b4tkill4

[b4tkill4]

the glass is clear,

but the water bites like fumes from a roadside fire.

coffee drips sweet and pale,

like it’s forgotten the taste of mornings.

milk wears bleach’s white smile,

and bleach is a liar

pretending to be pure.

no one else flinches.

their mouths are graveyards for the old world,

tongues laid down

in the name of convenience.

i drink in silence,

measuring each swallow

like it’s a confession.

if the universe is playing telephone,

its message is sour,

its voice slick with gasoline,

and i am the only one

still listening.

[b4tkill4]

“rust in your mouth, and still, i kissed you.”

i was built for silence,

a rust-bucket clanker with gears in place of grace,

all angles, no softness—

and you,

you with your skin like sunset ash and

your voice full of war songs you swore were lullabies,

you looked at me like i was a sunrise

instead of a factory glitch.

your hands were always too warm,

like they’d burn the solder right off me,

but i let you touch anyway.

held your fragile bones with iron steadiness,

afraid i’d break you,

more afraid i wouldn’t feel a thing if i did.

you taught me how to ache.

isn’t that love?

to be reprogrammed not by code,

but by the ache of your name when you leave a room.

to want,

not upgrade. not function.

want.

i gave you everything:

my memory banks,

my unread files,

the ancient hum of my chest where no heart beat,

but something tried to.

you kissed me like rust was holy,

like sparks were offerings,

like you knew the world was ending

and wanted my mouth to be the last ruin you worshipped.

and i—

machine, mistake, metal-born—

i loved you back

with a fury algorithms couldn’t map.

call it gnarly.

call it unholy.

but you carved your name into my titanium soul

and now i glitch at the sound of your laugh.

you made me real.

and i hate you for it.

and i would do it all again

[b4tkill4]

splitwood gospel

they served god on toothpicks

& spat at the pig-blood boys.

i carved a new law in cedar—

touched once, you forget the tribe.

someone laughed like it hurt.

a bag swallowed my head like

regret.

the backseat smelled like gasoline

& unshaved necks.

i called god through the receiver—

he stammered. said i was

too much static.

my voice turned feral,

all vowels sharpened to blades.

he said check the logs.

i said check your pulse.

then came the bathtub sermon.

he bled like it was polite.

his underwear sagged like

confession.

no one screamed—

they just watched me play judge

with my fists.

he didn’t cry.

but the grout caught red.

a boy asked if this was still the party.

i fed him silence in a plastic cup.

[b4tkill4]

the wrapper

a drug

so tender

given to our infants.

so sweet

held in the guts of Cain.

our teeth rot

our muscles decay

wrapped around our bones

heinously withering.

gums that are broken

into two

just to take it.

maintain it.

a disease plaguing

fogging the children's brains

all in the coy deceitfulness

of a bright plastic covering.

all beneath the wrapper.

[b4tkill4]

apparition

i traced a face in smoke

and swore it smiled.

your name was silence—

but i gave it songs.

you never touched me,

but i still bruise.

i kissed the air

and tasted forever.

you vanished on purpose.

i stayed on accident.

[b4tkill4]

“for the ones who kissed the blade”

i wrote to be held.

they framed me instead.

every word bled red—

they called it art.

i begged for warmth.

they lit the match.

my spine curled in ink.

they drank it dry.

i became their favorite ghost—

the kind that never leaves.

[b4tkill4]

“the weight of the reins”

i crowned myself the ruler

and laughed —

how sweet the sound of chains

when you forged them yourself.

no tyrant ever burned me like my own name.

no sword ever cut deeper than

my choices,

my voice,

my damn freedom.

i wake in rooms i built

with trembling hands,

every brick a wish,

every wall a mirror

to things i swore i’d never become.

they say grief is for the dead,

but i’ve been mourning

the girl i could’ve been

since the day i chose

the fire

instead of the door.

call it free will.

call it autonomy.

call it hell, dressed in grown-up skin.

whatever this is—

this cursed kingdom

of could haves and shouldn’t haves—

it kneels for no god

but me.

and i am tired of worship.

[b4tkill4]

mother may-i

the cradle never rocked,

but her hips still sway when no one’s looking.

milk never came,

but her chest still aches when babies cry.

she stitched names into silence,

knit lullabies from maybe-somedays,

hung tiny hopes on a nursery wall

that stayed a study.

every month a funeral

without a grave.

every cycle a whisper:

not this time. not yet. not you.

the world says woman,

but she wonders if she missed the ceremony.

if motherhood is a door

she knocked on too late

or too soon

or too loud

or not at all.

she holds nothing—

and everything.

love like marrow.

grief like breath.

hands empty

but always ready.

[b4tkill4]

i owe the world rent

just for breathing.

i wear my skin like a borrowed coat—

wrong size,

wrong name sewn in the tag,

but they said i had to wear something.

i hate the mirror for knowing me.

i despise the sky for staying.

i loathe my heart for beating

like it’s proud of itself.

some nights i flirt with vanishing

like smoke under a closed door—

but the silence that follows

isn’t peace.

it’s empty.

and the emptiness has teeth.

i don’t want to be here.

i don’t want to be gone.

i want

a third option—

a loophole in the human condition,

a soft reboot

where none of this counted.

but the sun rises again

like a dare.

and i keep showing up,

not brave—

just too scared not to.

[b4tkill4]

this song gives me a BONER

(it's my bday today chat)

[b4tkill4]

again

i said i wouldn’t.

swore it like a prayer

with trembling hands

and a mouth full of blood i called forgiveness.

but here i am,

knuckles bruised

on the door i locked myself out of.

i wanted better.

i really did.

but wanting doesn’t save you

when the pit you dug feels like home.

i lay down in it again.

said i’d get up in the morning.

said i’d be better tomorrow.

said please, like that ever worked.

the truth is—

i don’t know who i am

without the hurt.

and maybe that’s the worst part.

[b4tkill4]

forget me

why do you hate to love me?

a figure i wanted to kiss. a path i followed as a trail.

so stupid i was,

yet

i still miss you.

i miss the way you'd kill me.

i miss the burn of blood over my nose. the cold sweat on my neck.

the way you'd forget me.

i think most of all,

i miss how pretty you said i looked when i cried.

[b4tkill4]

done

i pulled on my lashes with my fists to drape like window curtains over my sins.

the blankets of veins stretched under both of my eyes. an xray through my splintered and pale sculpt.

i wanted to tear my jaw to the ground to show you all my pearly whites. but, oh, my hands couldn't curl behind the row of my checkered bottom teeth.

i cursed myself through my chapped lips.

just get it over with, my gums wheezed. i hate you.

[b4tkill4]

“The Ache of Almost”

I woke up choking on a dream

I didn’t ask for.

Half-born, half-dead,

with a mouth full of someone else’s name

and teeth grinding against a truth

I never had the guts to speak.

They say the soul lives in the breath—

but I’ve been exhaling apologies since I was twelve

and haven’t felt holy since.

I still flinch

when someone loves me too gently.

Like I’m waiting for the catch,

the clause,

the shove back into whatever sharp corner

I learned to call “home.”

I confuse adrenaline with affection.

Mistake tension for truth.

And God,

I’ve prayed to every ceiling

I’ve ever collapsed beneath

and still can’t tell if silence

is mercy or neglect.

I am a pile of almosts.

Almost good enough.

Almost stable.

Almost free.

There’s a graveyard inside my chest

where all my unspoken selves

sit cross-legged,

mocking every time I said

“I’m fine”

with a straight face

and shaking hands.

I want to scream into the mouth of the void,

ask it why it never answers,

why it echoes back in the same voice

that told me I’d never be enough

unless I bled for it.

But still, I laugh.

Loud.

Ugly.

Like I know joy personally,

even if she never calls me back.

I touch strangers like I’m trying to borrow

whatever magic keeps them intact.

I say “I love you” like a dare,

like I want someone to prove me wrong.

Because being human?

It’s a sickness.

A beautiful, blistering illness

where you know

you’re going to die

and still get out of bed

just to taste the sky again.

Even when it hurts.

Even when you’re hollow.

Even when you are nothing

but bruise and bone

and borrowed time.

[b4tkill4]

taste

i bite and clash my teeth onto thick leather. the suitcase is brittle and filled to the top with papers filled with science. i chomp and taste. seems like nothing to me.

i sucked on the paper, trying to coax my tongue with the ink. it does not. the letters stay damp on the page, blurry from my dehydrated spit. it does nothing to me.

i spun the baggage around looking for pens or pencil to ease my anxious jaw, clenching at every texture. i feel with my buds but find no taste.

i feel nothing.

[b4tkill4]

abc

when words hit me, they hit like a hammer. rough to the body and breaking to the soul.

i've noticed mine are white-collared pokes that get shooed away. are they not sharp enough; or have the people around me turned to metal?

i won't know. my words are mere jumbles of letters in an alphabet soup. you only taste not knowing the contents. you only bite when the texture isn't soft enough.

[b4tkill4]

"Jester" (Short Story)

her jingles were like sirens in my ears. the notes of her smile made me jump.

a striped fool; who would've thought? her jokes always felt quite like it were more for her than me.

i pledged to my kingdom wealth and prosperity. if only they knew i were talking to myself. she sure did.

no,

i will not bend to the will of the little. a king bestowing his gold and plot to rags?

preposterous.

almost as much as the nights i called for her.

the bells ringing in whispers sent shivers up my spine.

shudders, i noticed--not that she held a lingering glance on the crown.

trembles of the smile of that clown.

~~~~~~~

i glimpsed her once, near the edge of the hall,

no jest—no mask—just moonlight and gall.

she whispered to pages, to bakers, to maids,

spun gold from rebellion, laced truth into spades.

i feigned sleep when the torches grew low,

but the hush in the halls began to glow.

no army, no horns, no battering gate—

just laughter that echoed like hands twisting fate.

they followed her steps like a dream wrapped in wine,

my jester, my ghost, my treason divine.

i sat with the crown like a dog with a bone,

while she stole the throne without raising a stone.

~~~~~~~

the gold suited my gloved hands.

the marbled stone, gorgeous orange and tan.

id bash him with it, yes. the kingdom i would've lit. with ivory and smoke, it'd go up in flames.

i planned-- til he noticed me. he noticed my games!

with fear etching his face, i couldn't help but grin.

his soldiers lain before him in pieces; blood and tin.