Betrayed God

For how long can coffee sit in someone’s fridge before it becomes a science project with feelings tasting like regret? 

My love! Thank gods and demons… 

Someone said I should publish a book for my poems, so... Here you go, I guess? 
          I just published "The Poet" of my story "The Poet". https://www.wattpad.com/1620731743?utm_source=android&utm_medium=profile&utm_content=share_published&wp_page=create_on_publish&wp_uname=Betrayed_God

I used to think the world was loud
          not with voices… with feeling.
          Every glance a blade or blessing,
          every word a quiet ceiling
          pressing down on lungs too open,
          on a heart that never learned
          how to close the doors it shattered
          every time it simply burned.
          I loved wrong, fuck, I loved wrong.
          Like a man who drinks the sea,
          salt in wounds and lungs collapsing,
          still convinced it’s meant to be.
          I mistook the pull for purpose,
          mistook chaos for a sign,
          left my soul in чужие hands
          just to feel a pulse, a line.
          They all left or worse - they stayed
          long enough to hollow bone,
          long enough to teach my shadow
          how to mimic being “home.”
          And I carry them like scriptures
          etched in scars beneath my skin,
          every “almost” turned to echo,
          every touch a quieter sin.
          I was not built for this surviving.
          No, I know it, plain and clear.
          Some are shaped to hold the daylight,
          I was carved to cradle fear.
          To sit still while something ancient
          coils its fingers ‘round my chest,
          whispers softly: you are temporary,
          like a guest who overstayed his rest.
          It found me, not all at once,
          but in quiet, creeping ways,
          in the silence after laughter,
          in the blur of empty days.
          Depression, like a patient hunter,
          learned the map inside my head,
          knew exactly where to settle
          without needing me dead.
          Not dead, no, that would be mercy.
          This is something far more cruel:
          to be breathing, still unraveling,
          to be conscious of the pull.
          So I write.

Labas. Gal nori paskaityti mano knygą "Gęstanti viltis"?
          https://www.wattpad.com/story/245175294?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details_button&wp_uname=Sakurhea

I am not drunk, I am a poet...

I don’t ask whose hands you’ve known,
          whose quiet rooms you’ve wandered through.
          Let them claim what they were shown
          none of them have seen the YOU.
          Maybe someone kissed your skin,
          soft as prayer beneath the light.
          Maybe someone let you win
          gentle, careful little nights.
          But I see the spark you hide,
          how your shadow starts to breathe.
          How the fire you keep inside
          bares its teeth when you’re with me.
          I don’t care who had you first,
          who once tangled in your hair.
          Let them brag or let them boast
          I was never standing there...
          before.
          I just know the way you stand,
          how your smile turns sharp and free,
          how the world slips from your hand.
          Because you look better next to me.
          Your dress clings tighter to your hips,
          your laughter burns untamed and wild.
          There’s danger sleeping in your lips
          that wakes whenever you have smiled.
          And maybe they adored you sweet,
          kept you safe and kept you tame
          but thunder doesn’t bow so neat,
          and lightning never plays that game.
          So let them whisper what they knew.
          Let them swear you once were theirs.
          But your eyes grow darker blue
          when you feel my hands in theirs.
          Call it hunger, call it sin.
          Call it reckless chemistry.
          I don’t care where you have been
          you'd still look better here with me.

I am dirty-talk fluent, baby... so you better call me Daddy while I make you moan ;)

What if I told you I love you?

My best friend (he is like a brother to my siblings and me) told my sister to marry a man that treats her dumb questions like they're NASA level problems. 
          She came to me to ask for help with chemistry homework. I just sat there, doing what I had to and explained her everything. Suddenly her eyes went wide and she screamed "You're the man! You are the kind of man I need to marry!!" 
          Honestly, I just want her to be happy. But I am not sure I could handle talking to myself while eating Christmas dinner... XD