αηαтнємα

I’m on fucking fire with writing this week ig.

You could never be my peace.

Could never be the solace in which I rest my eyes and feel safe.

For you see, peace does not exist for things like me.

Peace actively rebukes my existence, like a priest rebukes evil in the name of the Lord.

I was never meant to attain salvation—only solitude.

Only indentured servitude to the pursuit of serenity.

I want to be able to lay my hands upon you and, for once, not feel them tremble.

For once, to feel my mind pause—stutter—stop.

But things like me are not granted stillness.

We are granted chaos, and storms beyond comprehension.

My only birthright is to feel myself cave beneath the weight of unyielding inner turmoil and self-desecration.

My anguish, a family heirloom I swore I would break—

but instead, I’ve kept it on the mantle, dusted and polished,

falling into a state of abyssal damnation every time I glimpse its presence.

Your gentle words could never soothe my aching soul.

Could never stop the nightmares that haunt behind my open eyes.

Your eyes were bred of love and sanctity.

Laying your gaze upon my destruction will only fracture your holiness.

And yet you try…

Unabashedly, you throw yourself against the towering spires that guard my heart,

begging desperately to be granted access to the carnage-filled halls.

But I cannot let you in.

I cannot let you fall to corruption.