The Inventory of My Damage
It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities. I've accumulated poor choices the way some collect scars or lovers; they've become my signature, my calling card.
A Meditation on Decay
You don't need to be a prophet to see the collapse coming. You just need eyes that haven't been gouged out by Instagram filters and a brain that hasn't been lobotomised by TikTok. Look at the culture, really look at it, like staring into an open wound that's gone septic.
Without You
There’s a hunger that lives only in absence, in the pause between your steps, in the untouched half of the pillow where I bury my face and inhale whatever’s left of you, your perfume decaying into something sweeter, sadder, more mine the longer you stay away
Make you something new
You are the object of this hunger. You move through the world unaware, untouched by the filth that drags at my soul. But I see you, I feel you beneath my skin, burning, writhing, a sickness I cannot purge
Money's Velvet Fist
And so we come to money, the quiet god behind the curtain. It does not shout. It does not demand. It simply exists, and everything else bends around it. Money doesn’t knock down the door, it slides a key under it and waits. Patient. Clean. Silent.