дух

rotting in soft static.

[soulrotted]

~ Cling ~

my body is giving up on me.

i can’t keep food down,

but the meat on my own bones stays

why does it love me more than i do?

i cannot bear the feeling

of my flesh molting,

i want to cleanse myself

i cannot breathe at night.

my lungs are corroded and

my invocations tastes of pennies,

my brain is leaking

retention is a sieve of decompost.

names decay mid-syllable.

i am falling apart

organ by organ,

hope by hemorrhage.

I’m becoming an absence,

wrapped in the insult of still having a body

[ars0nsblog]

Me :>

[soulrotted]

~ 988 ~

i don’t know what day it is

or if i’m still supposed to be here.

something is inside me

pulling wires and snapping things softly.

i was good. i did the things.

i wore my skin right.

i smiled in the pictures.

i answered the phone.

i said “love you” back.

i was good

until i wasn’t.

they looked at me as if i was roadkill

now i’m just air in my bones.

iv left pieces everywhere.

please see me.

who cares.

i never said anything.

they’ll say

i seemed fine.

but the room was full

full of me

[soulrotted]

~ there’s something wrong with me// it has teeth ~

i’ve wanted to die since i was eight.

not because i was sad—

because it felt correct.

like gravity.

like the itch behind your eyes

right before you cry for no reason.

some people dream of growing up.

i used to dream about disappearing

like sugar in water.

not dramatic. just gone.

i still move. still speak.

still blink when i’m supposed to.

but nothing feels connected.

like my body forgot me mid-sentence.

people think this is a phase

but it’s bone-deep static.

a sound only i can hear.

it rattles when i laugh.

it paces when i rest.

it bites when i hope.

something is wrong with me.

and it’s not beautiful,

not poetic.

it’s not “light at the end.”

it’s a hole that keeps its shape,

no matter how much i fill it.

[silkenfuneral]

fuck this weather.. need a cutting date with my bestie asap! ^-^

[soulrotted]

~ Ink-Eater ~

I loved you like a worm loves ink—

slithering through every vowel you never meant,

my body contorting in the spaces between

“I’ll call you” and “I meant to.”

Your love sat on my chest like a taxidermy swan,

beautiful, but deteriorating

from the inside feathers out.

I wrote you poems but your replies were always in Morse code

tapped out by a drunk pigeon on a power line.

You held my hand like a cacodemon holds a grudge.

I felt like a home being devoured by moths.

I keep your name in my mouth like a bitter seed,

and when I spit it out,

the ground around me dies.

This is love:

a worm in a typewriter

writing its own eulogy

[soulrotted]

~ untouchable ~

You are not of this earth— something softer, untouchable. The air bends for you, your light splitting the dark in ways you don't even notice

What kind of angel knows pain like you do, and still smiles as if to tell it: I am bigger than this? What kind of angel leaves her fingerprints on everyone’s broken places and makes them beautiful again?

You have no idea what you are. You call it love; I call it a miracle you were stolen straight from heaven

You don’t see it, do you? How rare it is to shine like this and not burn. How people spend lifetimes waiting for someone like you.

[soulrotted]

~ the sound of breaking ~

I said it not to hurt you, but because it felt inevitable, like spilling blood to prove you’re alive. You call me a savior, but I don’t feel holy. I just hate the sound of things breaking. Maybe it’s selfish, but if I’m the reason you’re still standing, at least I’m useful.

[soulrotted]

you guys treat each other like shit then act surprised when the other does something about it

[soulrotted]

~ residual ~

the love of my life just told me to die

The love of my life told me to die, and for once, they weren’t pretending. No one else looks at me the way they do— like I’m pathetic, but still theirs to hate.

I’ve always been the one who thinks silence is a challenge. They don’t call anymore. their texts are short, sharp, and final. Last night: You make everything worse. I wrote it down like it mattered.

They hate me. They want me gone. But if I’m still the problem, then I’m still the center of her world.

[soulrotted]

[soulrotted]

~ shifted skin ~

There are mornings when I wake and feel the itch of the chisel, a hunger for smoothness—no, not softness—smoothness, like untouched marble.

I think of how veins run through stone, pale and secret, how no one questions their right to be there. not like mine, these slender raised testimonies. sometimes, I ache for a kiln, for a rebirth of skin, to be remade, clean, and chill to the touch, without memory, without map.

I would stand bare in a white room, no history written down my arms, no ghost of days when the world squeezed me in.

only the slow breathing of stone, only me, hollow and whole.

[soulrotted]

~media in the kitchen~

You thought I’d wait but I never said that. I made tea, and you made lists.

I knew you’d go when your coat stayed zipped. It wasn’t cold.

There was no war, just the silence after a bell.

I watched the stove tick. You asked if I still loved you. I said, probably. You laughed too hard.

I read Artaud again. It felt like standing up too fast.

I never tried to win. You kept score anyway

[soulrotted]

Sometimes it feels as though I'm endlessly ensnared in the tangled wires of the human mind.

The thoughts loop and snarl whilst I navigate through the mental clutter searching for clarity.

Each day, rummaging through the dense web of thoughts, memories, and emotions that crowd the mind.

Despite my years, the knots persist, they even seem to tighten, leaving me with fatigue.

Iv come to realize that untangling these wires completely is a futile endeavor; instead finding peace in the space between the knots.

[soulrotted]

~ executioners heart ~

each verse is a noose, your name, a tombstone syllable, I killed you long before my hands knew how to -

with quiet murders in my mind, whispers of betrayal you never heard.

Now I stand here, the guilty executioner of my own soul, slashing the strings that held us together—

love, and hate, are just synonyms now. And you, a ghost breathing inside me, forever haunting the spaces I wanted to keep clean.