u/No_Safety_2986

Suspended in time,
like bloated fruit trapped in yellowing gelatin,
trembling beneath hospital light,
sweetness turning chemical at the edges.

Tick.

Tock.

Even stagnant things decay forward.
The soul squishes softly here,
caught
between seconds,
caught
between teeth.

Something swells behind the tear ducts,
heavier than grief,
until feeling itself turns liquid.

Tatters of self come drifting loose
in the thick syrup of memory,
pale skins peeling free,
brushing against each other
with the tenderness of dying things.

Past bleeds into future.

Future leaks backward.

Everything softens together
dissolving
into one glistening pulp.

Love becomes difficult to distinguish from hunger.
The heart,
blind and feverish,
keeps twitching for warmth
inside the cold suspension.

Somewhere in the gelatinous dark,
something still opens its mouth,
wanting to be loved
before it liquefies completely.

​

* Funny how this silly little brain always finds a way to fuck it up. I let starlight obscure the moonshine, and tarnished you with it, starshine.*

One ghost arrives like rain on a grave.   Soft hands. Familiar perfume.   A mouth I once mistook for salvation.   I let it sit beside me in the dark   and drink quietly from my ribs.  

But the other comes starving.   It peels itself from the ceiling of my mind   with joints cracking like wet branches.   It wears her face stretched over something rotten.   Its teeth shine behind every memory.  

I feel it crawl through the tunnels of my skull,   dragging black river water through thought,   filling my lungs with the stink of opened earth.   Each heartbeat becomes a fist on a coffin lid.   Silence breeds shadows that learn her voice.  

I try to hold the first ghost gently.   I try to grieve it like a man touching ashes.   But the intrusion keeps feeding.   It slips its fingers into tender memory   and tears love apart string by string.  

Now my mind is a condemned house at midnight,   wallpaper peeling like old flesh,   doors breathing in their frames,   something feral dragging itself room to room   whispering her name through broken teeth.

It arrives in whispers,

a shadow on the floor,

A quiet,

creeping rot

behind a closed-off door.

It builds its nest in silence,

deep within the chest,

A slow and burning hunger that never lets you rest.

It feeds upon the patience you try so hard to keep,

It poisons every waking hour and ruins every sleep.

Until

the walls you built to hide the rising tide

Collapse beneath the heavy weight of what you kept inside.

But fire leaves an ending,

ashes leave a space,

To clear away the wreckage and find a calmer place.

The consuming night must vanish when the morning breaks,

and peace belongs to every heart that finally awakes.

Sunday arrives softly.

Honey light through thin curtains.

The kettle singing somewhere distant.
Dust drifting golden in the air
Like tiny forgotten prayers.
The world is still beautiful enough
To ache for.

Outside, laughter rolls down the street.
Trees bend lazily in warm wind.

Somewhere, hands are being held
Without fear of trembling.
And beneath it all
Something hidden keeps growing.

Not loudly.

Not cruelly.

The way roots split stone beneath gardens.
The way tidewater swallows footprints
Without anyone noticing.
The way dusk slowly drinks
The gold from the sky.

It begins with wondering.
Small thoughts at first.

Weightless as ash.
What if things had been different.

What if the mind had opened like a field in spring
Instead of curling inward like burnt paper.

What if silence did not feel crowded.

What if every glance
Did not need dissecting.

What if living came naturally
To some people
The way breathing does.

The thoughts spread gently.

Like ivy through walls.
Like fog consuming a coastline.
Like smoke gathering at the ceiling
before the room realizes it cannot breathe.

Still

The day remains beautiful.
Coffee cooling beside open windows.
Birdsong tangled in morning air.
Sunlight resting warm against skin.

The ordinary holiness
Of another quiet Sunday.

That is what makes it hurt.

How something can feel both full of light
And unbearably distant at once.
As though life exists behind glass.

Close enough to touch,
Yet never fully entered.

Hidden from sight,
The wondering feeds quietly.

On missed versions of the self.
On unlived lives.
On every unnamed possibility
That flickers briefly in the chest
Before dissolving.

Not regret.

Something softer.

Something lonelier.

A mourning for people
Who never had the chance
To become themselves completely.

And so the searching continues.

In crowded rooms.
In sleepless ceilings.
In mirrors silvered by evening.
In the strange ache carried by beautiful days.

Searching for the shape
Of a life untouched by inward storms.

Searching for light
Before the darkness learns
To swallow that too.

Because some sadness does not scream.

It blooms quietly
Inside ordinary Sundays,
While the world outside
Continues shining.

​

I want to be a lava lamp

gooey, glowing, slow with heat

a soft catastrophe in glass

molten thought made sweet

🧐

Suspended within suspension

a drifting yes, a melted maybe

floating free through neon dusk

like some electric jellybaby

🙁

I want no corners

no hard conclusions

just rising when the current calls

sinking through translucent illusions

😯

Excitable when illuminated

alive beneath a stranger’s gaze

bubbling into brief importance

inside a violet haze

😮

To stretch, divide, become again

without the burden to explain

to pulse in psychedelic silence

like weather trapped inside a brain

😳

A liquid lucid loon

orbiting its little sun

beautiful for being useless

for moving nowhere, never done

😱

A lava lamp

that’s what I’d be

warm confusion in slow motion

glowing privately

🥳

we find the harmony for a single, breath-stealing moment before the music snaps and leaves us in the silence we know too well