sylvia plath, sappho, richard sicken, walt whitman, pablo neruda, virginia woolf, oscar wilde- to name a few, of the english language

"Come out, come out, wherever you are..." Calliope's breath shuddered as she pressed trembling fingers against her wound, trying to stifle the slow, relentless flow of blood. The dark crimson smeared her deep brown skin, glistening in the faint moonlight filtering through the trees. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, forcing herself not to cry out, even as the pain in her arm surged with each heartbeat. Her body was coiled in the shadows, hidden among the thick underbrush. The scent of damp earth filled her lungs as she crouched lower, her deep brown eyes flicking toward the faint beam of light where he stalked her. The trail of her blood, leading back to her, was a cruel betrayal-he'd see it soon enough. In the distance, his boots crunched on the gravel path, slow and deliberate, the sound crawling through the silence. His shotgun dragged behind him, the barrel scraping along the stones with a sharp, unsettling screech. His tan skin glowed under the night sky, brown hair falling messily over his forehead, casting shadows over his deep-set brown eyes, eyes that no longer held the warmth she once knew. "Callie, darling..." His voice rang out, taunting. It was a mockery of affection, twisted and sharp. "Come on out. You know you can't hide forever." He scanned the woods, his gaze erratic, desperate. His hands tightened around the shotgun, knuckles white as his eyes flared with hunger, the hunt fueling his madness. The stillness was thick, suffocating, but Calliope could feel the tremor in his voice, the impatience-he was unraveling. She swallowed hard, trying to quiet her heavy breathing, her heart hammering in her chest as he stepped closer, the smell of blood growing stronger around her. If he found her, there would be no telling what he would do. ------------- In which a predator hunts prey.

why scour the dimensions for the roots of your disposition when you can just float? (2019)

weave magic on paper, concoct sensory illusions and delude yourself in the fabrications of your mind. Ⓒ shezal, 2016 - 2017

In the quiet moments of life, when words are too heavy or too fleeting, there's a space where the mind wanders. In Silence, I Breathe is a collection of journal entries that explore the raw, unspoken parts of the self. Each entry is a reflection on the struggles, the longing, and the moments of clarity that come in silence. It's a journey through pain, hope, and growth, written with the kind of honesty that only solitude can bring.