4/11/23
When I step outside at night
for a smoke and some memories,
I feel sorry for myself once in a while
coughing up some grey stuff
biting my nails
and waiting for the blood to dry
Seven minutes left.
I should check on the pizza
Five minutes left.
I wait for you to text back.
You never do.
I know that
but a little hope can’t hurt.
A couple walks by.
Giggling.
Good for them.
The cigarette burns my lips.
Time to get back inside.
I should get to sleep
Damn it my pizza.
Burned.
Maybe I’ll order out again
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There's just something about a... depraved, gross, and pathetic yandere that gets me going. It's just that they're so tragic that you can't help but coo at them. They rely on you, their mere existence is nothing without you, and it makes my heart swell.
Their eyes water and hearts pound as they watch you, unable to rip them away from your figure. You're just so precious, something to be preserved and kept clean. After all, you're their darling, no? The one person who's lightened their path, someone who's always been there for them, though you've never spoken more than five words to each other.
You don't know it yet, but you've changed their life. For better or for worse? They've got no clue, but they'd like to say for better, though if you knew the things they've done, you'd disagree. But that's fine. Though they crave your validation, you'd understand eventually that everything they've done is for you, you, you.
You are their Goddess, their one shining light that they bow down to, kissing your delicate skin as if it were silk woven from the hands of nymphs. They can't articulate how they feel, unable to fully express the pure devotion that racks through their body when they first laid their eyes upon you, recognizing the kindness and pure bliss you radiated as you interacted with others.
The way they see you is warped, perceiving your form as something more similar to a deity than a human. The ground you walk upon is meant to be worshipped and appraised.
His breath ragged, in and out, rushed sighs as he tried to keep his cool. He can’t; not when you're just there. You’re so close, just out of reach, on the edge of his fingertips. He knows it’s wrong; he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be watching you like this, when you’re oh so vulnerable. It’s gross, it’s perverted, and it’s foul. He knows, but he can’t find the fucks to care.
He grips the stained wall, his dirty nails clawing at the dry material. His mind races with thoughts; how you’re so beautiful, such an innocent, untouched angel. Oh, you’d look so sweet underneath him, letting him show you what you deserve.
He watched carefully, his eyes trained on your figure, as you maneuver through your apartment. He quirked a brow, you seemed to be looking for something?
Your hands rake through your wet hair, breathing softly, a last attempt to calm yourself down. You had to get ready, there was only an hour or two until he arrived... You look into your vanity mirror, your tired eyes staring back at you. Nothing make-up couldn't fix.
You don't need it, he thinks. Of course, the powders and foundations all enhance your pretty face, but he doesn't believe you need it. You look so much more pretty when your face is bare, nothing hiding yourself from him. He feels like he can see you, the real you, the fake persona he's conjured in his brain.
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Forget me
Sometimes I hurt too much.
So much that I wish
all would forget who I was.
The loved ones
I got to meet along the way
and the ones I grew up with.
Some would leave, some would stay.
I would beg to the gods,
to the devils and demons
and all the other mystical beings.
Let them all forget so the pain of my loss would not be.
And I could forever be me and be free.
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my dearest spiteful poet, i call to thee. return, i say. return.
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November
in the gaping chasm ripped
by the abundance of summer
the quarters of the year left
indistinguishable from each other
as if a great witch took a great stick
and stirred them all together
it rained on my birthday and then
again in the winter months
we hardly ever saw the sun
so the herbs in our pots drooped
one by one
the spores released by our dying hearts
make my nose run
and time stands complacent
as if the earth never spun
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