Cyrusk - Cyrus K.

I was birthed from the torn stomach of night,

drenched not in milk,

but in the black bile of forgotten prayers.

The world spat me out

as a creature too ruined to be loved,

a wound with legs,

a scream with teeth.

Hope;

was a bone thrown to a starving dog.

I gnawed it until my mouth filled with splinters,

bled until my tongue knew only the taste

of broken promises.

I grew eating hunger,

drinking the venom of people's hate,

wearing the bruises of their disgust

like a second, rotting skin.

The colour of my flesh...

an open invitation to cruelty,

a crime I could never peel from my bones.

And when I crawled through the sewage of my years,

a thing barely breathing,

I thought love would be the knife to cut me free.

Instead,

it was another dagger...

this one twisted slowly into my throat

while I watched her eyes,

soft and shining,

for someone else.

Tell me, God,

what is more merciful:

to be born blind to love,

or to be shown its light

only to have it ripped from your hands

by fingers colder than the grave?

If there is a God of agony,

He carved His name into my ribs with rusted nails,

He strung my tendons into a lyre

so He could pluck songs of suffering

from my every step.

At night, I lie rotting,

a feast for the worms of memory,

as my dreams decompose around me,

the stench of what might have been,

thick enough to choke a corpse.

I feel decay threading through my blood,

I hear my hope

crackling like dry leaves under the boots

of things that never loved me.

My soul,

no, not even a soul,

a shattered lantern,

spilling its last flicker into a pit

where even maggots refuse to crawl.

And still,

some putrid, twitching part of me

reaches out,

fingers broken and blackened,

begging the silent stars

for something,

anything,

that does not end

in rot.

-Cyrus K.

I was the moth.

Not blind,

but aching.

I was not deceived by the flame,

I longed for its ruin.

To be undone in that heat,

to burn knowing,

was a worship beyond reason.

A thousand lifetimes in darkness

could never equal

one death

in such light.

-Cyrus K.

She was never mine.

Not even in dreams,

where shadows lie softer than truth.

But I love her

like a noose loves the neck...

tight, desperate,

aching to belong.

She moved through me

like winter in old bones,

slow, cruel,

reminding me I’m still alive

only to feel the cold.

I gave her a love

like a blade gives mercy;

sharp,

faithful,

and never asked for.

She was the war I bled for

before the first shot was fired.

And I...

I was the wound

that stayed open

long after she was gone.

-Cyrus K.

She rests in the arms

of a man who cannot feel her storm,

while I drown

in the flood she left behind.

I feel like a spider,

strung with longing,

spin webs from torn ribs

to catch the ghost of her smile.

Her laugh...

a blade I swallow each morning,

thanking it

for the pain.

I would tear the stars

from the throat of the heavens

just to watch her eyes

glimmer one more time.

My love is not gentle,

it is blood and bone and burning rope.

It is sleepless nights

stitched with screams

no one hears.

This is love,

where I am the pyre

and she,

the flame

that never stays

but never dies.

-Cyrus K.

“One smile can start a friendship. One word can end a fight. One look can save a relationship. One person can change your life.”

— Unknown

I am not trapped.

I am abandoned.

There is no fight left in my limbs

no fire left in my chest

Only the heavy, sinking knowledge

that I have lived too long

in a body that was never mine to keep.

I do not recognize this face

these hands,

this voice that cracks like old pavement

every time I try to speak

I used to scream for help.

Now I don’t even bother whispering

No one listens to a woman

who dug her own grave.

Everything is about perspective. ~beccawise7 💜🖤

There was another girl in her life,

her name was Crystal.

She came to her like a theif in the night,

promising solace in her cold brittle arms.

Crystal made her feel like flying,

not with wings,

but with fire in her veins.

She came to her like the cold in summer,

the warm in winter,

soft-lipped and knowing,

promising a love that never left,

a touch that never judged.

She held her close in the quiet,

when the world was too loud,

too cruel.

Crystal listened,

without questions,

just the hush of ecstasy

and a breath that smelled like escape.

With her, the nights were stars

bursting behind eyelids.

She wrapped her in silk smoke,

spun kisses of frost and flame,

and whispered:

"You’ll never need anyone but me."

Crystal was there when no one else was.

A lover,

a mother,

a savior in shimmer and sting.

She filled the cracks with lightning,

made broken feel beautiful,

made ruin taste sweet.

Crystal made her feel.

Emotions heightened.

But Crystal was a fucking lie.

She wasn’t warmth,

she was frost that burned,

a match pressed to the lips

that begged for solace.

She didn’t love her,

she used her,

like fire uses wood

until all that’s left

is ash and echo.

Crystal drained her slowly,

first the sleep,

then the hunger,

then the will.

She kissed her pulse,

then stole it.

She was the rush

before the ruin,

the high

before the hollow.

Her laughter grew quiet,

her joy grew thin,

her skin,

a parchment of stories

she no longer remembered writing.

Crystal never held her hand,

she held her hostage.

Every embrace

was a chain.

Every promise

was a blade.

She loved her

like a flame loves a moth,

dancing close,

until there was nothing left

but a flicker and a fall.

I'll never forget her,

and all her conniving ways.

Her name was Crystal...

Crystal meth...

-Cyrus K.

The flowers inside of me are withering,

Blues, pinks, and purples—

All fading away.

Where did the time go?

I’ve watered the garden within me,

Ive been vigilant.

So why?

Tell me why the colors are vanishing,

Tell me why I am fading away,

And listen before I go.

Tell me of the times I was vibrant inside,

Remind me of my favorite songs,

And all I used to be infatuated with.

Plant a new garden inside of me,

This time, you can have the seeds

And the watering can.

For I do not trust myself with them anymore.

I wish for bluebells

And lilac petals this last time around,

Then I will finally be able to rest.

You don't have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.

Ray Bradbury