A flicker of light—
needle-prick stars puncture velvet,
revealing a wound
where blindness spills softly
like ink underwater,
distorting vision
until clarity itself feels obscene.
Disgust lives beneath my skin,
a cicada buried
seventeen years deep,
awakening only to scream—
to find its voice horrific,
its wings unbearable
against the silk of twilight.
Joy sits in my mouth,
a rare spice turned rancid,
intoxicating but spoiled—
a luxury I despise,
fearing the sweetness
will betray my hunger
for ruin.
Love slips through my fingers
as sand woven from glass—
beautiful in its treachery,
cutting gently
with promises
it cannot keep.
And thoughts of myself
unfold like dampened paper,
letters smearing
until meaning itself is grotesque,
until smiling feels vulgar,
a spectacle of decay,
a carnival
where mirrors warp
to mock the fragility
of essence.
I revolt against this
existence—
a shadow sewn crudely
to my heels,
dragged forward by momentum
not consent,
rebelling,
resisting
the gravity
of my own pulse,
Disgust,
a companion
more faithful than shadow,
embraces me,
wraps me in the luxury of hatred,
in the comfort of disdain—
for everything I am,
for everything
I refuse
to become.
Disgusted by the audacity
to continue
breathing.
Yet
somehow, strangely,
your mouth finds mine—
kissing away the bitterness
like salt dissolving
beneath a tongue
I no longer recognize.
How absurd
to feel the cicada silenced,
to taste decay sweetened,
to discover disgust stolen
in a single breath—
and to be left
standing, shaken,
with no memory
of surrender.
