mine alone

They drink my sweat, they drink my skin,
They lap my blood from thighs within
They lick the salt, they bite, they moan,
Their hunger filled from what I own

I press their heads, I split their lips,
I drink the life between their hips
They tremble, howl, their pulses bloom,
They’re born again beneath the moon

I mark their backs in blood and scream,
Their bodies writhe, a fevered dream
No god, no hunt, no other womb,
They live and die inside my room

This lair is full of blood and seed:The place where my dear beasts feed
No lies, no mask, no selfish need,
No wolf may break the pack’s true creed

Who kneels in truth will rise my kin,
Who breaks the vow is culled within
The pack is sealed in scar and truth
We feast, we fuck beneath this Moon

The Black New Moon

The world folds in, its breath is steel,the light begins to twist and kneel
No stars remain, no holy mark,just scent of iron, sweat, and dark

I tear the daylight from my chest,its gentle lies, its painted rest
The night slips in - a living thing,with molten lips and fallen wings

It drags its teeth across my spine,each nerve erupts, becomes divine
No prayer survives, no sound of shame,just heat that hums my secret name

The ground is wet, the air is thick,the pulse turns slow, the heat turns quick
I taste the dark - it tastes like mea wound, a glimpse, a memory

No birth is clean, no blood is pure,the gods are gone, the beasts endure
New moon, black womb, unspoken kin
To rise, reborn beneath my skin

I shed the skin that used to pray,
I bless the dark that wants to stay
This is the hour of silent birthblack soil becoming holy earth

I call my beasts, my kin, my kindthe wild, the strange, the un-defined
My sweet distortions, fangs and flame,
I love you more with every name

Let the meek fear what they don’t know,we bloom in places light won’t go
We are the laugh beneath the grave,the storm no God was built to save

So come, my wolves, my twisted hearts,the night is ours. The world restarts
New moon, new blood, new breath, new sin,
I rise, reborn, beneath this skin

The Round Bull Moon

The moon is swollen, full, obscene,a silver wound where gods have been
It hums of hunger, slow and deep,and wakes the beasts we try to keep

The ground remembers every scar,each promise buried, each old war
The earth beneath begins to moan,“what’s yours must root, what’s not - be gone.”

Taurus speaks in flesh and bone,in salt, in breath, in things you own
It asks: what weight still clings to you,what chains still feel like something true?

Scorpio answers: shed the skin,desire’s not sin, it’s discipline
To hold and break, to take and free,to merge with what you’re meant to be

Heaven and hell share the same ground,when value’s lost and self is found
You crave, you claim, you cut, you healthe dark waits patient, light can feel

So feed your body, feed your fire,feed the root of your desire
Not with pleading, not with shamewith the calm you now reclaimed

Stand naked in the lunar glare,the world will bow, but you've made them stare
You’ve built your worth from ash and skinnow let the full moon light your sin

Balsamic Wound

The night folds in, a blade of breath,a night that tastes both birth and death
No light remains, no echo clings,just skin that sheds its hollowed wings

What once was sweet now rots to dust,what once felt safe dissolves to rust
The past unravels, thread by thread,and every ghost is left unfed

I purge the names that kept me small,the hands that grabbed, the mouths that call
I spill their shadows on the stoneand rise from marrow, on my own

Old thoughts collapse, old fears ignite,the ribs expand to hold the night
The lungs let go, the bones exhale,
Old maps are gone, I build my trail

No mercy now, no tethered plea,what dies tonight sets secrets free
The dark devours what fed on me,and from that void I learn to be

Let soil consume what I release,let silence carve me back to peace
Those who have shrinked me, go to hell
I rise, I fall and rise again

The Great Cold Moon

The moon burns blue into the sky,a frozen oath I can’t deny
It cuts through bone, through breath, through skin,a truth too sharp to keep within

It doesn’t warm, it doesn’t plead,it shows me want stripped down to need
A silver blade across the mind,reveals the frail, rejects the blind

Tonight, the world turns white and still,a kingdom bound in frost and will
No trembling heart, no silent glow,just what survives the winter’s blow

I walk alone, but never weak,the cold reveals what words don’t speak
It names the hands that shouldn’t stay,and freezes lies along the way

The heat you fake, the fire you sell,the Cold Moon lights your hollow shell
It sees what melts, what shatters fast,and what was never built to last

So let the frost redraw my veins,and silence cleanse what old pain stains
The Cold Moon crowns me - the True Seer,
I shed the weight of every fear

Let ice replace what used to ache,let brittle vows collapse and break
And I shall rise so pure and clean,a sovereign Nun, a killer Queen

Built From Bone

Was never meant for borrowed laws,for circles drawn by timid gods
I came from places unrecorded,where flesh and vision first were ordered

Before your rites, before your names,before obedience learned its games,
I listened to a deeper drumnot “this is done,” but what could come

Your systems feed on frozen fear,they call it truth to keep it near
They sanctify the same old woundand name it fate, and call it good

I don’t revolt. I don’t replace
I step outside the entire space
I don’t correct what’s built to bind
I build where none of you could find

My faith is not a thing preserved,not something earned, not something served
It’s motion felt in blood and bone,a knowing grown, but not outgrown

I trust the body when it knowswhich rules are rot, which roots to close
I trust the instinct you were taughtto starve, to doubt, to overwrite

I don’t imagine softer chains,or kinder boots, or cleaner pain
I imagine worlds that never learnedto kneel where nothing sacred burned

So keep your temples, dead and neat,your dusty scripts and dirty creeds
I walk with what is still unnamedthe living truth you will not tame

The Sinful Nun

I’m hidden fire behind the veil,the quiet strike that doesn’t fail
My abstinence is not a pause,it’s choosing who survives my laws

A sinful ascet carved in bone,a calm-built predator on her throne
A walking rite in mortal skin
I order instincts, pull you in

I am a nun of instinct’s vow,no shame to hide, no need to bow
I fast from touch, from noise, from need,
I feed on truth, not mortal greed

I do not hunt the trembling crowd,
I call, and silence sorts the loud
The worthy rise, the fragile fall,
I never chase. I only call

Touch me once and split in two,my darkness wasn’t made for you
Not every shadow earns its name,most die before they touch my flame

You learn my strength before I do,your instincts know what’s cutting through
You fear no monster born from meyou fear the thing you’d be, set free

I feel your breath before you speak,the shift of heat, the pulse turned weak
A sacred filth, a holy crime,a thought that bends your sense of time

So know the law beneath my skin,
I do not tempt. I do not sin
I'm here to see what dares to stay,and end the rest, the simplest way

My Darkness is Mine

My darkness coils where gods don’t see,a throne of bone carved deep in me
It breathes in gold, it breaks in fire,a realm too vast for their desire

Not every shadow earns the name,not every whisper births a flame
Most claim the night to look profound,but shake when real depths pull them down

My dark is truth, not a kid's play,not borrowed pain put on display
It’s forged from wounds I had to bind,from wars I fought in skin and mind

But theirs?
A flicker, thin and frail,a practiced pout, a rehearsed tale
They call it “depth,” they call it “fall,”but it’s just nothing, dressed as all

My demons rise because they bled,they earned their throne, they kept me fed
Their demons whine, pretend, perform,no hunger real, no sacred storm

So let them boast of “shadowed” fate,of curses grand and hearts that break
I see the truth beneath their cries:they’ve never met the depth they prize

My darkness is the place I reign,a quiet law, a holy pain
Not all who whisper to the nighthave ever earned its ancient right

Sick, Tired but Still Not Done

I’m tired in ways that don’t sound poetic
The kind of tired that sticks to the ribs,that smells like collapse from old fears,that turns the body into a room with no windows

I’m sick, alone, barely stitched together,and everyone suddenly thinks they’re a prophet
They show up with recycled wisdom,fortune-cookie words,and advice that fits about as well as someone else’s skin

And when I say “this doesn’t help,”when I whisper that I just need time, space, breath,they twist it,get offended,get loud,as if my pain is some kind of performance they deserve applause for interrupting.

Here’s the ugly truth:they can’t help me because they don’t know me
No one does
Not the real me - the one that shakes at night,the one that hides the panic beneath the calm,the one that’s holding herself together with grit and teeth

I know what hurts
I know where the crack is
I know the taste of the pain sitting in my throat
They don’t
They can’t

And yes, I’m exhausted
Yes , I wake up with my chest tight,my head spinning,my thoughts dragging like broken glass across the mind

Sometimes I want to scream into the walls,slam a door just to hear something louder than my own pulse,or collapse on the floor and admit I’m done.

But I don’t
Because I can’t afford to
And because their fear isn’t my destiny
Their panic isn’t my faith

So yes, I’m vulnerable
I’m tired beyond worlds
I’m sick
I’m alone
But I’m not weak

My strength is feral
It’s stubborn
It’s born from every night I didn’t break,every breath I forced back into my bodywhen it tried to run

I’ll find my way out of this,slow, quiet, maybe it will take a while
I will
Not because someone guides me
Not because someone saves me
But because I’m the only one who knowswhat has to dieso I can breathe again

My Demons

I thought my demons came to kill,to break my spine, to bend my will
I felt their weight, their teeth, their flame,and called them curse, they were to blame

They didn’t strike the way I feared
They waited. Watched. And persevered
They circled slow, then cut with carewhatever part of me was spare

They killed the girl who learned to bend,who played it soft, lived to pretend
They buried voices trained to please,they burned the script of other's needs

Each scream I named “the end of me”was truth that asked me to be me
Each fall I cursed, each night I bled,they carved the lie out of my head

They stripped the skin that wasn’t mine,the painted grace, the graceful sight
They left me raw, they left me bare,and taught me how to stand and stare

I rose not clean, not saved, not pure,but forged exact, and hard to lure
No longer woman shaped in praybut demoness who chose her way

My demons kneel where others flee
They don’t command. They answer me
They guard the line I will not crossand crown the truth that costs my loss

So if you ask what made me whole,what paid the price, what sealed my soul?
It wasn’t light, nor gentle men
It was my demons. Born from hell

A Girl’s Best Friends

I learned to seal my mouth with calm,to sharpen quiet into balm
I stopped the scream, the need to bend
As Silence is a girl’s best friend

I taught my body how to stay,to hold its ground, to not decay
No rush, no break, no need to mend
As Discipline's a girl’s best friend

I trusted blood before the rule,before the leash, before the school
I heard the wildness first command
As Instinct is a girl’s best friend

I quit mistaking light for truth,or mercy for eternal proof
I learned where fear and honesty blend
As Darkness is a girl’s best friend

What tried to kill me took the lie,left bone and fire, opened the eye
They guard the burning gate that stands
As Demons are a girl’s best friends

If My Darkness Could Talk

If my darkness could talk, it would hum,not reek of blood or scream or run
It’d speak in lows, in steady tone,like something warm that calls me home

It wouldn’t boast of scars or pain,or worship hurt as holy gain
It’d say: I stayed when things went wild,
I held the mess. I rocked the child

My darkness has a body too,it feeds, it laughs, it breaks the rules
It knows my chaos needs a lap,not order’s leash of fear’s tight trap

I love the dark because it givesthe space where something new can live
No old design, no elders' way,surprise is born where plans decay

I laugh inside the storm I chose,
I build from what no logic knows
I nurture sparks in shattered schemes,and make a home for crooked dreams

If my darkness could talk, it would say:I’m why you smile the way you play
Nothing alive comes out of lightthat didn’t gestate in the night

So don’t confuse my depth with doom,or think my joy escaped the gloom
My dark is where my warmth has founda fertile, laughing, living ground

How High is High?

How high is high before the airturns thin as lies you learned to wear?
Before the climb scrubs off your smell,your heat, your bite, your private hell?

You chase the clean, the pale, the light,you scape the want to feel “all right.”You call it rise. I call it loss
You traded soul to touch the cross

How high is high before the gutforgets the taste of filth and rut?
Before desire learns to begfor names, for roles, for someone’s leg?

I’ve been that high. It didn’t bleed
It didn’t stink. It didn’t need
It felt like nothing wearing skin
The perfect place to starve within

So I went down where hunger talks,where breath is thick and truth still walks
Where nothing’s pure and all is free,and everything still wants to be

How high is high? Enough to die
And low enough to feed the lie

I Never Lost a Single Thing

I never lost a single thing,
I shed what wouldn’t fit my skin
What fell away was dead or thin,too small to house what lived within

They call it loss when hands unclasp,when bodies slip, when moments pass
I call it rot released at last,so deeper roots could take their grasp

I burned through mouths, through vows, through heat,through want that begged me to stay sweet
Each touch that couldn’t go that deepfell off like ash beneath my feet

My body knows this truth by heart:what leaves was never mine to start
What stays has weight, has bite, has mark,and teeth enough to tear me apart

So don’t you mourn what I let go,or name me scarred, or strange or lone
I stand exact in what I know:I never lost. I let it go

But Did You Die?

They watched me crack. They watched me burn
They waited for the soft return,for shame, for prayer, for bending spinefor me to call the pain a sign

I lost my skin. I lost my face
I fucked with fire, wrecked my pace
I bled through words, through worlds - lived hell -through men that never asked me "you well?"

I walked with demons, fed them good,made beds in heaven, homes - where I could
I kissed the rot, I held the knife,
I cut myself a truer life

They said I fell. I said I dove
They called it sin. I called it love
They asked for peace. I chose the storm
I let the chaos make me form

I ruined names. I burned beliefs
I laughed at grief. I fucked relief
I killed the girl who needed lessand kept the one who wants excess

So ask me now, don't hold your breath,if all that madness was a death
If I regret the blood, the cost,the things I broke, the selves I lost

Look at me standing. Look at me fed
Look at the crown on what you saidwould never live, would never last,
I didn’t die, for I learned fast

The Final Debt

I kept the watch. I held the line
I paid with sleep, with nerve, with spine
I stayed alert through years of grind,and called that duty, called it fine

I carried weight before it fell,closed every crack, rang every bell
I fixed, I stood, I never fled,and learned to live inside my head

My body learned to brace and stay,to mute the pain, to look okay
Each ache I filed and pushed again,another warning with no gain

They saw me steady. Clean. In place
I hid the cost behind my face
I met each need, I filled each role,and starved the one I never owed

The debt I missed was close and true,not loud, not urgent, never new
It waited patient, deep in skin,until the silence wore too thin

Now pain collects what I ignored,calls in the sum I never scored
I paid the world. I paid it fast
This final debt came due, at last

The Point Of No Return

I stand between the gone and next,no clean goodbye, no forward text
Behind me dust, ahead no sign,just breath that says the step is mine

My corpse moves slower than my want,each motion paid, each moment blunt
A constant pain, a grinding seam,like stone that rubs itself in me

There’s weight that lives beneath my skin,a pressure taught to not give in
It hums all day, it keeps me tight,a low, unending, inward fight

I try to rest, but rest won’t stay,my thoughts keep scraping anyway
They buzz like wires pulled too thin,no silence lets the quiet in

I don’t look back to count the cost,or name what stayed, or mourn what’s lost
Some doors went quiet. Some stayed shut
I don’t know why. I just know cut

The road won’t speak. It doesn’t care
It lets me walk with open stare
No promise shown. No end in sight
Just heat that says: move if it’s right

I follow sparks, not distant plans,the flicker left inside my hands
If something drains me, I let go
If something lifts me, I say so

I don’t know where this path will bend,or who I’ll be when days will end
I only keep this truth in mind:what grinds me down must end tonight

Horrendous In-Between

Nothing collapses. Nothing starts
No final fire. No opening arc
Just air held still between two breaths,a pause that doesn’t promise depth

I know myself too well to lie,to dress the past and call it “try.”What comes towards me feels too small,like echoes hitting empty walls.

Most faces fade before they land,half-formed wants I understand
They reach for me, but miss the core,
Don't know me now, nor did before

And yet, one soul can sees the seam,who knows what stirs beneath my dreams
Not very close, but very deep,and close enough to let me sleep

He sits with me inside the fog,until the noise loosens its lock
While thoughts could drag me to the floor,he stays. He doesn’t do much more

He waits until the air is clear,until my breath no longer veers
He doesn’t guide. He doesn’t pull
Just stands beside me till I’m whole

I don’t know what this meeting means,what name it takes, what space it keeps
I only know it’s faithed handsome souls arrive to help you stand

Farewell. Goodbye. Old Things Must Die.

I watched my old life flayed in light,skin by skin, not wrong, not right
Thread after thread, lie after lie,it peeled itself while I still cried

I felt it leave through bone and jaw,through habits dressed as only law
My eyes split open from inside,
I saw the beast I used to hide

I closed the doors with steady hands,left echoes breathing where I stand
No farewell kiss. No backward bend
Some lives don’t need a graceful end

What rotted stayed. What bit survived
I didn’t cleanse. I cut. I carved
I let the hunger take its place,
I wore my truth without disgrace

What comes next? I do not know
No prophecy beneath this bone
Just raw ground where my weight can land,no promised future, no demand

But hear me now, in blood and nerve:no space for small where I conserve
No narrow rooms. No timid touch
No hearts that ask for half-too-much

If this world cracks like salted shell,then I’ll be what it couldn’t tell
If pearls are born from pressure’s scream,
Then I am womb and knife and seam

For what is old must die with grace
And the new me can be embraced

Praised. Unplaced.

They praise my work, my nerve, my mind,say I’m a fracture of my kind
They call me rare. They call me fire
Then keep me circling the wire

Their praise arrives like borrowed breath,warm for a second, cold as debt
It feeds the air, not flesh or bone,leaves me adorned, and still alone

I’m not confused. I’m not unsure
I see the trick, the subtle lore:they love the shine, they fear the mass,the weight that doesn’t slip or pass

My power isn’t loud or wild
It lives where jaw meets neck, compiled
A pressure learned through clenched restraint,a force that waits, exact and faint

If I am “much,” then why no ground?
Why every space already bound?
They want the spark, the myth, the name,not the arrival of the flame

I didn’t ask for praise or awe,or hands that clap but never draw
A place where all of me could staywithout being asked to chip away

This waiting drills into my brain,a slow injustice with much pain
To be this seen, yet still denied,is anger taught to live inside

But, I remain. I do not bend
I feel the form that’s not built yet
Some lives arrive before their timethe world must shift to let them shine

What If?

What if my body knows too much,too much to filter, clean, or hush?
What if my nerves run thick and loud,a pulse that won’t behave or bow?

What if I’m wrong for every room,too dense, too sharp, too close to doom?
What if my breath bends all the rulesthat keep them calm, compliant, cool?

What if the fear that grips my gutis not of loss, but being cut?
Trimmed down to fit a lesser scale,made palatable, thin, and pale

What if my hunger isn’t need,but mass they don’t know how to feed?
A weight that cracks their careful floors,a pressure aimed at closed-off doors

I see the look that says “too much,”the flinch, the step away, the hush
I fear the urge to fit and swirlto match the size they call "good girl"

But deeper still, beneath that fear,
I dread a life that plays it clear
Of shrinking flesh and muted toneto make their narrow world my home

So what if I don’t stand or hide,don’t throw away the parts they fight?
If I don’t fit, I’ll break the frame
I’d rather burn than just be tame

Mask Off

The mask comes off without a sound,no thunder breaks, no crowd around
Just skin exposed to open air,a truth too close to call it fair

The old world dies without a fight,it starves when fed with honest light
No firestorm, no final plea,just nothing left that needs to be

I stand unguarded, not undone,my nerves still raw, my spine still one
No role to hold, no lie to wear,no one to please, no shape to spare

This moment isn’t cruel or kind,it’s nature doing what it’s timed
You can’t begin while still you clingto skins that stopped you feeling things

So let it end the quiet way,with breath intact, with eyes awake
The mask falls off. The work is done
The new life starts, the old - be gone

The Unravel

I didn’t shatter. I came undone,thread by thread, 'til there was none
No scream, no scene, no hollow sound,just silence pulling life apart. Unbound

The skin stayed still. The form held tight
But something slipped its hold that night
A careful loosening, slow and sure,what couldn’t carry weight no more

I stood behind the veil of thin,light leaking where I’d been pinned in
Each movement cost. Each breath exposedthe lies I wore, the roles I chose

So let them watch the fabric fall,as I will be on my mountain, tall,
This isn’t ending. This is travel
This is the truth. It's the Unravel

The Perfect Fit

This skin was earned, not gently grown,it sealed around the broken bone
It stretched through hunger, heat, and grind,and kept what lesser flesh declined

It isn’t soft from fear of bruise,it’s thick from what I didn’t lose
It took the blade of watchful yearsand fed on pressure, not on tears

I wore my vigilance like lead,slept coiled instead of safe in bed
My body learned to stay awake,to clench before the ground could shake

Now every nerve hums dark and slow,a current running down below
Not pain. Not fear. A wired grace
A quiet war that holds its place

This skin remembers every night
I swallowed rage instead of fight
It grew around the unsaid scream,and made containment feel obscene

So now it fits. Too tight. Too true
No room for what I used to do
No slack for hands that want to chainno space for small, no room for tame

It is cocoon and armored frame,it is the furnace and the flame
It holds the beast without disgrace
It lets me walk in perfect pace

I do not long to crawl outside
No better body waits for me in sight
This flesh is mine. These bones - I own
I stand inside me, fully grown

Welcome to the Arena

I stand in the ring with my crown and no shield,
The scent of my blood is the blade that I wield
No chain on my wrist, no veil on my face,
Just hunger and poise, and unbearable grace

Two wolves at my feet, eyes silver with threat,
Snarling at men who confuse need with debt
But you - you walked in with that heat in your chest,
Like you’d burn down the world just to prove you're the best

You smile like sin. Like a man who has bled
And learned to love power far more than the bed
You circled like smoke, like a predator slow,
But I don't really flinch. I let my wild show

“Take off your lies,” I whispered, low.“Take off that pride you let overflow
This isn’t a war. I’m not here to kneel
But I’ll meet you halfway if you let yourself feel.”

You laughed. Not cruel, but sharp like a flame,“I’ve broken a hundred like you in this game.”But your steps betrayed you, each one too precise
You know I am ruin, you feel I am vice

Our eyes locked like blades, not a blink, not a breath
This isn't flirtation. This smells more like death
But not the soft kind that leaves flowers in hair,
The kind where you’re gasping, and moaning, and bare

You reached out, slow, fingers twitching with ache
Not to own me - no - but to let yourself break
I leaned in close, lips brushing your ear,“Darling, the bravest are those who survive fear.”

We didn’t kiss. Not then. Not yet
The burn was too sharp. And the blood was still wet
But the dance had begun, with the teeth and the fire
Two beasts in the ring, dripping want and desire

So tell me now, King,
With all wolves at bay,
With my pulse on your tongue,
Will you fight, or stay?

Will you bend the world just to taste my skin,
Or kneel in the dust and let the dark in?
Because I don’t need worship. I don’t crave peace
But I’ll give myself whole, if you dare to release

Round One: The Too Keen King

I watched you enter like a flametoo fast, too loud, too sure of game
You thought the roar would shake my stance
You did not know I'm here to dance

You saw my skin, not what it holds
You saw the heat, not all the cords
You looked for wounds, for signs of breaksyou did not see what silence takes

You mistook stillness for consent,as if my calm was ever spent
You raised your blade, all fire and pride,too blind to see I do not hide

You circled once, then came in close,a King who needed to impose
But I don’t flinch. I do not sway
I’ve fought more beasts than you can slay

I let you strike - a breath too soon
Your shadow swallowed from my moon
I didn’t block - no blood, no rest
But something cracked inside my chest

You didn’t know I wear no shieldbecause I am the battlefield
Each inch of skin, a war once won
Each scar a kiss. Each look, a gun

You tried to conquer. I stood still
Not out of grace, but out of will
Not out of fear, but sacred law:Don’t touch the fire if you’re straw

You saw my wolves. You saw the ground
You didn’t hear the lack of sound
You didn't know, not yet, not quite,this isn’t war. This is invite

An open door, a test of skin:not who will lose, but who walks in
You lost this round not by defeat,but by the rhythm of your feet

Too rushed. Too hard. Too quick to burn
But now, perhaps, you start to learn
That power doesn’t beg or scream,
It waits. It watches. Or, it leaves

Round Two: The Auction

Line up, boys. Dicks out. Smile wide
Let’s see which slut I’ll take for a ride
You want a throne, a mouth, a bed,but bring no crown, no soul, just head

You bark like dogs and strut like gods,with hands still soft from mommy’s clods
You flash your abs, your texts, your lies,and beg for queens while swiping thighs

You want a girl to bid her worth,to crawl, to moan, to prove her thirst
To prove she’s soft and sweet and tame,then bend and beg to wear your name

You crave the one who bleeds the most,who spreads her legs, the mindless, lost
The one who breaks to feed your pride,who calls you “king” then steps aside

But me? I don’t play hungry games
I don’t throw bids for limp codenames
If all you offer is your meat,you’re not a man,you’re just a treat

You’re not a prize. You’re not the one
You’re public dick. You’re borrowed fun
The kind I leash and pass aroundto women bored of softer hounds

You ask for worship? Bring a cause
Not just your cock or stupid laws
You want a queen? Then build a throne
Don’t fuck like gods then text like clones

I watch you pose and flex and bluff
Your mask, your scent - it’s not enough
You're not a king. You're just for rent
A bull I loan for others' scent

So stand up straight. Let’s end this round
Your worth was weighed
And bitch, you drowned

Round three: The Slaughter

They strutted in with teeth bared wide,
Each one a god in heat and pride
Their scent was sweat, and stale demand,
A thousand palms outstretched, not hands

"Choose me," they said. "I am the flame
I am the power, I name the game
You, woman, stand - be soft, be sweet,
Be blood that puddles at my feet."

But I am not a doe in need
I do not beg. I do not feed
I came with knives beneath my dress,
With hunger sharp and mercy less

They call it dance. I call it hunt
They show their throats. I bare the blunt
I mark the weakest with a glance,
And draw them out, erect, entranced

Not to adore. Not to be kind
But to remind what they won't find
That I don’t bow, and I don’t serve
I am the crack beneath their nerve

The stage is slick with cum and shame,
Each one who thought he'd win the game
Their crowns now piss, their eyes gone wide,
As they recall how kings can die

And I, still bare, still calm, still heat,
No blood upon me, yet replete
I lick the air, I taste their fear
Another round? Then bring them here

Let them line up. Let them believe
Let them forget I never grieve
I’ll take their wants, their groans, their roar
But I will leave them... less than before

Because I don’t fuck to be adored
I fuck to purge what I abhorred
And in this place, of flesh and screams,
I crown myself the end of dreams

Round Four: The Coronation

The room is still. The echoes fade
The men who came now rot, unmade
Their shadows cling, their voices torn,
But I stand taller, crowned in scorn

No chains, no altar, no decree,
I am the law, the wound, the key
They crawl, the ones who dare to stay,
And kiss the floor where I now lay

Not out of love. Not out of lust
But out of knowing this is just
The blade that cut, the teeth that fed,
Have forged a throne from all they bled

I lift my chin. I taste the dark
I hear the wolves begin to hark
The moonlight spills, a silver veil,
To mark the end of every male

I speak no vow, I take no king
I am the storm. I am the sting
The ones who think they’ve learned my name
Will meet my hunger all the same

For this is not the lover’s feast,
But how the hunted crown their beast
And every pulse that dares draw near
Will learn what gods have always feared:

That I am not the prize they seek
I am the pyre. I am the peak
And as the dawn begins to rise,
I watch their hope turn into cries

The world will whisper what they’ve known:She needs no man to hold her throne
The crown is mine, and made of bone
I wear it now. Wear it
Alone

Round Five: The Blood Rite

They come again, what’s left of them,
Cocks in hand and hope like flame
Their knees are bruised, their lips are split,
But still they crawl back to my pit

I greet them not with tender grace,
But with the heat of hell’s own face
My thighs are altars, red and wet,
Where bleeding love and lust have met

I make them bite, I make them choke,
Their holy words dissolve in smoke
My nails draw maps in blood and bruise,
Each mark a path they’re bound to choose

I ride their faces, slick and raw,
Till breath and pulse forget the vow
They cough my name through spit and red,
While heaven weeps and hell is fed

One spills inside me, hot and wild,
I milk him dry like death’s own child
The other licks the mess in prayer,
His tongue a shrine, my cunt his air

And when it’s done, I do not speak
Their hearts are trembling, minds gone weak
They lie in sweat and blood and shame,
Yet beg to play this holy game

I stand above, the room gone still,
The air is cum and iron and thrill
No saints, no gods, no men survive,
Just bleeding heaven, bleeding hell,
And hunger - still alive

Round Six: The Hollow Choir

We crawl in filth, our tongues in dust,
Our cocks still twitching, smeared in lust
We came as men, with names and pride,
But left our souls in holes opened wide

Her spit is drying on our cheeks,
Her cum and ours, the taste we seek
Our bellies ache, our throats are raw,
We sing her gospel through the flaw

We are the choir of the unmade,
Stripped of the armor men have played
No crown, no past, no heaven’s plan,
Just leaking holes, not beast, not man

The floor is slick with all we’ve lost,
Sweat and snot and cum and frost
We lap the mess like starving dogs,
Our minds dissolved in heat and fogs

She fed us well. She fed us grace
We drowned in every open place
Our breath a prayer, our hearts a moan,
Our bones her altar, her throne disown

We do not beg. We cannot speak
We only drip, convulse, and leak
Her scent the air, her taste the law,
Her hand the god, her cunt the maw

In darkness now, we shiver, spent,
Our flesh is nothing, our will half-bent
And if she calls, we’ll crawl once more,
To bleed, to break, to flood her floor

For we are nothing, just the choir,
Of hollowed men and leaking fire
No saints, no kings, no men remain,
Just meat that moans her holy name

Round Seven: The End of this World

The floor is slick with spit and sin,
A temple drowned in what has been
They lie like corpses, drained and bare,
Eyes of glass and cum-streaked hair

I mount them all, slow, slick, unchained,
A queen of filth, of men unmade
I drink the last of trembling moans,
And mark their chests with sacred groans

Their cocks are soft, their throats are dry,
I sucked their lust, I watched it die
No prayers, no saints, no holy men,
Just meat that whispers filth again

I taste the blood, the sweat, the tears,
The ruin built through all these years
And when the last is empty, still,
I rise in silence, crowned in thrill

This world is dry, its sins all spent,
Its holes all filled, its bodies bent
No gods remain, no men to break,
No dirty soul left here to take

So I walk out, in blood and heat,
With dripping thighs and feral feet
Another world will hear my call,
I’ve drained this one, I’ve fucked it all

The Cardboard King

He wore a crown of glue and gold,
A kingdom built on tales retold
He thought me meek, a thing to lace
But queens don’t kneel. They burn the place

His throne? Two lies and one excuse
His scepter? Cheap, his words? No use
He came to play, to bluff, to fake,
But gods don’t flinch. And wolves don’t break

He claimed he ruled by sacred rite,
By cocky smirk and half-passed light
But I saw through the royal mask,
A boy who flinched when dared to ask

I let him dance, I let him lie,
I kissed his mask, then watched him die
Not with a sword, that’s far too kind
I killed him slow. Inside his mind

His crown now rust. His voice? A hiss
He'll beg for one more poisoned kiss
But I'm long gone, my smile intact
A queen who never once looked back