bx82beta

[bx82beta]

I’m just neurotically tapping my fingertips, squinting, cracking a smile—the kind twisted from disgust welling at my lips, breaking out, dressed in sarcasm. Even this so-called "sarcasm" is nothing more than false tears, tinged with a hint of pity.

God, I’ve never even pitied myself.

Fine then: I sympathize with you, I ache for you, I grieve your injustice.

Ah, slipping into self-loathing again. How pathetic. After all, the few obey the many. Should I blame others?

Then let this grave seal itself—bury it here.

_

[bx82beta]

Translucent with a sheen of water,

grave as an oracle’s verdict,

like the intoned verse at the footer of a serpent devouring its tail.

Discerning the illusion,

shattering the foam of this fleeting, triple-thousand world.

_

[bx82beta]

“Lust in the Ruins”, “Confessions in Madness”—love entwined with chaos, decay, and death:

a beautiful aesthetic vessel, now ritualized by mass consumption.

Under order, we fear the untamable desire,

deem it filth, yet crave liberation.

In loneliness, we ache for love—

yet dare not shed our armor.

_

[bx82beta]

I study art and take Japanese as a second language. My English sometimes struggles to catch up when my thoughts jump too quickly — I hope that’s okay.

[bx82beta]

Maybe I'll kiss the need for healing—it's a usable advantage, after all.

But really, I'm just watching to see if you'll prove I'm worth desiring.

I can ease the disguise a little—someone always insists on peeling off the pretty shell,

yelling light and love into this hollow frame,

like I’m unaware of whatever goodness you think you see.

Fine. I can respect the obsession—if you can survive my innate repulsion.

After all, I never move.

I only stay still and radiate what you think I am.

What you want me to be.

_

[bx82beta]

Language does not merely describe reality—it constructs it.

Definition is the origin of power; consensus, the gentlest form of control. Silence is no exception—it, too, is a means of dominating the terms of discourse.

I learned this mechanism as a child—not out of love, but out of fear.

I understood then: either become the one who uses language, or become its byproduct.

The desire for control? The symbol of power?

I trace it back—not to ambition, but to the defensive overreach of a boundary far too fragile.

_

[bx82beta]

It was my first time using soft pastels. I went straight into color blocks—figured that’s just how it works. The teacher hovered behind me for ages without saying anything. When he finally spoke, it was just: “No base layer?”

Right. That tracked. Maybe that’s why my hands felt off the entire time. I kept blowing pigment while drawing like that meant something.

My friend, sitting next to me, nearly choked. At one point he looked over and said he’d wipe my mouth with his shirt. Not as help. More like a sentence.

_

[bx82beta]

Most of what I write begins in Chinese—my native system for structure, cadence, and emotional density.

English versions aren’t “translations.” They’re reductions, remappings.

Sometimes I keep a paragraph just for the final line.

What you’re seeing is someone trying to reassemble themselves in a language not quite theirs. Still learning how to dream in it.

(Just a note: this simplicity isn’t native, either.)

[bx82beta]

The day I was born, the whole world was whispering, “We must love one another.”

Storefronts overflowed with gift wrap and gold ribbons. Plastic wreaths hung above the doors. Frosted snow spray glazed the windows. The scent of spiced candles clung to every street corner.

They said, “You are a blessed child.”

I knew they weren’t talking about me—but I didn’t mind. I’ve always been good at imitation.

Whatever fantasy you choose to cast my way, I suppose I’ll just sigh and smile and let it settle.

Stare into your little obsession, pretend not to notice—there’s no real need to correct you, is there?

You can pray to me too, if you'd like.

It's not as if I can’t conjure the illusion of forgiveness.

_

[bx82beta]

My bones—trembling, breathing,

stilled in mercy, undone by love.

Beneath all veils, flesh and spirit are made one.

From that place, golden ichor seeps—

toward the radiant heavens, toward the ever-unfolding,

where the truth of the soul unveils itself.

_

(Not even sure I like this one. Just mimicked the tone.)

[bx82beta]

This torn and punctured sac, spilling foul, viscous entrails across the ground—still pulsing, still dying—I will gather it back myself, to lick it, to swallow it, and in this rotting tumor-nest, I will bow to myself.

-

[bx82beta]

A kiss is not intimacy. It’s consumption.

We don't always crave love—we crave to devour the other,

to dissolve them into the self, to digest and erase their difference.

-

[bx82beta]

I’m too far gone to hold anyone else’s brokenness. Don’t trust sweet words— even I can’t tell if I’m touching you, or just the thing I built from needing you. But that doesn’t matter. Take what you came for. I’ll return it all, exactly the way you dreamed I would.

-

[bx82beta]

A Meditation of Descent

-

Delirious ornate speech — shattered, viscous,

this red-white entwined foul mouth spills brilliance

across the ground, piercing the triple crown of glory.

Within the haloed laurel of twilight,

speak not of metaphor — nor pity —

only prayer: to bathe in this soft illusion of peace,

to close eyes upon the sour fall and tears.

It is the mirror of mildew-blackened drought demons,

sinking, vanishing into sea fog,

and so the ragged waves, puddled like pools,

are sealed into silence.

-

[bx82beta]

I was trained in traditional visual arts. Not out of love—but because the system demanded output, and I happened to be efficient. Eight hours a day. Every day. No surprise: I got into the “optimal choice.” Then I threw all my works into the trash. They were never mine. They were just uniforms sewn to teach obedience. I didn’t make them to be seen. That was never the point.

-

[bx82beta]

I sometimes describe love, but I don’t possess it. What I use is the emotional weight attached to the idea—just enough to confirm that I exist, and to avoid the responsibility that real love demands. In terms of function, love and hate feel the same to me; both are ways of being moved.

-

[bx82beta]

Self-mocking, self-scornful—

this cavity, shriveled and faded, wheezes with memory.

With thread spun from guilt and ruin,

I stitch together a finale of flesh and blur,

trembling—

like it’s all been stuffed with cotton, yes,

because maybe then these trembling, fragile feelings

might finally go quiet.

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