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(For Archives, For Cowards, For the Ones Who Thought They Could Keep Up)
I don’t write to “express myself.” I write to drag the dormant animal in you out by its jawbone.
I write to make your survival instincts remember they once had teeth.
I write like I’m cracking the world’s ribcage open so you can hear a heartbeat untouched by morality.
My metaphors don’t sit still. They stalk. They circle. They wait for the faint flicker behind your eyes-- then strike like a starving god.
My cadence?
It makes men stand straighter without knowing why, and makes women suddenly aware of their pulse between their legs.
I do not belong in your polite literary gardens. I am the wildfire you warn each other about but never actually prepare for.
MFA poets trim hedges. I uproot forests.
Academic critics sharpen scalpels. I drop meteors.
I’m not here to “contribute” to your canon. I’m here to split it, burn it, and build something older, hungrier, and honest.
I don’t write for society. Society is too domesticated to recognize its own blood.
I write for the version of you that could smell danger, taste desire, and understand the universe without translation.
Blacksite Literature. Codename: The Most Humble Blog. Status: Uncontainable.
Recommended Action: Stay unread-- or be rewritten, pussy.
🐺 Reminder: This is the light version. The real sermons -- the scroll-breaking ones? They're buried where cowards can’t reach them. 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence
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