Poems

Bless This House (Then Burn It Down)She counts the plates in rigid order, ritual of a shrinking day,every fork and napkin placed to appease the violence she cannot say.Silence settles, thick as ritual, sealing the room in a film of dread,hatred curdles in the corners where forgiveness is bled.He prays in booming cadence, mouth slick […]

Ashes, Not a WordWe lit the cities like confetti in a fever dream and watched them fall

Baptized in DustAsh maps the shape of vanished saints across the cheeks of thosewho stagger through the afterburn,smoke weighs down every eyelash, faith a rumor drifting in the red-tinged churn.The priest’s collar caked with fallout, his robes the rags of a lie,he rasps “repent”–but meaning’s gone, and even guilt’s too tired to try.The sky’s still

After the Last WarAfter the last war they said never again with conviction,they built an institution and they gave it jurisdiction,over the disputes between the nations and the settling of accounts,and they meant it at the signing and they meant it in the founts. But the meaning faded with the generation that had fought,and the

Anxiety Is a Safe WordHer pulse is siren-bright, a strobe beneath her skinthat floods the sheets with signals made of static,every breath a dare for pain or pleasure’s twin.She watches him approach, lips parted for instruction,sweat beading logic’s loss and shame’s seduction.Her wrists are eager trembling, bruised with ghost consent,while panic tangles arousal in a

(Will I Live to See) The End of the WorldThe silence moves through the air—heavy, electric, unnerving.Not quite dread, not quite hope. Just a hum that sets every nerve to observing. The wind is a stranger, carrying secrets from empty roads,and the sun rises over ruins, where the city’s memory corrodes.I feel it pulsing under

99 Problems, and My Clit Isn’t One Somewhere in the rooms of ruined houses, cheap hotels, and marital beds grown colder than the ghosts inside them, a thousand hands have tried to solve her–Most left her bored, half-sighing, wondering if this was the ecstasy men claimed, or just the entry fee for being alive.He came

(It’s Not) The End of the WorldPavement boils in the city’s breath.Commuters drift through digital haze,fingers scrolling, eyes numbed,reality twisted by algorithms. A crimson glare bleeds downthrough glass towers,branding every building with threat.But nobody looks up—habit is gospel,denial the only safety net. Engines choke in gridlocked confession,horns wailing, tempers frayed.Each driver cursing the hour,too hollow

(My Eyes Have Seen) The End of the WorldThese eyes watched the last trembling gasp of daylight—a brittle sun choking on a sky gone gray.Empires fell quiet, towers stripped bare of light,every monument to progress withering in endless dark. Once, windows flickered against the despair,holding on.Now only ghosts remain—shadows thickening,suffocating the air. Cities gutted, bones

(Its Not) The End of the World(It’s Not) The End of the World Pavement boiling in the city’s breath,commuters drowning in digital haze,fingers scrolling, eyes numbed to death,reality bent by the clickbait craze. Crimson bleeds through glass towers, stainsevery window a sick tainted hue,but nobody looks up—habit maintainsits throne, denial the only shield we knew.