illicit-indulgences

[illicit-indulgences]

ᴺᵒᵇᵒᵈʸ'ˢ ˢᵒⁿ

ᴺᵒᵇᵒᵈʸ'ˢ ᵈᵃᵘᵍʰᵗᵉʳ

@songs-of-venus

[illicit-indulgences]

Who enjoys the feeling of being conditioned?

Knowing that someone has worked to tweak and mold your malleable mind with every interaction you have. Knowing you've been primed and influenced to a point of no return. Knowing the simplicity of a word or action is enough for you to lose yourself completely.

Triggered by as little as a command phrase. Prodded into an unknown direction by latent pathways your mind has been railroaded on. The indescribable feeling of yourself attempting to resist, fighting with every fibre of your being, pushing to retain your free will. And yet, the impossibility of that task insurmountable, and behind every feable attempt made, the knowledge that you want this.

You want all pretence to fall away. You want to give in completely. You want your mind and body to sink into the clutches of your controller. You want to surrender and enjoy the delicious grip of conditioning.

[illicit-indulgences]

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You will search for me in another person, I promise.

[illicit-indulgences]

She

She haunts me, still

That smile, those eyes

In nightmares, chills

Her name echoes, howling cries

Tear into me as her soul dies.

Locks darker than indigo skies

Lips, pomegranates, rubies ripe;

Frail and weak, bones in shadows rise.

The curve of her waist, the slope of her neck

Sadness, raw crimson- fire in her eyes.

Guilt she draws, on my knees I fall;

Forgiveness, a torture, a hell I beg for.

Aching lungs and skin peeled back, "Take it all"

"Just make me fall."

Remorse, my veins saturated

Her voice in my depths, incarcerated.

Shivers, whispers along my spine

Her body, her touch, her fingers, on my mind.

Breath that cools, perspiration that clings

Magic she breathes, heavenly relief she brings.

Claws that free my soul, wrap around my heart,

Shattered glass, her pieces sink in, drown in every part.

To walk away, a choice she made

His heart in pieces, left behind;

A reason to care, to love, she gave

Little did she know the barren depths I did find.

No will to live, no songs to sing

Suicide and destruction, only church bells ring;

His fire now mere embers, ashes imprisoned,

His eyes, topaz and emerald, stone-cold and chiseled.

You left him broken, you left him bare;

You left me with his heart shattered, to mend, I dare.

You move on unbothered, selfish and whole.

His hands I wish to hold, his lips I wish to kiss

His love for you in his eyes, a look I'd never miss.

[illicit-indulgences]

[illicit-indulgences]

Marked By Death's Touch.

I’ve been racing Death since the moment I gained consciousness. We chase each other like two playful lovers: Whispers of a touch, oh so subtle, Stealing glances, caught in a forbidden love.

My skin is tattooed with fingerprints—a memoir of every time I felt Death’s fingers wrap around me. My shoulder bears a scar, my waist is engraved with stitch marks— The places he touched are forever marked, like declarations of ownership.

We waltz in the quiet hours, our steps synchronized yet hesitant, like a melody unfinished. Each scar feels like ink bleeding through my skin—an unfinished story he’s determined to complete. Like he wants my body to become a constellation of his touch, each mark a star he placed to guide me back to him.

He’s the lighthouse on a stormy sea, a beacon both guiding me and warning me away. But I hear him so clearly, whispering to me like a siren’s song- pulling me towards the jagged cliffs of surrender. And he waits, a spider spinning an intricate web, knowing I’ll stumble into it eventually.

Years ago he tried to hold me, but I always slipped through his fingers. Now when I yearn for him, I find him hiding in paths he knows I’m too afraid to tread. And he waits—patiently— For me to cross the line: The line between my love for a semicolon And my desperation for a full stop.

And I tread that line like it is a blade’s edge. I balance precariously, torn between the safety of indecision and the thrill of surrender.

I can feel him watching me. From under my balcony, waiting for me to jump. From outside the kitchen window, as I examine the knife. From under my bed, as I stare at the sleeping pills on the side-table.

He watches me, an obsessed lover with a knowing smile, Confident that I will be His. Eventually.

And he’s right— For every dance must end, And when our final steps align, I’ll take his hand and let him lead me To where I’ve always known I belong.

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You asked me if I had ever loved you when I asked you to leave.

Don’t you remember that the heart which loved you with its entirety is the very thing you broke with your own hands? Don’t you remember how you blamed me for the blood it left on your hands, as if shards of my love were tainting you when you trampled all over them—again, and again, and again?

But I can’t tell you that, because you won’t understand. So I say I did. But not now. Not anymore.

The sun that warmed you until now has burnt out. So leave, before you’re engulfed in black smoke and suffocate on your own senses. Leave.

And never look back.

[illicit-indulgences]

My kiss bled into her mouth like a warm spring rain soaking into the earth. It felt forever as she lingered upon my lips. ~ B.T.

[illicit-indulgences]

I sit among the treetops and dream a bit. But I also look out and watch the world pass and descend into madness. There are times when my heart churns like a storm upon the ocean. But then there are moments of calm and numb as I witness such chaos. And I wonder why. My curiosity roams and cannot help but think on such things. Why do people hurt? For at the end of the day, these are conscious decisions. People make the choice, individually or collectively, that others should suffer. The justifications are of little interest to me. For someone, somewhere, at sometime made the decision to inflict pain upon another. The first domino was toppled. And we have succumb to the temptation ever since. Is it any wonder I crave my solitude and think humanity incapable of good. I am so very tired of this place. ~ B.T.

[illicit-indulgences]

“Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.”

— George Bernard Shaw

[illicit-indulgences]

Writing is my curse.

Writing is a disease—it truly is. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t feel so infested with words all the time, like remnants of a virus spreading through my veins. Each vessel carries them, replacing every cell, every platelet, with wretched syllables—a testament to the torment shadowing my existence. I want to stop.

Stop the words from bleeding out of me, stop spilling prose from every cut on my skin. I feel like a vessel cracked open, spilling ink instead of blood, a broken jar that can never be sealed. I want to cease inhaling the weight of my being, and stop exhaling poetry in return.

Let me be free from the snares of these words. I don’t need any more evidence of my sorrow. I don’t want to record my suffering anymore. I feel sick—so sick—and I’m terrified that the next time I purge, it’ll be words again. More words. More pieces of my heart, more fragments of my soul, spilling out until nothing is left.

Until the void inside me stretches endless and terrifying, a hollow abyss I’m too afraid to face. It yawns like a black hole, hungry and infinite, pulling me in even as I resist.

Don’t strip me of myself. My grief is all I have left. Take that away, and all that remains will be a husk—a corpse with withering skin and crumbling bones. What was once my solace has now consumed my life, devouring me from within, demanding to be set free.

And yet, as much as I long for release, I know I cannot stop. The words are both my disease and my cure. They fill the void, even as they carve it deeper—an endless cycle, as infinite as the abyss within me. In the end, it doesn’t matter. The words will escape, as they always do, and I will fade. A mere shadow of who I once was, left behind in fragments of ink.

A memory, and nothing more.

[illicit-indulgences]

"When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth."

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"Love is what makes you smile; Even when you're exhausted."

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it’s so painful to watch yourself grow cold, bitter, and resentful, even toward small, irrelevant things, when all you’ve ever wanted was just to be warm, gentle, kind, and loving.