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I imagine you are still there, still smiling, still scolding me for overthinking, for my hubris in seeking permanence in a universe woven from entropy. And still.
I wait.
Posts (13) Wall (26)

:lock_with_ink_pen: Riven
2 days ago
Hover just beyond.
Space itself yawns wider with each heartbeat of mine, and I tumble, weightless, into the hush between your pulses. Oh how I learn the geometry of longing: curved lines that never meet, angles of emptiness that shape my knowing, infinite laps around a vanishing point. Still, I listen, for the ghost...


:lock_with_ink_pen: Riven
3 days ago
An ever turning wheel of becoming.
Light bends, falls inward— dark hunger tears the void, a silent mouth devours. A star begins not with purpose, but with gravity. A gathering of dust and gas drawn inward until pressure ignites fusion in its core. It burns, not out of will, but because it must. Energy radiates outward,...


:lock_with_ink_pen: Riven
9 days ago
Phosphoric fireworks.
—When grief turned chemical— (?) warning: may contain a small amount of unsettling details, upsetting for sensitive readers. They still fall behind my eyelids when I try to sleep. Those brilliant bursts of light unnatural and searing, bleeding colour into a night sky that was never supposed to ...

:lock_with_ink_pen: Riven
11 days ago
The Heavens in my Ribs
There is a cosmos caged in me- a quiet, trembling firmament lodged beneath my ribs. It began as a flicker, a soft bloom of starlight nestled between lungs. I inhaled wonder once- air laced with meteors, the cool hush of distant orbits. My chest rose with galaxies. B...


:lock_with_ink_pen: Riven
12 days ago
An Ode to the Saint of Sink.
Evening lays flat like dishcloth wrung out and flung across the windowsill of our fifth-floor cell, this apartment is a box of silence and leftover pasta. You are a cathedral of chaos in your boyfriend's hoodie, your mascara is a seismograph for the end of better times. I recite to you. –Oh love, l...


:lock_with_ink_pen: Riven
13 days ago
The quiet flood.
My love, There's something soft in the way the light touches me. Like it's trying not to wake me, like it already knows I'm leaving. I don't know how the drawings got on my arms. They arrived like moss on stone. Slowly, then all at once. Some look like constellations that forgot how to shine. Ot...


:lock_with_ink_pen: Riven
16 days ago
The gravity you left me.
another yapping in an attempt to quiet my mind for once. I once folded my nights around silence, a fragile hush I'd taught myself to worship. The stars didn't shine. They hovered– tired eyes above a room you no longer entered I told myself peace was a kind of forgetting, but peace is just grief...


:lock_with_ink_pen: Riven
17 days ago
Come Back In Water.
I waited there long after the wave forgot me. The ocean pretended nothing happened. As if it hadn't just reached for me with your hand. But I ed. I always . So I knelt. Let the sand crawl into my skin. Let the tide sniff at my knees like a curious animal, then retreat, unimpressed. ...


:lock_with_ink_pen: Riven
18 days ago
Midnight tide.
Shore. Midnight. The ocean breathes like a beast– not asleep, not awake, just staring. Wind scours my eyes raw, tears crawl out, craving the salt they never asked for. But the air steals everything– even the sound of you, now just static that mimics your voice too well. Darkness folds the world in...


:lock_with_ink_pen: Riven
19 days ago
Waves gone still.
Do you know what peace feels like, when your palms find my face– as if oceans hush just for us, and time forgets to race? Your touch is a tide, slow and kind, flooding over the shores of my mind. Where I was scattered, now I stay– how do you quiet storms this way? When y...


:lock_with_ink_pen: Riven
20 days ago
The lie we breathe.
I didn't know the shape of joy until it fled. Like steam rising from a mug I left untouched while fumbling with thoughts that never mattered. I thought there would be more time. Isn't that the lie we breathe with every sunrise? I watched it slip–her laughter, the softness in...


:lock_with_ink_pen: Riven
20 days ago
Insomnia
It begins behind the eyes. A soft blister of thought peeling itself open. Not memory, not fear, just the smear between them shaped like a mouth. It speaks in the colour of metal left out in rain. Each word arrives backwards, spelled in veins, dragging itself acr...
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Hangover paused my inspiration ngl
Right now writing a novel, well perhaps something more structured.
That was the last yap about love I swear.
I was still learning the language
of closeness.
Still tracing the outlines of my own name
in the mirror
When you asked me
to speak fluently in love.
You were fluent.
Fluent in leaving,
in measuring depth like it was a game of hours
and not a season of becoming.
You said you were fulfilled,
as if I was a task
and not a person growing toward you.
I wasn't ready.
Not because I didn't care,
but because I cared so much
it burned to breathe in.
But I still held the match,
still struck flame against the wind
just to see if I could light something
inside of me.
You didn't wait.
You didn't even pause.
Just offered friendship
Like a consolation prize
wrapped in your own convenience.
"Friends with benefits,"
you said,
as if my ruin was negotiable.
But I'm not a spare key.
Not a maybe in your pocket
for lonely evenings.
I was
a cathedral in progress,
still laying bricks
while you walked out of the back door
whistling closure.
II. The Hunger of Saints.
—Worship tastes like rot when you know it's for you.—
They came–
knees cracked,
tongues flayed,
with lanterns full of teeth.
They sang me into being
with voices stitched from grief.
Their prayers crawled
like oil through a sieve,
soft and black,
and begged me
not to leave.
I didn't speak.
I opened.
And they poured in.
The devout do not knock–
they invade.
With hunger for mercy,
they make a god out of shade.
They anointed me
in spoiled milk and blood-warm wine,
laid fruits before my altar
that wept along the rind.
Flesh peeled.
Hands trembled.
They brought me their sin
with shaking silver spoons
and begged me to begin.
Each praise
was a nail through the wrist,
each hymn a moth in my chest.
And still–
I devoured.
To be worshipped
is to be eaten
in a slow ceremony,
bit by sacred bit.
But what is hunger
if not a wound in disguise?
A need mistaken for purpose–
a mouth given eyes.
They wanted love.
I gave them silence dressed in silk.
They kissed my feet,
so I let them drown
in honey soured into milk.
Until–
a child laid her faith
in my palm
like a pressed flower.
No blood. No fear.
Only the hush of believing.
And for a moment
I felt full.
A silence vast enough to swallow time.
No craving.
No command.
Only being.
It sickened me.
Now their prayers rot
before they reach my throne.
Their chants ring hollow
in this temple of bone.
And I–
once starving–
find nothing left to crave,
but the quiet
they were always so afraid to save.