rdzyvth

[rdzyvth]

marianne.

it is a quiet devastation, a humbling realization, that the purest love i have ever known is also the one most condemned. this love, soft in its unfolding and sacred in its sincerity, is seen as unclean by the very voices that shaped my world. the gods who shaped me with their own hands, carved from gold and fear, now turn their faces away. the people in power, draped in righteousness, speak of it with trembling judgment.

they call it wrong, the love that made me whole. they call it sin, this holiness i found in you.

in the end, it wasn’t just your hand that let go, and it wasn’t just mine. it was a quiet surrender, not a storm, not out of absence, but out of fear that even love as real as ours would never be enough in the eyes watching. you wanted a life that made sense to the world. a traditional home, a father for your children, a man you could present to your family with pride, without fear. and i wanted that too, in my own aching way. i wanted the ease of being accepted, the warmth of a love that didn’t need explaining.

yet even as we stepped into the shapes the world carved for us, i carried a quiet bitterness, because beneath every vow and tradition, we both knew — i, a woman, was the only man your heart ever truly named.

[rdzyvth]

I should probably be medicated

[rdzyvth]

my boy is a hollow echo, a shadow grasping for substance.

when did men become prisoners of the very world they built, shackled by expectations they once cast like chains upon others? the weight of becoming something desirable, something worthy, that burden belongs to women, doesn’t it? what could a man know of carving himself into a shape the world might love?

you walk through life unbound, cloaked in the privilege of indifference. be a failure, a cruel father, a drunken son, wear these flaws like armor, and still, the world will not turn its gaze. you remain untouchable, your sins swallowed by the silence of those too tired to care.

[rdzyvth]

I swore I've seen you before.

There is a strange solace in your absence, for it is laced with knowing you. In every lifetime, I feel the inevitability of your presence — a bond sealed beyond the bounds of time. From our first kiss, your lips stirred a sense of something long-lived, a familiarity that whispered it was not our first. Ours is a fate of meeting and parting, of love forged in shadows and loss stretched across ages. I cannot fathom what sins we might have committed in the past, but it seems our fates are entwined by the weight of ancient debts — a karma bound by every meeting, every kiss, and every farewell. If losing you now feels like a wound deep enough to scar my soul, perhaps it is retribution for sins of another time. Perhaps, once, I drove a dagger into your heart, and now you, with this silent cruelty, seek to bury me in return.

The notion of meeting in every lifetime is a fool’s fantasy, crafted by those who yearn for people who were never theirs to keep. In our case, I have no such wish — I would rather never encounter you again. I’d choose to be reborn as something insignificant, a stone on some forgotten path, serving no purpose in your life, something you kick absently on the roadside or cast into a lake without thought. And yet, fate binds us, again and again, like a curse woven into the fabric of our souls. Each lifetime I pass you by, condemned to repeat our dance of wounds and kisses — a relentless cycle of desire and destruction. Every time, we are each other’s undoing, the figures who haunt the heart and tarnish all perception before the one who could finally heal us appears.

I knew it was never destined to last, for we were never meant to be bound by vows but by the venom of mutual destruction. Had we remained together, we would have torn each other apart, leaving nothing but ruin in our wake. I believe our souls meet in every lifetime, not for love, but to sharpen the edges of hatred — to teach one another the true weight of resentment. Each time, you leave a scar so intricate that only you can recognize and heal it. The loathing feels as ancient as my very being, a bitterness steeped in centuries, familiar as a dark habit clinging to my soul. Wishing to erase you from my memory feels like a refrain I’ve spoken across ages, a plea to the heavens that echoes through time.

If this is to be my fate, then let the gods end my soul’s journey for good, sparing me from the torment of knowing you yet again.

[rdzyvth]

Does your mother know that somewhere, a woman looks upon her son and sees only the devil’s own child?

I have encountered her — she embodies the very essence of every woman who strives tirelessly for her family, yet at some tragic juncture, she became invisible, never quite seen in the light she yearned for. You told me she was a storm you could never sail with, that there was a gulf between you, a chasm of misunderstood words and bruised expectations. And in every bitter clash with her, it was my arms you sought, my warmth you craved — the gentleness of a woman you could never find within the walls of your own home. Your mother was like every mother, and yet, in your heart, you clung to the hope that when we built our own home, I would be nothing like her. To avoid becoming her would mean to yield completely, to embody every duty as a mother in silence. Isn’t that what you wanted? A mother for your children who’d bite her tongue, yet open herself to you without a word of resistance.

Hatred has always festered within your heart, and with every flicker of guilt that ignites within me, I am haunted by the knowledge that I comprehend your mother more deeply than her own son ever could. But who are you to cast judgment when it comes to parenting? Have you ever contemplated the thought that I would never permit my daughter to be associated with a man like you? I find myself infinitely more content now, reveling in the emptiness we have created together. Yet, the unsettling thought persists that somewhere beyond, a creature akin to you lurks. It is a daunting task to rear a daughter in a world where the specter of men like you looms. Men who believe themselves of such import that they wish for her to be ensnared beneath their dominance. Men whose insecurities drive them to demand the forsaking of all she holds dear. Men who loathe your strength because it threatens them. Men who cling on, not out of love, but to drain every last spark from you until there’s nothing left. Men. Just. Like. You.

If I were to unearth the depths of your misdeeds and lay them bare for your mother, it would not be you to bore the weight of blame. No, she would cast her gaze inward, plagued by the torment of her own perceived failures, wondering how such a creature could emerge from the sacred confines of her seemingly flawless home. How could she, a nurturer of love, unwittingly raise a soul so twisted in the shadows of her affection? It is the burden of a mother’s love to shoulder the disgrace of her wayward sons, yet I yearn for a world where this burden is not her eternal fate. For you, the smallest man to grace this earth, I hope your mother is driven to question the very essence of her existence, grappling with the sacrifices made for a life that has birthed nothing but a wretched and futile echo of manhood.

But I shall remain here in silence, pen in hand, crafting words that will never reveal your true nature to her. No, she will learn of you through the whispers of another woman, for that is the essence of your being. I harbor no desire for revenge, for it is you who must endure the weight of your own identity, forever bound to the man you have chosen to become.

[rdzyvth]

I despise labor, for each drop of sweat feels like a sacrifice upon the altar of the wealthy, my efforts feeding their gain while I am left hollow. Yet, I was glad to choose the night shift—clinging to exhaustion if it means I will no longer cross paths with you beneath the sun.

[rdzyvth]

u really believe that gentle love crap?

Loving me demands a warning, like a red thread tied to a trigger pulled only by those who understand the dangerous depths of love’s brutality. There is no soft love, no whispers of kindness at the heart of it. Those who tell you love is gentle have never felt its razor edges, have never seen how it scalds and marks the soul. Do not trust them; their love is safe, bloodless, and they will not give of themselves until they are emptied. They will let you drown in shallow waters, all while calling it love.

Love is not a passive sentiment. It is a fever, a haunting, a savage bond that claws under the skin. It demands to be tasted, craved, suffered. It is the hunger that gnaws, the breath that aches without their touch, a sweet agony that lives in the bones. To love is to ache, to bleed, to know how deeply you can wound and still remain. Those I love wear the mark of it, a quiet carnage born from longing, a crime scene not painted in malice but in an unholy devotion.

I do not crave affection, nor do I yearn for its fragile comforts. What I seek is endurance, a loyalty so feral it will bleed dry for me. I do not care for sonnets or flowery oaths. I need to know how deeply you would suffer without me, how many scars you would bear, how far you’d fall into the blackest depths if I left your side. That is the love I live for — the flesh-and-bone devotion that strips the soul bare.

[rdzyvth]

depollute me, pretty baby.

this body is not my own. it has been shaped by the hounds of fate, who see us as nothing but a sacred vessel of bones, a wretched offering to their insatiable hunger. every inch of my skin bears wounds, festering from the belief that true love must begin with the brutal tearing of one's chest-ripping forth the heart to offer it whole, so that I might never divide my love between another, not even for myself. unfortunately, i might forever love in this manner. i love in a way that i would unweave every thread binding my chest, so you may gaze upon the entirety of my being. i would gladly conceal my scars, sparing you the weight of guilt, and should you tire of what you see— i would stitch my skin back together without hesitation, content in your fleeting glance. but if i were to love in such a way still, would there ever be one who could cherish me without the need to pry open my bleeding wounds?

if i were to deprive you, i pray it is the memory of my hand resting gently in yours that you long for, and not the pieces of my body. and if you ever cleanse the tangled words within my mind without laying a hand upon my flesh, you'll be the first who ever did.

[rdzyvth]

Where is God?

I discovered God in a musical presence. The Almighty reveals Himself in the languid drawl of your accent, where heavy diphthongs and rich vowel sounds linger. He is present in your stuttering speech, your reserved demeanor, and in the powerful vibrato that reigns over the hymns of the gospel choir— echoing through the sacred halls like an ancient incantation. Had King Jehoshaphat possessed my ears, he would have placed you at the forefront of his battle. Yet, you would alter their destiny, obliterating their crowning defeat as effortlessly as you dispelled the suffocating battle within my mind with every note you sing. I unwittingly reclaim the act of blessing, unknowing and unthinking, merely by breathing the same air as you. You compel me to pray without faith, for in my adoration of you, I commit blasphemy. God despises us, for you turn my devotion into sacrilege.

[rdzyvth]

How miserable my inner existence had grown, desperately seeking a symbol of affection devoid of lust from one who was unwilling to give it.

He clings to me as he does to his boring sport that he is mediocre at—if so, he may as well cling to any long-familiar habit like his emotional connection to every other women. I felt bitter about it, he embraces this apathy as if he had resigned himself to it long ago. All I desire is for him to possess what he yearns for. I wish to be simple and nothing, to have a friction between his fantasy and my true self. I long for all this for him, yet I wish for none of it. Who placed the barrier between us? Was it him, was it me, or was it both of us? Reflecting upon it, I believed I understood his desires, yet I find myself puzzled. I showed him everything, I thought he was bored of it. He has taught me for a long time the consequence of refusing a man. It drains my spirit to muster the strength to say no when he has so thoroughly conditioned me to say yes, to be obliging, and to satisfy the whims of men as shitty as he. Once having uttered the word no, whether couched in gentleness or unspoken— the sweet talk of a man becomes intolerable. His silence itself implies: Your decision holds consequence. Do you want me to be irritated? My desires matters, and I seek to evade the guilt of forcing you into this. Might you entertain a rethink? Yet the stupid man he is— remains unaware that to convert one's no into yes is to rip off what is not rightfully his.

And you wonder why I'm bitter?

[rdzyvth]

How does one continue to exist when one's very soul has been colonized, when the sanctity of one's being has been violated? How does one utter a laugh without the haunting echo of a singular laugh that now entwines itself with the very essence of one's existence? How can you keep forgiving the person, the man who perceived you merely as an object, who possesses no intention to forgive, who harbors no intention of understanding, who is both an absent presence for all eternity and an omnipresent force within you? How will you ever come to accept the touch of another after that? How can you find it within yourself to forgive your own soul?

And you, how the fuck would you feel if she did the same things to you?

[rdzyvth]

What might a woman who is not a mother undertake that eclipse the profound act of mothering? Can one even say that there is a purpose more important for a woman than the sacred duty of motherhood? If I contemplate the act of raising a child in my home and proclaim that this is what I have chosen to forgo, what then have I truly chosen, if anything at all? I know a woman who shuns motherhood, rejects what is hailed as the utmost duty in society, and then becomes the most unimportant of women. Yet, even the mothers are not important. None of us hold any true importance.

Do I desire to have children because I wish to be esteemed as the sort of woman who has them? Is it the aspiration to be perceived as an ideal woman, or is it the ambition to be a woman who doesn't only thrive but also possesses the capability to nurture a human and someone whom another person wishes to produce with? Do I long for a child to prove to myself that I can still be the kind of liberated woman who experiences motherhood, without burdening the child with the task of extracting her mother's tears like what my mother did and what my grandmother did to her? The egoism inherent in childbearing is akin to the egoism of colonizing a whole country. Both are driven by the desire to leave a mark of oneself upon the world, to remake it according to one's own likeness. Perhaps I am not fundamentally distinct from those individuals who expand their influence across numerous pages, fueled by the aspiration of their words reaching every corner of the world. Our dissimilarities may be trivial, distinguished solely by our varying beliefs that we should get to chose what parts of ourselves we feel compelled to propagate to our children. I do not wish for our flesh— the flesh of my mother, grandmother, and greatgrandmother— merely to propagate endlessly. Rather, I yearn for their lives to be esteemed and celebrated. I aspire to bring forth a child whose essence is immortal— a vessel capable of articulating enduring narratives that is impervious to destruction.

And if I should bear a daughter to continue the cycle, then may fortune guide her to nurture a son.

[rdzyvth]

You were not always this person. I used to be a whole person, the ideal synthesis of my greatest and worst qualities. Not like you, I soared above all limitations and boundaries—until, to use one word, I was split apart.

I turned into a person who was desperate for closeness, loyal and passionately committed to a writer—the muse that etched my spirit. She did what I had hoped innumerable others would do—she saw past the overarching concept of my flimsy societal relevance and acknowledged the inside of my brain and humor and philosophies and talent and acute mind and my unyielding stance against fools. I questioned whether most people's experiences were like this: a clear road from desire to fulfillment, with desires constantly emerging and being satisfied in an orderly sequence. This had never been my reality before; it had always been fraught. The tormenting fraught of pondering and questioning, "If I just looked a little different, would I be drowning in love?" Now, I get to drown without having to alter a single cell. Literally. Drowning. I left, carrying her image with me: moved to the city, worked in publishing, yearned for her, listened to her scream over the phone, hated her, loved her, lusted over her, now her father hates me more than anything. I told her to go to therapy because I can’t handle her anger alone, she told me sure as long as I fuck myself, so I loathed her again and again and drove seven hours each week to see her, only to have her look at me as if I were the most scrutinized person in the world. Every moment in her presence felt like a gun was poised on the mantelpiece. A figurative gun, naturally. If it were an actual gun, I would likely be dead.

But you. You are one job, two lovers, three cities away from her. Four years on and you still dream about it. You took a job to fill the void. You’d rather have an orgasm than do most things. You wrote for people who can’t read poetries. You cried in front of people. You missed hang outs, parties, the solar eclipse, and high school reunions. You tried to bare your soul to those who can't comprehend art. You despise it when people say foolish things. You came to realize too late that your life had been compromised by a lack of ambition. You made a fool of yourself in more ways than one. YOU WISH SHE WAS A MAN BECAUSE THEN AT LEAST IT WOULD REINFORCE YOUR IDEAS ABOUT PEOPLE AND HOW SHE LIKELY WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND. You seek an explanation that absolves her of responsibility, allowing your relationship to continue uninterrupted.

I thought you were gone, but as I write this, I'm uncertain if you truly are. And now, four years later, I still fear that if I wake myself up forcefully, she will emerge from the dream and enter the world, where I feel secure but distant.