Clear

And if I am to fight, let it be with weapons that rip without mercy. Through paths I once feared. For reasons I once mocked.

And if I am to bleed, let it bleed raw. Let it burn. Let it tear me open without the crutch of melancholy — only existence itself.

I want none of your polished gestures, your hollow smiles, your empty glances.

They mean nothing.

If I am to live, let me live beyond myself — let me tear through every abyss without ever touching the ground. Where I come from, there is no life. No flowers. No winds to soften your face.

Only dry, cracked fields.

Rotten water.

Torn flesh — colorless, voiceless, dead.

Where I come from, there was never escape. There were no poets, no sorcerers, no legends, no victories. Only the silence of the damned, stripped of dreams.

The better my moments, the more broken my words. I do not write for you — your arrogance to believe yourself worthy disgusts me.

My blurred eyes betray me, trap me inside everything I refuse to be. If you can still breathe, then tear yourself from me. Cut your ropes. Disappear.

The more I try to live for longing, the less I long to live. The smaller my fears become, the greater my loves consume me — and though you will never understand, it empties the hollow of my chest.

Of the dry kisses I drag along, of hearts knotted tight and false sweet words — I ask no more.

Of the perfumes that rot in our sheets — a storm of loves, of wounds, of forgotten songs.

All of it seduces me, drags me to sin — this beautiful sin, in the darkness, under the suffocating sheets, in the endless night, in the dying caresses, and finally — in the release that leaves nothing but silence.


I know how to destroy you — without force, only with my eyes.

You belong to me when I demand it. I set you free when you bore me. And you return — always return — without thought, without pride.

When all my wars are over, when no battle stands, only then will I be satisfied. And I will walk away — not with guilt — for the only harm I have ever done was to myself.

The one I have always tortured.

The one I have forged in fire.

The one I have cut open with blood-stained blades.

Neither you, nor anyone, will ever forgive me.

You may see me — but you will never truly know me.


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