zomfunhouse

[zomfunhouse]

146,000+ words later and I’m still not done.

Two twins. One war.

Humanity loses, monsters rise, and no one makes it out clean.

But seriousness

I forgot what it was like to write a lot

[zomfunhouse]

“i would’ve”

it’s 11am and i’m half-asleep,

thinking about all the lives i never got to live.

i didn’t finish school.

i could’ve, maybe.

if i tried harder.

if my chest didn’t feel like a locked door every morning.

i could’ve loved someone.

probably.

if i didn’t roll my eyes every time they got close.

if i didn’t run from the warmth like it burned.

i could’ve had kids.

held little hands.

braided soft hair.

told bedtime stories with tired eyes and a cracked voice.

but i didn’t.

and maybe i never will.

life didn’t just hand me lemons—

it tied my hands behind my back,

stabbed me in the legs,

and laughed while i bled on the floor.

even now,

when i try to look up,

to dream,

to hope,

there’s a fist in my hair,

forcing me to lift my head,

just to let it fall again.

rough.

quiet.

mean.

like life doesn’t want me to hope too long.

[zomfunhouse]

The One Time I Daydreamed

I never daydream.

I keep my mind occupied, focused, distracted—

whatever word means don’t drift.

Because when I drift, I fall.

But that morning—I don’t even remember why—

I woke up wrong.

Not angry. Not sad. Just… off.

Like my body had already decided something was going to hurt me.

I went upstairs.

The kettle was hissing.

My mother talking, my sister moving around—

normal chaos, familiar noise.

And then it happened.

I wasn’t there anymore.

I was under a silk blanket,

blue...

No words.

No voices.

Just me

and him.

His fingers—soft, careful—

brushed my face like I wasn’t something broken.

Like I was allowed to be touched that gently.

It lasted maybe a second.

But when I came back—

back to the counter, the cup, the talking, the life I was actually in—

I threw up.

My body rejected it.

The softness. The stillness. The idea of being wanted.

I can still see it, though.

Like it got burned behind my eyes.

I hit replay on it too much, I know.

But I don’t care.

Because that was the only time

my mind tried to give me something

beautiful.

And I didn’t know how to hold it.

When I went to lay back down,

I thought—okay, maybe it’s just a migraine.

Maybe I didn’t eat enough.

Maybe it’s just one of those days.

I tried to think about food.

Crackers. A banana. Something.

But every time I looked at something to eat,

my stomach clenched like it was warning me.

Everything felt wrong.

Smelled wrong.

Looked wrong.

So I gave up.

Curled onto my side,

let the room spin around me like a carousel I never asked to ride.

But it didn’t stop there.

I jolted up,

barely made it to the edge of the bed,

and threw up again—

dry, acidic, violent.

Like my body was trying to empty out something

that wasn’t even physical.

After that, I don’t remember much.

Just the heavy pull—

like sleep, but heavier.

Like my body decided: enough.

And I passed out.

Blank.

Gone.

No dream, no silk, no fingers on my face.

Just dark.

When I woke up again,

I wasn’t sure if I was real or not.

The room looked the same.

The air tasted the same.

But something in me had shifted.

Like part of me didn’t wake up with the rest.

I blinked.

I breathed.

I moved my fingers just to prove I could.

But none of it felt mine.

My heart hurt.

Not in a medical way—

in that deep, hollow, God-why-does-this-still-beat kind of way.

There’s a hole in my chest

that no one can see.

It’s quiet, but it aches.

Always has.

Probably always will.

And this—

this is what I get

when my curiosity gets in the way.

When I let my guard down

for a second

and something soft slipped in.

I didn’t ask for it to mean anything.

But it did.

And now it’s etched into me—

a silk blanket,

a gentle hand,

and the shame of needing it so much

I couldn’t keep it down.

[zomfunhouse]

The Thing in My Love

Flirt with me and I’ll flirt with you.

Show me your pain and I’ll press my teeth into it—

a gift, a wound, a keepsake.

Kiss me with blood pouring from your nose

and I’ll drink it like it’s your name.

Let me bite the grief out of your mouth.

Let me wear your sadness like a coat.

I’ll cough up petals if you promise to rot with me.

I don’t want vows, I want fingerprints in my bruises.

Give me your worst and I’ll give you my tongue.

Let me bury you as I keep that bloody thing—

your heart, still warm, still twitching,

clutched tight against my ribs like a promise.

I’ll laugh while you cry—I’ll cry while you bleed.

We’ll make a nest out of broken things,

curl up in the wreckage, and call it home.

You don’t have to love me.

Just let me bury myself in your ribs and whisper until you stop shaking.

[zomfunhouse]

i don’t know what to post

so here’s a confession:

i want to lay face down in the dirt

like a Victorian child with “nerves”

and let the earth absorb my problems

via forehead osmosis.

i would scream,

but politely.

muffled.

like a ghost in a pillow factory.

i think sleep forgot to visit me last night

and now my brain is doing interpretive dance

in a language i do not speak.

whoops.

[zomfunhouse]

“Not Broken, Not Whole”

Sometimes I stare at my hands and picture atoms—

tiny, trembling things dancing above the skin,

like they know something I don’t.

They shimmer quietly,

reminding me that I exist,

even when I feel like a rumor

someone forgot to believe in.

I watch them dance, float—

sometimes I picture I can hear them laughing,

like a little kid playing hide and seek.

It makes me laugh, too,

for a moment.

Other times,

I feel it wrap itself around me,

soft and strange,

like I’m being held by something I can’t name.

Part of me wants to believe I’m real—

that this body, this breath, these restless hands

belong to something with a name.

But the other part drifts,

thinks maybe I’m not meant to be here at all,

just a placeholder,

a half-formed echo still waiting to arrive.

Maybe that’s why I don’t fit in.

Why I mask so much it feels like muscle memory—

smiling when I’m lost,

talking when I want to vanish,

acting like I’m someone who knows how to be.

Because deep down,

I’m just sitting here,

knees pulled to my chest,

heart beating too loud in a world that doesn’t hear it,

not knowing what to do

with the weight of being seen.

It’s that stuck-in-between feeling—

not broken, not whole.

Not here, not gone.

A constant tug and pull

between staying and disappearing,

between the ache to understand

and the longing to stop trying.

I live in that limbo—

where atoms hum around my hands

and silence curls around my ribs,

and I wonder if this is what it means

to be real:

just holding still long enough

for the world to pass through you.

[zomfunhouse]

“One of These Days”

I stand by the water,

staring into the darkest parts—

where shadows gather like lost souls,

and the cold whispers secrets

no one wants to hear.

My foot hovers just above the surface,

trembling,

then slides slowly down,

breaking the glassy stillness

with a whisper of cold that steals the warmth from my skin.

I breathe it in—

the silence,

the weight of the abyss beneath,

and I say,

softly,

“One of these days,

I’ll close my eyes,

lean forward,

and let the dark pull me under.”

No fight.

No flailing.

Just surrender to the quiet—

the endless, bottomless quiet

where no light reaches,

and no one calls my name.

And maybe, in that silence,

I’ll finally find the peace

that keeps slipping through my fingers

when the world is still too loud.

Until then,

I stand here—

balanced on the edge,

between fear and freedom,

between living and letting go.

[zomfunhouse]

What If It Floats?

I’m laying here in bed—

not because I just woke up,

but because my mind won’t stop racing.

I did something I didn’t know I could do.

Usually, I veer off-track.

I disappear for a while,

then quietly return

to walk alongside everyone else like nothing happened.

But this time…

I did something different.

I decided to traditionally publish my book.

Yes, I know it’s harder.

But so is self-publishing.

So instead of hesitating,

I picked up my book,

dusted it off,

and threw it into the water

like a stone I carried too long.

Usually when I lie here,

I think about purpose.

Whether I have one.

Whether anything I do really sticks.

It always felt like I was forcing everything—

fitting into clothes that didn’t belong to me.

But this?

This feels different.

Because this time,

I picked up a book—

one made out of shits and giggles,

scribbled truths and maybe’s—

and I threw it out there.

Now I’m standing at the edge of the water,

watching it sink,

praying quietly:

If this works out…

maybe I do have a purpose

in this lifetime after all.

[zomfunhouse]

Dearest You,

How about this—

we don’t say anything directly.

I’ll press my meaning between commas and sighs,

you can tuck yours into lyrics and late-night posts.

No pressure. Just ghosts with good handwriting

and better timing.

I’ll say I like you

by writing in a way only you would recognize.

You say yes by almost copying me—

like it just happened,

like it wasn’t on purpose.

I write like I know love.

And when you echoed it—

not exactly, but close enough to make me blink—

it was like hearing my own heartbeat

in someone else’s mouth.

I want to circle around you,

cautiously at first,

like a cat pretending it doesn’t care.

So I’m writing this—old style—

because isn’t this romantic?

A little vintage, a little dangerous.

A slow-burn orbit made of “maybe” and almost-touch.

And listen…

I know my heart still belongs to someone else.

I’m not asking you to fix that.

But maybe the slow burn—your slow burn—

could teach me how to move on.

If you’re willing to give me time and energy,

maybe I’ll slowly reach out

and grab your sleeve

and whisper, “don’t leave yet.”

And even if I don’t say much,

I’ll still be loyal to you like a dog—

quiet, waiting,

tail wagging when I see you coming up the road.

Even in silence, I’ll stay.

So here I am,

not asking,

but wondering.

Not confessing,

but leaving the door cracked,

like maybe you’ll slip through.

I won’t say it outright—

but I will look up every time my phone buzzes,

and I will smile if it’s you.

I’ll keep pretending

this is just a poem.

You keep pretending

you don’t know it’s about you.

Deal?

—Z 🧟‍♀️🖤

[zomfunhouse]

“I write love like I know it”

I lay on the couch, cigarette burning between my fingers,

arm draped over my eyes.

The notepad’s on the floor beside me, untouched.

I’ve been trying to write something — anything —

but all that keeps circling is this stupid, gnawing line:

“I write love like I know it.

Like I know how to adore,

how to hold your hand,

how to be loyal.”

But in reality?

I don’t think I ever really knew how to love.

Maybe just how to cling.

Maybe just how to want someone so much

it hurt to breathe without them.

Maybe I was just possessive —

quietly obsessive

in all the ways that looked like care

but tasted like control.

But again…

I did grow up in a narcissistic household.

Mom always yelling.

Dad always leaving.

Fighting all the time, 24/7 —

words like knives, silence like poison.

Maybe that’s why I love too much.

Why I smother people with affection,

why I keep trying to fill a hunger

that’s been gnawing at me since I was a kid.

Maybe that’s why I’m so fucked at love —

because I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like.

I get close and then I get grossed out.

I try to give love,

and I feel like I’m suffocating them.

I try to receive love,

and I feel like I’m a burden

they’re too polite to shake off.

So yeah,

I write love like I know it.

But the truth is,

I’m still trying to figure out if it’s something

I’ll ever be able to hold

without dropping it.

[zomfunhouse]

“Almost a Year”

A year.

It’s almost been a year, and it still hurts like the first week.

Everyone said it would get easier.

What they meant was:

you’ll get better at pretending it doesn’t hurt.

You’ll get better at not talking about it,

at swallowing the lump,

at rerouting your tears

into the silence between conversations.

But the grief—

it doesn’t leave.

It just moves lower.

It becomes part of your walk,

your voice,

your stare when you’re zoning out in a grocery store line

because someone ahead of you has their laugh.

A year of seeing their face in the mirror behind my own.

A year of rewinding videos just to hear them breathe again.

A year of staring at pictures like maybe this time

they’ll move.

Maybe this time it’ll glitch,

and I’ll catch them shifting back into my life

like none of this ever happened.

I hate that I still love them this much.

I hate that I ache.

It feels disgusting sometimes—

like I’ve hoarded their ghost.

Like I’ve kept them too long.

People say grief is love with nowhere to go,

but I think it’s worse than that.

Grief is love gone stale.

It’s love you keep feeding even after it starts to rot.

They’re gone.

And I’m still here.

That’s the cruel part—

that time moved on

but my chest didn’t.

On the 26th, I’ll probably cry.

I’ll probably scroll through old messages

and remember how their words used to feel like warmth.

Now they feel like knives with their handles missing.

Almost a year.

And I still whisper their name

like it’s a secret I’m not supposed to have.

Almost a year.

And part of me still waits at the door

for something that isn’t coming back.

[zomfunhouse]

“Blues in the Rain”

It’s raining.

The kind that taps soft on old windows,

like ghosts asking politely to come in.

And I want nothing more

than to lay on the couch with you—

my head on your chest,

your hand in my hair,

our legs tangled like we forgot where one ends.

The apartment smells like coffee and dust,

the record spinning something slow and aching.

Some blues singer we don’t know

but feels like a friend.

We don’t talk.

We don’t need to.

The rain,

the music,

your heartbeat—

it’s enough to keep the world away.

And for a moment,

just this moment,

I believe we’re safe.

[zomfunhouse]

I Get the Term Zombie

I get the term zombie now—

not the hunger,

not the grotesque shuffle toward something warm.

But the ache of limbs that have walked too far,

the mind that’s forgotten

what it means to want anything

but an ending.

It’s the wanting to return

to the earth,

not in glory,

but in collapse—

to rot away,

to be taken by moss and root

like something forgiven.

To lie down,

finally,

and let the worms have me—

not because I hate the world,

but because I’ve stayed in it too long,

and nothing here fits anymore.

This is what becomes of the curious:

we ask too many questions

and live long enough

to hear all the wrong answers.

And still,

we walk.

[zomfunhouse]

Thrown

I hurled it across the room—

not sure if it was rage, or love bruised raw,

or spite wrapped in trembling hands.

It crashed,

shattering more than glass,

breaking silence I never meant to keep.

Was it anger?

A desperate cry in quiet desperation.

Was it love?

A clumsy language too rough to say “stay.”

Or was it spite?

That cruel echo inside,

telling me to hurt what hurts me back.

Whatever it was—

it didn’t help.

So I fall to my knees,

pulling them close to my chest,

surrendering to the storm

of whatever feeling consumes me.

[zomfunhouse]

What You Were Before

I lay there, staring at you—

your calm face, your soft breath,

like none of it ever touched you.

Like the world hadn’t chewed you up

and left teeth marks in your soul.

You were just a person,

once.

Before the monsters came.

Before I found you—

blood-soaked, armor splintered,

still fighting even when your hands shook.

Sometimes I wonder what you were before it all.

Before the silence.

Before the war carved itself into your eyes.

I wonder how kind you were.

How you smiled.

And god—

how bad I wanna touch your face.

How bad I wanna see those eyes.

But…

I guess I never will.

I guess watching you sleep

is better than anything.

Still.

Not dreaming. Not breathing.

Just resting, finally,

in the quiet you never got to live in.

And I stay beside you—

watching the wind comb through your hair,

telling the monsters they’re too late.

You’re not theirs anymore.

You’re mine.

Even now.

Especially now.

[zomfunhouse]

Friday the 13th Thought

Anywho Happy Friday the 13th 😂

I’m weird.

You’re weird.

Let’s be weird together.

Let’s give each other our teeth as a peace offering—

not wrapped in ribbon,

but pulled straight from the gum,

still warm, still bleeding.

You bring me yours in a trembling hand.

I’ll dig mine out with a rusted spoon.

Let’s sit cross-legged on the floor,

spitting blood into the same cracked bowl,

like a sacrament no god would claim.

No flowers. No soft music.

Just tissue and tendon,

just love that throbs and seeps and stains.

I want your pain under my fingernails.

I want you to sew my name into your gums.

Bite me ’til I bruise.

Carve your vows into my molars.

Let’s promise each other

not forever—

but until the last nerve rots out of our skulls.

We’ll keep each other’s canines in velvet boxes,

kiss with toothless mouths,

and call it romance.

Not pretty, not pure—

but honest.

Because I’m weird.

You’re weird.

And we were never meant for gentle things.

[zomfunhouse]

The Thing in My Skin

So I lay here.

Touching my cheek like I’m checking

if the mask is still on.

The flesh sags.

Not from age,

but from the weight of pretending.

My fingers trace the acne scars—

little craters,

like someone tried to dig me out from the inside.

Failed.

Left pockmarks like claw-prints.

Beneath that,

bone.

And deeper still—

something that shifts when I press too hard.

Something that twitches.

I drag my nails under my eye socket,

until I feel the membrane thin.

It pulses.

Something watching from the other side.

Something that’s awake.

The face in the mirror wears sorrow like jewelry—

heavy, showy, not mine.

It blinks too slow.

The eyes glisten,

but don’t move right.

Like it’s still learning how to be human.

And the mouth—

God, the mouth.

My lips stretch like meat over wire.

I part them and see

rows of teeth that don’t stop where they should.

Too many.

Too long.

Curved like they grew hungry.

Some days,

it looks like they twist inside my gums—

coiling, folding over each other

like they’re trying to escape the rot.

And I swear,

if I open my mouth too wide,

all of those white… yellow-stained teeth

will spill out onto the floor.

Clicking.

Skittering like beetles,

like shame with roots.

Sometimes I dream of peeling off my face

like wet paper.

Of unzipping my spine

and stepping out.

Of walking the woods on four limbs,

ribcage cracking wider with every howl.

This body isn’t a home.

It’s a cage.

And the thing inside

is tired of waiting.

Tonight, I touch my skin

not with fear,

but reverence.

Like a priest at the altar.

Like a monster at the mouth of a feast.

Because soon—

the seams will split.

And I will finally

be beautiful.