Poems

The Arctic NoonThe solar disk ignites the window pane with a blinding and malicious glare Watching the shapes of the fever start to dance along the bedroom wall

Terms and Conditions May ApplyA digital checkmark—permission sealed in glass,The contract scrolled, unread,as minutes pass.A line of faces under sterile beams,Each one surrendered by institutional schemes.Amother’s voice muffled at the intake desk,Her signature taken as if it’s grotesque,As attendants trade comfort for control,And policies swallow the fragments of soul.No need for gavel, no spectacle,no court—Only

Suck Me Until I Forget My Name He stands at the altar of her tongue, devotion raw and stark,All the words he wore like armor strip away inside the dark,She kneels, eyes locked in ritual, mouth a tomb for what he’s been,He’s not a lover, not a husband—just a sin wrapped tight in skin.Her lips

System Error – No One Left to SaveHer body arched in burning rooms while shells dropped,hunger twisting every breath to ache,sweat slick on skin half-starved but not yet dead,he prayed in the hollow she offered, tongue-tied,pleading in her mouth—mercy in a choking gasp, then silence,then another rationed touch. In the splintered shadows,pleasure and panic bled

Softcore ApocalypseLipgloss lacquered, every pore a pixel,midnight glare refracted through the liquor store glass,She’s a body curated for dopamine,hips rewound for a thousand anonymous pass.Captioned sin drips from her fingertips,arching back in a pose she’ll never hold,Likes stacked like coins—currency or confidence,the difference long ago sold.The mirror tells her lies for a living,winking with every

Spectrum Sold SeparatelyHe arranges his soldiers in flawless procession,Each figure aligned to an ancient obsession,Seeking safety in symmetry, peace in the grid,A world understood by the way it is hid.They study his hands, remark on the act,Murmur “unique,” then posture intact,Snap a picture for social proof,Then erase the tantrum from under the roof.She rocks in

Silk TemptationVelvet TemptationA pulse awakens, buried deep beneath the surfacewhere skin forgets the boundary between ache and thrill,Heat rising—thick, electric—twining with shadows and bruised,wordless will.She lures with the hush of forbidden silk,with the promise that pleasure never needs to name its price,Every glimmer in her eye a dare to lose the light,every breath an invitation

Slut ParadeShe wakes in a city built for men who taught their sons that purity’s a chain,A church bell pounding shame into the morning as her stilettos kiss the stained cement again.Noshame in how her thighs still sting from heelsthat mark the route she’s mapped in bruised delight,No god she owes for lipstick red as

She Left a Note, You Left a LikeShe wrote in pen, careful script trembling along the ruled lines,Poured midnight’s ache into syllables she’d never allow to shine.A confession without audience, ink bleeding from desperateskin—Words written for rescue,unseen by friends lost in the din.She scrolled her feed,watched avatars beam approval with a grin,Her photo harvested for

Signed, Streamed, ForgottenSystem audit: compliance processed, faces rebranded,Every sorrow prepackaged, and digital tears commanded.A mother weptand hit the share,Labor broadcast as proof of care.She birthed a feed—she filmed a soul—Buttraded truth for some remote control.In flickering pixels, grief was rehearsed,Pain for an audience, not the one who hurt.Children fashioned avatarsbefore they could speak,Raised in a