I no longer worship permanence.
Everything holy I’ve ever touched
has rotted in my hands—
not from malice,
but from the simple truth
that nothing built of flesh
is built to last.
Decay is the only doctrine
that has never lied to me.
And yet,
I keep offering my heart
like a sacrament,
knowing full well
it will be consumed
by the very mouths
I prayed would spare it.
-𝕃ℝ 🩶
I’m not the kind you settle beside.
I’m the kind you survive.
I’m the cracked glass on the counter at 4 a.m.,
the one you keep drinking from anyway.
I’m the quiet that turns feral when you look away too long,
the storm that doesn’t wait for permission to break.
I’ve loved people like a burning house—
doors unlocked, windows open,
smoke curling out like a warning no one listens to.
And still, I keep striking matches in my own chest
just to see who notices the light.
If I tell you I want you,
I don’t mean it in the soft-focus way
people pretend love feels.
I mean I’d bleed out every lie I ever told myself
just to hand you something honest.
I mean I’d sit on the floor with you
while everything you built collapses,
and I wouldn’t flinch at the dust in your lungs.
I’m the bruise you press twice
because the ache feels like truth.
I’m the name you delete and retype
because you swore you were done
and you never really were.
But if you come back—
don’t come polished, don’t come rehearsed.
Bring the mess you tried to outrun,
the trembling, the half-healed wounds
you stitched with your own teeth.
Bring the version of you that still shakes
when someone says “stay.”
I’ll open the door like I’ve been waiting
through every ending the world threw at us.
I’ll hold you like the sky finally cracked
and we’re the last two creatures crawling out of the dark,
still choosing each other
in the smoke and the aftermath.
Maybe that’s all we ever were—
two disasters learning how to burn
without turning away.
-𝕃ℝ 🖤
I think love leaves fingerprints
long after it leaves the room.
Yours still glow on me—
soft, stubborn,
like a haunting that forgot
it was supposed to be scary.
You show up in the cutest places:
the corner of a sentence,
the pause before a thought,
the way my heart stutters
when I’m trying to be logical.
You’re a ghost with good timing
and terrible boundaries.
I don’t mind.
Some hauntings feel like home.
Maybe that’s what we are—
a love that didn’t die,
just changed shape.
A quiet echo with teeth,
a memory that blushes,
a shadow that holds my hand
when I’m pretending I don’t need it.
You grew in the soft parts of me
I didn’t think would survive anything,
and now you bloom everywhere—
in my notebooks,
in my midnight thoughts,
in the tiny cracks I call “healing.”
A cute little curse.
A dark little devotion.
My favorite ghost
that refuses to go.
-𝕃ℝ ♡
I wasn’t hired by heaven
or trained by hell.
No orientation packet.
No scythe warranty.
Just a quiet understanding with the dark—
walk softly, leave truth behind.
I don’t reap the innocent.
I reap the tired.
The ones who stayed too long in rooms
that kept stealing their oxygen.
The ones who smiled until their teeth hurt
and called it strength.
They say I’m a monster
because I don’t follow the rules—
because I cut chains instead of throats,
because I escort souls out of burning houses
instead of watching them earn their ashes.
I don’t wear black.
I wear the color of last chances.
Of cracked halos and bruised courage.
Of people who survived things
that should’ve ended them
but didn’t.
Sometimes I sit at the edge of a bed
at 3 a.m.,
when grief is loud and God is on airplane mode,
and I whisper,
You’re allowed to rest now.
Not everyone wants saving.
Not everyone wants dying.
But everyone wants peace—
even if they pretend they don’t.
So call me rogue.
Call me broken.
Call me wrong.
I’ll still walk beside the forgotten,
still take the hands no one else will touch,
still bend the rules of the universe
for the ones who gave everything
and got nothing back.
I’m not the end.
I’m the mercy
that shows up
when the world forgets how.
—LR 🖤
​
Living inside a mind
that keeps rearranging itself
is like walking through a city
that only exists after dark—
familiar enough to trust,
strange enough to keep you awake.
Thoughts move like streetlights flickering,
memories rise like buildings
you could swear weren’t there yesterday,
and the past has a habit
of turning every corner
before you do.
But there’s beauty in it too—
in the way the mind rebuilds itself
without permission,
without apology,
without waiting for you
to be ready.
Some nights,
I stand in the middle of it all—
the shifting skyline,
the unfinished roads,
the shadows that know my name—
and I realize
I’m not lost.
I’m evolving.
-𝕃ℝ 🖤
​
Living inside a mind
that keeps rearranging itself
is like walking through a city
that only exists after dark—
familiar enough to trust,
strange enough to keep you awake.
Thoughts move like streetlights flickering,
memories rise like buildings
you could swear weren’t there yesterday,
and the past has a habit
of turning every corner
before you do.
But there’s beauty in it too—
in the way the mind rebuilds itself
without permission,
without apology,
without waiting for you
to be ready.
Some nights,
I stand in the middle of it all—
the shifting skyline,
the unfinished roads,
the shadows that know my name—
and I realize
I’m not lost.
I’m evolving.
-𝕃ℝ 🖤
People ask if time has a beginning,
as if beginnings are gentle things,
as if the universe didn’t tear itself open
to make room for us.
They ask if time will end,
as if endings are clean,
as if anything that ever loved or burned
has learned how to stop completely.
But I think time is older
than the questions we keep trying
to pin it down with.
Older than language,
older than light,
older than the first trembling atom
that dared to exist.
And yet—
time is also unbearably young.
It begins every time a person
finally tells the truth.
It ends every time a heart
can’t carry its own echo anymore.
Maybe the universe keeps its clocks
in the softest places:
the moment someone forgives themselves,
the breath right before a goodbye,
the quiet shift when a life
no longer fits the shape it used to.
Maybe time is not a line at all,
but a wound that keeps healing
and breaking
and healing again.
Does it have a beginning?
Yes—
in every spark of courage
that pulls us out of the dark.
Does it have an ending?
Yes—
in every version of us
we’ve had to bury
to stay alive.
Everything else is motion,
a long, trembling fall
through moments that refuse
to let us stay the same.
And somewhere in that descent,
we learn to call it meaning.
— 𝕃ℝ 🖤
The train shudders through another small town,
lights flickering across her face
like someone flipping through
the pages of her life too fast.
Her phone buzzes again —
not new messages,
just the same ones she keeps rereading
until the words blur:
“Bone marrow biopsy.”
“B‑cell acute lymphoblastic leukemia.”
“We’ve started labs. He’s stable for now.”
She doesn’t know what half of it means,
only that her four‑year‑old
is lying in a hospital bed
nine hours away,
and strangers are saying words
that sound like storms
with no shelter.
The train hums beneath her,
steady, indifferent.
She presses her palm to her chest
as if she can hold herself together
by force alone.
A nurse had tried to explain it gently —
white cells gone wrong,
crowding out the good ones,
the kind of thing that happens
in medical textbooks,
not in little boys
who still sleep with dinosaur blankets
and mispronounce spaghetti.
She wipes her eyes with her sleeve,
left‑hand trembling,
right‑hand gripping the seat
like she could drag the whole train forward
with her bare will.
Outside, the night is a smear of fields
and telephone wires.
Inside, she counts the seconds
between her breaths,
trying to keep them even,
trying not to imagine
IV lines,
monitors,
the tiny hospital gown
she knows he hates.
The conductor pauses beside her,
asks if she needs water.
She shakes her head,
voice caught somewhere
between her ribs and the dark.
She whispers his name
into the window’s reflection,
fogging the glass
with a prayer she doesn’t know how to finish.
Nine hours.
Nine hours of track
between her and the room
where doctors are fighting
the thing she can’t touch,
can’t fix,
can’t mother away.
The train keeps its rhythm,
slow, relentless,
and she rides it
with her whole body leaning forward
as if wanting
could be enough
to close the distance.
-LR 🖤
The seconds are falling teeth.
The minutes are shallow breaths.
We live a thousand lives.
Between a thousand deaths.
We chase a future ghost.
We mourn a past that lied.
While the only truth we own.
Is shivering deep inside.
Stop trying to catch the wind.
Stop trying to hold the sea.
The cage is made of "should."
The key is letting be.
-𝕃ℝ 🖤
The seconds are falling teeth.
The minutes are shallow breaths.
We live a thousand lives.
Between a thousand deaths.
We chase a future ghost.
We mourn a past that lied.
While the only truth we own.
Is shivering deep inside.
Stop trying to catch the wind.
Stop trying to hold the sea.
The cage is made of "should."
The key is letting be.
-𝕃ℝ 🖤
People ask if time has a beginning,
as if beginnings are gentle things,
as if the universe didn’t tear itself open
to make room for us.
They ask if time will end,
as if endings are clean,
as if anything that ever loved or burned
has learned how to stop completely.
But I think time is older
than the questions we keep trying
to pin it down with.
Older than language,
older than light,
older than the first trembling atom
that dared to exist.
And yet—
time is also unbearably young.
It begins every time a person
finally tells the truth.
It ends every time a heart
can’t carry its own echo anymore.
Maybe the universe keeps its clocks
in the softest places:
the moment someone forgives themselves,
the breath right before a goodbye,
the quiet shift when a life
no longer fits the shape it used to.
Maybe time is not a line at all,
but a wound that keeps healing
and breaking
and healing again.
Does it have a beginning?
Yes—
in every spark of courage
that pulls us out of the dark.
Does it have an ending?
Yes—
in every version of us
we’ve had to bury
to stay alive.
Everything else is motion,
a long, trembling fall
through moments that refuse
to let us stay the same.
And somewhere in that descent,
we learn to call it meaning.
— 𝕃ℝ 🖤