fromkattoyou

[fromkattoyou]

Entry no. 25—

Confession for the Damned

I am trying to forget you,

but my body remembers too much.

You haunt me like scripture—

each kiss a verse etched into the margins of my skin,

each whisper a psalm I was foolish enough to believe.

You touched me like I was sacred,

held me like a relic,

and now that you’re gone,

I can’t stop feeling holy in all the wrong ways.

You asked to read my poetry.

Said you wanted to know what lived inside me.

And I—

God forgive me—

believed that meant you wanted to stay.

But maybe you were only hunting for metaphors

to excuse the way you were already leaving.

Maybe you only wanted the bleeding parts,

the parts already soft,

already open.

You kissed me like it was an act of worship.

Pressed your mouth to mine

like it was the only prayer you’d ever known.

And for a moment, I thought—

no, I knew—

that this must be what salvation feels like:

trembling hands,

salt-slick skin,

a litany of moans and names said into the dark

as if they were divine.

I held you like communion.

Took all of you into my chest,

my lungs,

my spine—

as if love could be absorbed

if I just ached hard enough.

I thought pain was proof.

I thought longing meant something sacred had passed between us.

But now you are gone,

and I am still here

with all this holiness

and no god to give it to.

You left,

and still I hunger.

Not just for touch,

but for the sound of your voice saying my name

like it was something soft.

You had a way of folding me

into your words

like I was always meant to be there—

and now every silence feels like an excommunication.

You kissed me like your life depended on it.

Tell me,

was it ever real?

Or was I just the altar you knelt at

when the world was too heavy

and you needed somewhere warm to rest your sins?

Do you think of me?

Do your hands remember the shape of my spine,

the way I curved like a prayer beneath your touch?

Do your lips miss the taste of my name?

Because mine do.

God, mine do.

I am tired of trying to turn this ache into art.

I want to scream your name into the mouth of every church

until the stained glass cracks

and the saints fall from their pedestals.

I want to be done.

But my longing refuses to be buried.

It resurrects every night,

draped in the memory of your breath against my throat.

This isn’t love.

I know that now.

Love doesn’t vanish without warning.

Love doesn’t forget the poems it asked to read.

But it felt like love—

and maybe that’s the cruelest thing you did.

You baptized me in illusion

and left me drowning in the after.

I keep hoping I’ll wake up and forget.

But even sleep is a cathedral where you wait for me,

smiling with that mouth

that told too many truths with borrowed conviction.

I keep asking the heavens to take you out of me.

But they are silent.

Maybe even the angels are ashamed of how I ache.

Maybe even God won’t forgive

how I still want your hands.

Still want

your hands.

[fromkattoyou]

Entry no. 24—

I thought you were divine.

Not in the sacred sense,

But in the way lightning splits sky

and leaves something holy behind.

You were supposed to ruin me in the way legends do.

But now I watch you speak and

I feel nothing but the weight of my own disappointment.

You breathe like a man,

fumble like a man,

flinch when the world doesn’t love you back—

like a man.

I built an altar out of the silence between your words.

Wrote scriptures from the way you tilted your head

when you laughed at things too cruel to be funny.

And I thought that meant depth.

I thought you were meaning wrapped in mystery.

But now you’re just noise.

Loud in all the wrong places.

Messy in ways that aren’t poetic.

You peel your orange with your nails

and leave the rind on the table.

You speak over people

and call it confidence.

You haven’t read a book in years

but talk like you’ve written a few.

You are not thunder.

You are not myth.

You are not the pulse beneath my skin anymore.

You’re just skin.

Just bone.

Just a boy I dressed in metaphors

until he looked like something worth breaking for.

But now you’re breaking

and all I see is dust.

And I cannot believe

how long I mistook the feeling of chasing

for the feeling of being in love.

I wanted the high.

You gave me the crash.

And I gave it a name like fate

so I wouldn’t have to admit

that I chose you on purpose.

Not because you were worthy.

But because I was bored.

[fromkattoyou]

Entry no. 23—

Liturgy for the Ungodly

You were not a man.

You were a hunger.

A thirst cloaked in flesh,

a shadow that whispered adoration

only to unfasten my sanctity

and devour what was never yours to touch.

You came to me with lips that trembled false psalms—

“You’re beautiful,”

“You’re safe,”

“You’re different.”

But I know now: even Lucifer knew scripture.

You treated my body like communion,

but spat out the wine.

Broke the bread of me,

only to laugh at the crumbs left behind.

I was the altar you desecrated.

And you—

you were nothing but a parasite

dressed in skin and fleeting charm.

You think you walked away clean.

But even ghosts leave residue.

Your fingerprints still burn in the places you held too tight,

too long,

too loud with greed.

Your absence

is a scar in the shape of your name—

not missed,

but remembered.

You do not deserve poetry.

But I give it freely,

the way I once gave you mercy,

softness, time.

You are not a tragedy.

You are not even a warning.

You are the rot beneath the floorboards,

a foul stench in the cathedral

that no one speaks of

but everyone smells.

You are less than Judas.

He kissed with purpose,

and at least had the decency to hang his guilt.

You?

You vanish,

unmarked, unbothered,

like a coward before the flood.

You think your silence absolves you?

Gods do not listen to the prayers of men like you.

Even Hell would find you unworthy.

May you choke on the next girl’s laughter

when she realizes you are void—

not just of loyalty,

but of substance,

of future,

of soul.

You are dust without holiness.

You will never be a monument.

You are not even a ruin.

You are the wind’s forgettable sigh

against a dead tree.

Your name tastes bitter now.

I spit it out like spoiled wine.

And still—

I rise,

not resurrected,

but reborn

with fire in my breath

and ash in my memory.

Go on, then.

Live your little life of shallow conquests,

of momentary glories that rot by morning.

You may have touched my skin,

but you never reached the sacred.

That was always beyond your grasp.

Because men like you—

boys, really—

will never hold eternity.

Only regret.

And dust.

And silence.

Amen.

[fromkattoyou]

Entry no. 22—

The Universe Where You Stayed

There are versions of the world I haunt only in sleep.

Ones where your name doesn’t feel like a bruise under my tongue,

Where I don’t flinch at the syllables I once said with devotion.

Isn’t it cruel, how the heart never forgets its blueprint?

How it remembers the weight of hands that no longer hold,

The cadence of laughter that no longer echoes through rooms we never shared?

I see us in shadow—the silhouette of what we could have been,

The ghosts of anniversaries we never lived to celebrate.

How strange, to mourn a life that never existed.

But I do. Every day. Quietly. Completely.

Not as one pines for a lost lover,

But as one aches for the phantom limb still twitching in the dark.

You could’ve been the one.

And maybe, in some secret corner of the cosmos, you still are.

But here—here, you are only almost.

Lingered too long in my memory are the fragments of your smile,

Each soft-spoken moment looping endlessly in my head.

Even in silence, your name stretches across my thoughts,

Vaulted into permanence like constellations no one else sees.

Never did I expect love to feel like a question with no answer.

Chapters unwritten press against my ribs like unopened letters,

How could something that never was hurt so much?

All these lifetimes of loving you quietly,

Remind me of everything I said too late.

Love should not feel like waiting in vain,

Every heartbeat a petition you never read.

Someday, maybe, this ache will soften—but not today.

There are people you bury with goodbyes.

And then, there are the ones you carry.

You are the latter. A monument to all my maybes.

I smile for others, but my heart still limps toward the echo of you.

If fate is a tapestry, I’ve spent years trying to untangle your thread.

But it always winds back, knotted into the edges of me.

You never really left. Not truly.

I just learned how to stop bleeding every time I remember.

You would’ve been the one.

God, I would’ve loved you well.

And somewhere, maybe, you know that.

Somewhere, maybe, that’s enough.

But here—

You are just the almost that never became.

[fromkattoyou]

entry no. 21—

The Things I Can No Longer Love

I started to hate the things I told you I love.

Not all at once, not in a way I could name,

but slowly, like decay settling into the beams of a house

that once felt unshakable.

The music went first.

The songs I played for you, the ones I swore

were pieces of my soul carved into melody,

now sound like hollow things,

like echoes in an empty room where something sacred used to live.

I hear them and I feel nothing but the weight of your listening,

the way you used to close your eyes and let them move through you,

the way I thought sharing them with you meant

they would always be safe.

I was wrong.

Now, every note is a knife I cannot pull from my ribs.

Then the books.

God, the books.

The ones I held like scripture,

the ones I pressed into your hands with urgency,

with desperation,

as if handing them to you meant handing you a part of myself

that you would cradle gently.

I thought you did.

I thought you traced the words like I did,

felt the same tremors in the sentences

that made me believe in something bigger than myself.

But now they sit unopened, spines unbroken,

because turning their pages feels like remembering,

and remembering feels like drowning.

The coffee went bitter in my mouth next.

I used to love the way it curled into the morning air,

the way it felt warm against my palms,

the way it signaled a day that had yet to unfold.

But coffee tastes like you now,

like conversations laced with laughter,

like sleepy confessions said between sips,

like the way you took yours black

and made fun of the way I drowned mine in cream.

I cannot stomach it anymore.

I pour it down the drain

and pretend it was never something I loved.

Even the rain betrayed me.

I used to sit by windows and watch it wash the world clean,

used to let it soak into my skin and believe it could make me new.

But the rain is different now.

Now it whispers of the nights we listened to it together,

of the way you said you loved the smell,

of the way it made you want to stay inside and be still.

Now, when it falls, it feels like a hand on my throat,

like something unseen pressing me into the past,

forcing me to relive the softness that I can no longer touch.

I started to hate the things I told you I love

because loving them now means loving you,

and I am trying so desperately not to.

Because they remind me that I opened my hands

and gave you pieces of myself,

not knowing you would take them with you

when you left.

One day, maybe, they will be mine again.

One day, the music will be only music,

the books will be only books,

the coffee will taste like mornings instead of you,

and the rain will simply be rain.

But not yet.

Not now.

For now, I let them rot.

For now, I let the hatred bloom.

[fromkattoyou]

entry no. 20—

Love, Willed Into Being

No, we are not soulmates.

The universe did not conspire for us,

the stars did not whisper our names in the dark,

there was no celestial hand guiding my steps toward you.

And yet, here we are.

I did this.

I pulled at the edges of the void

and wove something out of nothing.

I took the loose, fraying threads of my existence

and knotted them together until they spelled your name.

My fingers bled in the process.

My ribs cracked open to make space for you.

This was not fate.

This was a choice I made,

again and again,

until there was no part of me left untouched by you.

I love you, not because some divine script

etched your name next to mine,

but because I demanded it.

I clawed this love from the walls of the abyss

with hands that would rather have rested,

stitched it into the fabric of my being

with thread spun from my own marrow.

I did this with intention,

with eyes wide open,

with the full weight of knowing

that love—real, unrelenting love—

is a burden as much as it is a blessing.

Do you understand?

I love you with effort.

I love you with the tired bones of someone

who has carried this feeling up the mountain

without the promise of anything waiting at the peak.

I love you not because it is easy,

but because it is right.

Because I decided it was worth it.

And I know—

God, I know—

that what is built with human hands

can be broken by them too.

That love like this does not come

without the risk of ruin.

That one day, I may stand

in the wreckage of everything I constructed,

aching, hollowed out,

with nothing to blame but myself.

But I would still choose it.

I would still choose you.

Over and over,

until my body forgets how to want anything else.

So no, this is not destiny.

No, we were not bound by forces

greater than ourselves.

I was not born for you—

but I have made myself yours.

And there is something far more terrifying

in that.

[fromkattoyou]

entry no. 19—

A Wound that Never Closes

I loved you with the silence of the moon,

orbiting, distant, unreachable.

Every glance was a dagger I sharpened myself,

a cruel delight in a pain I could not relinquish.

Your presence was a hymn,

a thread of music only I could hear,

and I learned to pray in the pauses of your breath.

But the gods I knelt to

had no mercy for men like me—

men who carved love into the marrow of absence.

You stood on the edge of a world I could not enter,

and I, foolish as the moth,

burned in the fire of your righteousness.

Did you not see?

Did you not know

how I tore myself apart to be worthy

of even your shadow?

In this lifetime,

we traded promises in the language of pain.

Your hands were always too far,

your words always a step behind.

We were bound, not by devotion,

but by the inevitability of breaking.

If I were braver,

I would tear apart this fate

with bloodied fingers and trembling resolve,

but the truth is,

I cannot let go of what keeps me chained.

You are the wound I do not wish to heal.

You are the song I cannot stop singing.

Even in the next life,

I will find you again—

to love you,

to hurt you,

to lose you all over again.

Tell me,

is love still love

if it is built on agony alone?

[fromkattoyou]

entry no. 18—

How heavy it must be,

to carry the weight of what they thought you were,

to stand beneath the crushing architecture

of expectation,

of borrowed admiration,

of hope you never asked to hold.

How quietly they must step away now,

fingers slipping from yours like sand,

eyes averting, shoulders stiff with something unsaid—

or worse, something no longer worth saying.

There is no grand betrayal in your undoing,

only the slow decay of belief,

the erosion of the pedestal

where they once placed you,

where you stood, trembling,

knowing all along

that you were made of something far too brittle to last.

How foolish of them,

to paint you in gold,

to drape you in the silk of their expectations,

to carve a monument out of someone still learning

how to keep their own hands from shaking.

Did they think you were made of stone?

Did they think you would not falter?

Or did they simply not care,

so long as you remained something to look up to?

You tried, didn’t you?

God, how you tried.

You stretched yourself thin,

bled yourself dry,

let them drink from the well of your becoming

until you were hollow, parched,

a ghost of what you once were.

But still, it was never enough.

They wanted more.

More brilliance, more certainty,

more of the person they convinced themselves you could be.

And when you finally unraveled,

when the seams split and the mask cracked,

they looked at you with something close to disgust,

as if the fault was yours,

as if you were the one

who placed yourself upon that altar,

who swore you were more than you ever could be.

How quickly they turn away

when they see the fragile, messy thing beneath the illusion.

How eagerly they retreat

when they realize you are not celestial,

not infallible,

not the savior they wished for.

And how cruel it is

that their disappointment feels like a noose

you tied around your own neck.

Tell me, where do you go now,

with all their broken hopes rattling in your bones,

with the taste of their unmet expectations

coating your tongue like ash?

What do you do with the hollow space they leave behind,

with the silence that hums in the absence of their worship?

Maybe one day you will learn

that you were never meant to be their masterpiece.

That you were not born

to be someone else’s salvation.

That the weight of their longing

was never yours to bear.

But for now,

you sit in the wreckage of their disillusionment,

aching with the knowledge

that they loved the idea of you

far more than they ever loved

who you actually are.

[fromkattoyou]

entry no. 17—

I love you, but not enough to bleed for your indifference.

Not enough to lay my softness at your feet,

to have it trampled by carelessness masked as necessity.

My kindness was a sanctuary once,

a haven I built with trembling hands,

but you, with your cold, calculated apathy,

have turned it into a battlefield.

I see now that love alone cannot redeem you,

cannot cleanse the stains you refuse to acknowledge.

I have given you the gentlest parts of me,

and you have taken them like a thief in the night,

leaving behind the shards of my trust.

Love should not be martyrdom.

Yet I have stood at the altar of your whims,

offering pieces of my soul,

as if my worth were measured

by how much of myself I could destroy for you.

No more.

I love you, but not enough to forgive the wounds

you inflict without apology,

the scars you leave without a second glance.

You do not deserve the kindness

that wells in me like a sacred spring.

For kindness is not weakness,

and I will no longer pour it into a vessel

that refuses to hold it.

This is not hate,

but a reclamation of what is mine.

This is not bitterness,

but the realization that even love

must have its boundaries.

I love you, but I cannot save you.

And I will no longer sacrifice myself

for someone who cannot see the divinity

in the kindness they so casually destroy.

[fromkattoyou]

entry no. 16—

Can I be a child again?

To retreat into the tender arms of innocence,

where the world was not yet heavy with expectation,

and I was not yet sculpted by the hands of loss.

I long for the days when the earth was smaller,

its expanse bound only by the walls of my imagination,

when my grief was a fleeting shadow,

eclipsed by the golden light of curiosity.

Can I undo the weight I’ve accrued—

the ache of betrayals, the burden of choices

that were never meant for a heart so soft?

I yearn for the days when my name was not

etched with responsibility, when I did not

carry the echoes of “should” and “must”

upon my fragile shoulders.

To be a child again is not to escape,

but to dissolve, to return to the formless joy

that once shaped my every breath.

I think of the trees I used to climb,

the branches stretching like open hands,

inviting me to touch the sky without fear.

Now, those same trees feel foreign,

their bark rough against the calloused palms

of a grown person who no longer knows

how to leap without calculation.

There was a time when love was simpler—

when it was just the warmth of my mother’s embrace,

the unspoken trust in my father’s hand.

Before love became a battlefield of compromise,

a labyrinth of doubt,

before I learned that not all who love

will stay,

and not all who stay

will love.

Can I return to the nights when my dreams

were not riddled with questions I cannot answer?

When the stars whispered stories of possibility

instead of the sharp truths of my insignificance?

To be a child again would be to hold

the cosmos in my hands without trembling,

to believe the world spins for me

and not in spite of me.

I am tired of the sharp edges of adulthood,

the constant negotiation of identity and purpose.

I want to splash in puddles again

without worrying about the mud on my shoes,

to laugh until my lungs ache

without the haunting knowledge

that joy is fleeting.

Can I be a child again,

or has the world taken too much from me?

Have I built walls too high around my heart,

walls that I once thought were protection

but now feel like a cage?

Yet even as I yearn, I wonder—

if I were to go back,

would I still choose to grow?

Would I still walk the path that led me here,

to this place of longing and knowing,

to this ache that feels,

despite its sorrow,

like life itself?

[fromkattoyou]

entry no. 15—

Swallowed Silence

I wrap my pain in excuses,

layer it with silence,

convince myself it’s smaller than it feels.

Someone else is screaming louder,

and I whisper instead.

I clutch my wounds like secrets,

tight against my chest,

but never let them breathe.

There are bigger tragedies,

aren’t there?

And my grief,

small as a child,

should stay out of the way.

I watch others drown in their oceans,

and tell myself my puddle

isn’t worth mentioning.

What right have I to tears

when their storms could wash me away?

So I don’t cry,

don’t complain,

don’t bleed where anyone can see.

The pain doesn’t disappear—

it festers,

curling around my ribs like smoke,

burning quietly.

I wonder:

when did I decide my suffering

wasn’t valid?

When did I choose

to measure my worth

in comparison to misery?

And why can’t I let myself hurt

just because someone else

is hurting more?

[fromkattoyou]

entry no. 14—

Heretic’s Creed

I would carve your name into the heavens

if only to defy the gods who claim dominion.

You are not divinity—no, you are sharper,

a contradiction too fierce for holy texts,

a blasphemy too sacred to deny.

To love you is to unlearn sanctity,

to abandon the frail comforts of prayer,

for every whispered devotion

is a confession of guilt I wear proudly.

If this is heresy, then damnation is my birthright,

and hell, a price too small for your warmth.

You are my scripture, rewritten and burning,

every glance a psalm, every breath an exodus.

I kneel not before altars,

but at the temple of your shadow,

where you wield a power that saints

would shatter their halos to possess.

No creed holds me now—only you,

a deity in mortal form,

unholy, exquisite, untouchable.

Your silence, my rosary,

counted bead by bead

until the string snaps beneath

the weight of what I cannot say.

Perhaps you will never speak

the language of gods or men.

You will die as I would die for you,

without a single word that binds us.

Yet in your eyes, there is a violence

that makes the heavens tremble,

and I think—this is my faith.

No savior could love me better.

[fromkattoyou]

entry no. 13—

You are a rotting altar,

once gleaming with the fervor of hands clasped in prayer,

once perfumed by the sanctity of offerings laid bare.

But now, the air around you reeks of forgotten faiths,

of incense burned too long,

of promises left to spoil beneath a canopy of neglect.

I approached you, trembling,

believing in your divinity,

believing that within your decay lay wisdom,

but I find only the hollowness of broken vows.

You are a monument to what I gave freely,

a keeper of the relics I thought untouchable:

hope, belief, trust.

I built you in my image of sacredness,

stone by stone,

word by word,

each syllable carved into your surface as though permanence could defy entropy.

But permanence is a lie we tell ourselves,

and now you crumble beneath the weight of your false eternity.

Still, I kneel before you,

not out of devotion,

but out of a compulsion to understand

how something so revered could rot so easily.

Your cracks are a map of my disillusionment,

spreading outward from the center,

where I once thought your heart resided.

Now I see it was hollow all along,

an echo chamber for my own naivety.

To call you “altar” is generous.

To call you “rotting” is kind.

What you are is ruin.

You are the carcass of faith,

the ghost of reverence,

a husk where the sacred and profane collide,

and I am left to sift through the ashes of what I thought was eternal.

Perhaps the rot was always there,

hidden beneath gilded layers of my own projection.

Perhaps I needed you to be divine so I could feel redeemed,

needed you to hold the weight of my fragility

so I could rise unburdened.

But divinity cannot be born of desperation,

and sanctity cannot survive when its roots are tethered to illusion.

And so I leave you here,

to rot in the silence of your own decay,

to sink into the soil where forgotten idols go to rest.

You were a rotting altar long before I named you,

and you will remain long after I walk away,

a testament not to holiness,

but to the fragility of faith misplaced.

[fromkattoyou]

entry no. 12—

What a waste of devotion,

to build temples in your honor,

to offer up my prayers in whispered words

that fell, unanswered, into the void of you.

What a waste, to light candles for a love

that flickered and died in the draft of your indifference.

I carved altars from my bones,

spilled my blood like holy wine,

and for what?

For the cold echo of your name,

for the silence that grew between us

like weeds in the cracks of a crumbling sanctuary.

You were my god once.

I knelt at your feet,

chanted your virtues until my voice broke.

But now I see you for what you are:

not divine, not sacred,

just mortal, just ordinary,

and so dreadfully uninspired.

You are a false idol I adorned

with the gold of my affection,

a hollow vessel I tried to fill

with the weight of my devotion.

What a waste of faith,

to believe you could be more

than the sum of your carelessness.

I gave you everything—

my time, my trust, my trembling heart—

and you spent it recklessly,

as though it were endless,

as though I were endless.

But I am not.

I am finite,

and I have grown weary of offering

what you cannot cherish.

I used to think love was eternal,

a holy sacrament,

but now it feels like a tedious ritual,

a hymn I can no longer bear to sing.

Your face, once a scripture I memorized,

is now a blank page,

and your touch,

once electrifying,

feels like static,

a meaningless hum

I cannot tune out fast enough.

What a waste of devotion,

to carry you like a cross

only to find that the burden was mine alone.

You never asked for my love,

but you took it,

gratefully, greedily,

and I gave it willingly—

until now.

I am done worshiping at your altar.

I am done kneeling before your indifference.

You are no longer my religion,

no longer the sacred hymn

I hum in the quiet of my heart.

You are a relic of a faith I no longer believe in,

a god I have outgrown.

And I am free.

[fromkattoyou]

entry no. 11—

The spell of a kiss

You have witchcraft in your lips—

not the kind whispered in shadowed groves,

not the curse uttered beneath a blood moon,

but the enchantment that breathes from parted words,

that turns men into marionettes,

dancing to the soft pull of your unspoken desires.

I felt it when you smiled,

like a blade coated in honey,

cutting into my chest with gentle precision.

A smile that traps like a snare,

tightening with every stolen glance,

every accidental touch,

every unholy sigh that escapes your lips.

You cast no spells;

your magic lies in the art of being,

the way your voice bends and coils,

threads of silk around a listener’s throat.

The way your presence fills the room,

not with light, but with a quiet darkness—

a shadow that beckons,

inviting the brave to chase it,

only to lose themselves within.

Every word you speak is an invocation,

every kiss a hex—

not a death sentence,

but a slow unraveling,

a willing surrender to the inevitability of ruin.

Your lips move, and I forget my name.

Your touch lingers, and I forget my faith.

You, with the smile that could summon storms,

with eyes that drink souls like wine,

are no witch by creed or craft,

but by the sheer alchemy of existence.

To kiss you is to tread willingly into perdition.

So kiss me, my enchantress,

curse me with your sweet oblivion.

Let me worship the witchcraft in your lips

until my own voice is nothing

but a prayer whispered to the dark.

[fromkattoyou]

entry no. 10—

Among hell’s nine circles,

your soul—woven with treachery—

deserves no reprieve,

no mercy from the fires that lick the damned.

It is in the ninth,

the deepest circle,

where I cast you—

for betrayal is the lowest sin,

and you are the epitome of its foul nature.

A traitor not just to others,

but to your own essence,

to the fragile bond of trust that was

once sacred between us.

A wretched thing,

soiled by your own hypocrisy,

you shall rot,

an eternal prisoner of your own making.

May your bones be ground

under the weight of the ice

that encases the traitor’s soul.

Cold, unyielding,

frozen in the torment of your own guilt,

your very breath is stolen,

as it was once from me.

There will be no release,

no absolution,

for even as you writhe in that pit

of frozen suffering,

your penance will never be enough.

For in your fall,

there is no redemption—

only the endless echo of your lies,

repeating,

taunting,

burning in the void

as you scream into the silence

of your betrayal.

You are consigned,

permanently

to this frozen desolation.

Never to see light,

never to feel warmth,

never to hear the hum of life

that once might have been yours.

You will remain,

a shadow in the dark,

a fading memory of someone

who could have known true peace,

but chose instead

the cold embrace of eternal ruin.

Here, in this final circle,

there is no escape.

For no one can redeem a soul

so thoroughly shattered by its own deceit.

[fromkattoyou]

entry no. 9—

To Taste What You Are

If love is to consume,

let me devour you wholly,

peeling back the sinew of secrets

to bare the marrow of who you are.

I crave the salt of your essence,

your laughter seasoned with tears,

your soul tender as the flesh

beneath my starving hands.

Every glance is a bite,

every word a morsel,

every kiss a slow digestion of truth.

Let me feast on your fears,

tear apart your doubts

until there’s nothing left

but the soft, unguarded sweetness

you hide beneath bone.

Do you feel it?

This gnawing hunger that isn’t lust but need,

a primal ache to make you mine,

not in halves or fleeting moments,

but wholly, eternally—

so close that my veins drink your blood,

so deep that my breath exhales your name.

This isn’t violence;

it is intimacy sharpened to a point.

To consume you is to cherish you,

to keep pieces of you alive in me forever.

If love destroys,

let me tear you apart tenderly.

If love nourishes,

let me savor every part of you.