Caleb. 25. Nothing more you need to know If you're looking for reasons or trying to find a face behind the name, you're already too close. Some truths aren't meant for daylight, and I don't share shadows with just anyone. If you're one of those people who wants to dig for dirt or play detective. Fuck off

They say some wounds never heal. Mine never truly formed, just twisted beneath the surface, hidden in places no one's dared to look. I carry memories like ghosts, fragments of a past I never fully owned, whispers of a truth I'm sworn to bury.

Once I crossed a line no one should. A night where choices shattered everything I thought I was. A mistake, or maybe a necessary sin, that left me marked in ways the world can't see. That secret lives inside me like a curse. I guard it fiercely because revealing it could destroy more than just me.

Creativity is my only language, a way to give shape to the chaos inside. I keep a worn leather journal full of sketches and half-finished poems, fragments of the storms inside my mind. I speak in shadows and half-truths because the full story is a burden better left untold.

I move through quiet, dim places. Late-night cafés, abandoned rooftops, empty libraries. I prefer the silence where the world's noise fades. A silver ring sits heavy on my right hand, a family heirloom I never remove, and a faint scar traces my left wrist, a reminder of things best forgotten.

I drink my coffee black, bitter but honest, and often disappear for days with no explanation. Music spins on an old vinyl player, haunting and obscure like the thoughts I can't quite escape.

Not looking for friends. I'm just here for the poetry and expressing myself in dark and twisted ways.

If you meet me, don't ask where I've been or what I've done. Some doors open only when the silence breaks and that day is still far off. Until then, I am just the shape lurking in the dark, waiting for the night to tell its story.