Hi, I’m Flay.
I know you're doing your best.
Harmony is proud of you.
And so am I.
Believe in the you who believes in you.
— Doctor Flayed
Peter Solarz

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@doctorflayed
Hi, I’m Flay.
I know you're doing your best.
Harmony is proud of you.
And so am I.
Believe in the you who believes in you.
— Doctor Flayed
The worst part about moving 1000 miles is that moment two weeks later when you have to unpack and organize all your stuff
i’m wide awake, the green sky
tells me the power may be
touch and go soon. my job
connects me with continents,
cultures, panicked humans who
live to begin and never stop beginning
though here i am as usual, slowing
finding every reason to stop
watching the green sky with hope
a strong wind might pick me up
and carry me someplace motionless
The pale pastel of grief
Watercolor thread
Throwing splotches
At tepid light
Malnourished
At the root
A gentle moan
A bitten wrist
I will wander
Under elm and spruce
I will wrap myself
In never was
These fruiting bodies
Taste like wishes
The river stinks
Of my despair
Poem #100
The wave form, flesh of white fruits
And pre-dawn rain. A taste of open water
That could down you in an inch.
Earth signs mark the southern passages.
Wheat bores from holes perceived as stars.
Asphodels. Yellow-green scents on the tongue.
Speak in triplets like pressing a flower.
Portals of blue and purple, between states,
Before the invention of time gave words to
Our distances. Something pulls at the back
Of my eye, a slip between the red horizon,
Superimposed from another place entirely.
I will tell my children the sky is the colour of pomegranates.
I will show them that the long river’s pull is like walking on the moon.
I will wash them in the slow days between then and now.
A version of me must carry it.
-
Since someone commented on the first draft I feel the need to post the update lol
Marn'in (working title)
Scents of myrrh and sakura drift through the room,
Temple of the Jewel, half-asleep in hidden rooms,
Eyes still closed, but that smell hits first —
Deep inhale, smile in scale.
Eyes open slow.
Messy hair, make-up smudged just right,
your reflection in the morning, my goddess in first light.
Bathe me in that glow, chain me with those purple toes,
my hands slide over the silk covering your bones.
Spring bleeding into autumn nights —
I'll be anyone you need me to be.
Just promise to slay when it counts.
Sloppy kisses, drunk fights, late-night trains,
call me your favorite fool, let everyone know.
Then grab your favorite knives when the lights drop low —
flay me in private, claim this chest,
take everything inside it.
Doctor with dangerous addictions,
chasing obscure obliterations in your sheets.
After the mess, get your little chest.
grab your deck, tell my fortunes
I've already lost what you've said, gorgeous.
Oh priestess of the cards, empress of embroidered blankets,
your foolish initiate begs for your pretty curses —
spicy red ink dripping down flirty verses.
The way your shorts cling tight against your thigh,
the way your hand grips firm around my heart —
bliss creeps in, swallowing my sight, my sound, my art.
I Fooled with elements, chased the Major Arcana,
witnessed the World, out-tricked my Devil.
Now I'm hunting my eternal Love, arcane.
I sacrificed every former self —
every wand, every cup, every coin, every blade.
What's the point of becoming the Hierophant
if I have no goddess left to make me hers… unchained?
Beltane Fire
Fire dance, circling
rosebloom wide.
Maypole wrapped,
pastel ribbons reflect
flickering dancers.
Sparks to stars.
The low November sun. ☀️
Take me back
To the ranges of my origin
To the place where the rivers and the forests sin
To the low November sun,
I, the estranged, homesick son
Call upon fate and every fae
Bring me home today.
This primal connection to my motherland
Each creek i pass, each stick in hand
Wands against despair, loss, ampersand
The many plagues I found,
Combing the desert sand
Take me back, take me back
To the mountains demons fear
For once and for always
My heart lives on Mt. Rainier
Sure, lust is fun.
All intense eyes,
and salivating thoughts,
and 3am make-up sex
under stormy skies.
But the real mind-bending,
life-changing, soul-shaping sex,
is when both people
feel safe enough to disrobe
and surrender to one another.
Safety,
that’s the true turn-on.
3 days till the deadline
Yet no peace for my mind
I said id never end up like this again
But did I ever really get away?
Am I really the same?
What the fuck is wrong with this brain
I'm fading quickly again
Rip out my teeth, break my hand
Give me something to keep my crimes hidden
Foolish sinner; his only target
Foolish self that ran his body for years
Hiding inside;just waiting for a moment of weakness
Meantime he controls the subline
Subconscious corruption over long time
I let this vessel rot from the inside
And only on the edge of death did I find it
The reason to keep me writing
The only thing to pull back from dying
I found strength in the pen,
Meaning in every word and shitty memory
I'm filling out the shell of me
Little moments and love songs
Words pour out from my deepest wounds
Is it really possible? Something I can do?
Can I come back, make it true?
3 days to the deadline
Thinking maybe once I'm back,
My bed will forever be only mine.
the summer is slowly approaching
the solstice who welcomed me to earth
i fear one day she’ll change her mind
and put me right back in the dirt
she felt the timing was appropriate
promised one day i would forgive
though my nights may flow right by
i’m the longest day you’ll ever live
do not mistake this
soft, small exterior
for inferiority
my bones are fractured
just as my father’s
veins, swimming
with a hefty dose
of artificial fear
typically prescribed
to distract
sweat-soaked, gut
wrenching panic
i am self-sensitive
fighting to hold
something
anything
in this losing game
i am a master of
attraction
beggar of affection
but i am not
soft.
though i’ve tried
to embrace this life
and maintain a
pleasant image
i am ripped to shreds
and scattered in a
light breeze
this body contains
creatures, relentlessly
attempting escape
regardless of size
the shame is
alive
i am a war zone
where roles are
reversed, love
the opposing side
i am ice cold
i am a damn coward
F.L.A.Y
Three a.m. on an ugly May day.
No sleep for the wicked,
so to say, foolish Flay.
For if wicked had a shape
it would be his venomed gall.
Left hand swings, drawer of secret things —
small whip, chain collar, love notes and silver rings.
Green flames crawl, consuming the memories.
He inhales the smoke deeper, to ease all his malady.
Right hand finds purchase atop a stack of tomes.
Mindless shuffle through our bored bag of bones.
These forbidden magics — how he met gods and burned down homes.
Nightly he finds himself, medicated on the blood of the earth.
In the books he finds no hope, no future and no love.
All he reads amongst the words
are the souls he lost above.
Not just to sky, easy to mythologize —
but every single spirit that walked all over him.
He dreams of those nights of reckless sin,
flaming hearts like comets in his night.
The taste of genuine, pure love —
never has he known a greater high.
Foolish boy, what are you?
I can sense your shame,
the scent of blood and rot.
Mass grave of ghosts, his worn-out cot.
The flesh which remains,
desiccated, ribboned,
decorations of bonecraft and giblet.
Lost in his illusions, fooled by his own smoke.
Sickened by the face he sees in the mirror.
Soft mind and shredded heart,
the one true undead führer —
imperial corpse locked in his tower alone.
Buried in tomes of mysticism and old phones,
he sinks deeper into his miserable memory.
Tyrant son borne of three fathers:
Base demon, unfitting keeper, and the voices he found in fog.
First taught him anger,
second how to maim the hurt,
final how to shape the unholy ring.
In rage and red he found himself,
sensitive boy gone through warrior’s hell.
End result: the shell.
Meet the wounded healer,
Doctor with necrotic knowledge.
His healing summons hearts and bodies from their graves
for one more weekend, a carnal, empty charade.
His lips and hands draw infernal circles,
binding empty vessels desperate for someone to stay.
Black magics call them —
the ones whose wounds wait for darker days.
Yet only the rot sticks on him…
the fool we know as Flay.
stay
create a poem
or two
give them to me
as a gift
meet me in your
dream realm
stay
in your cozy cage
of literature
where i can always
find you
write me a letter
asking me to
stay
grip the wheel
and drive
meet me nowhere
find me
somewhere
just
stay
Lashed
Under wingbeats, love becomes boreal, captive on the ice queen’s staircase while her ghost ship captain flounders.
White wolves at his heels in dreams, love’s fair as an angelic poker game. Once he went spear-fishing, his lyrics
ground by the glass lake; now he keeps singing, limbs and fingers prey to frostbite. The vivid maws on those wolves gape.
And he climbs into her room, backsliding, sees himself behind her eyes, vital, falls and takes hold of her waist, her thigh,
falls harder. Shatters. Love lies strewn in fragments. Love dies and is resurrected as gaps in ice, cut for the sustenance
of all these frost-blue wild winter birds.
not now kitten. daddy's realizing that the scene he invested 1000 words into could be significantly improved but only if he started over from scratch
she reminds you of a painting
with her eyes always raining
her thoughts of vivid color
her hands, lovely and frail
she is divine, she is woman
her half-moon smiles woven
rose cheeks of freckled clover
the world halts in her gaze
she is an altar of devotion
in her steady swaying motion
she will kneel into your pleasure
she is the temple for your praise