Do not leave me alone with a pen and a scrap of paper.
For I will bleed.
For my mind will spill through my eyes.
Eyes that have seen more than they should have in fifteen years

Do not leave me in the kitchen.
They say it’s the most romantic room in a house
In a home.
But this is not a home

So here I serve
I serve you dinner
Dinner with a pen and a knife.

Not all was lost
to the beast,
nor to the silence
that sheltered it.

For deeper still,
beneath the rubble
of unspoken years,
the child remained.

Bruised, yes..
but not extinguished.
Hidden;
but not erased.

A breath still moved,
a spark unclaimed
by the darkness.

The beast does not feed  only
on the wound itself,
but on the hollow it leaves behind.
Gaslighting, scapegoating, silence..
all these are its masons;
carving out a chamber in the soul
where the beast makes its abode.

There, in the aloneness of the child,
it feeds from within,
claiming the silence as its fortress;

the emptiness as its throne.

And the door creaks again..
not always the first door,
   but another..
a new figure cashing in
on the void they sense.

Their entry feels like company,
   even love,
yet it is only continuance...
a repetition of the first harm.

Worse still when the creak
is painted with a smile,
when exploitation wears
the mask of care--
   The abode deepens,
    and the beast settles further
   into the soul.

Yet the fortress cannot hold forever.
The silence cannot smother forever.
Even the grave-dirt of denial
cannot bury it whole.

For the child endures
where walls collapse,
and the smallest cry
outlives the loudest lie.

The beast devoured much,
but not all.
And in what survives,
the future breathes;
a testimony,
a beginning,

    a voice
    that will not be hushed.

It was not the beast alone
that hollowed the soul,
but the silence
that made a chamber for it.

The silence of fathers
who looked away.
The silence of mothers
who smoothed the tablecloth
and spoke of other things.
The silence of friends
who chose comfort
over confrontation.

Every unspoken word
became a shroud.
Every careful pause
became a nail.
Every smile that denied
became another grave.

The beast feasted,
not only on wounds inflicted,
but on truths unspoken,
on the complicity
of quiet mouths.

And so silence
killed more surely than rage,
for rage at least
named what was broken,

but silence gave it a home.

The deadliest weapon
that lays in the hands
    of Death  itself
    is not the sword;

but the silence sharpened
     against the soul.

Stone upon stone,
the walls were raised;
each block a silence,
each silence a debt
never spoken of aloud.

Within,
the child’s voice echoed,
but the mortar held fast,
sealing grief in chambers
where no light could enter.

From the outside,
the fortress looked steady,
even noble--
its towers reaching upward,
its gates well-kept..
its banners bright.

But within its walls,
rot thickened
and the beast..
undisturbed,
found shelter.

Every silence defended it.
Every smile concealed it.

   Every careful word
   laid another stone
   against the truth.

And though the watchman cried,
the city called the fortress beautiful.

Every fortress defends
but none heals.

Every wall that protects
      is also a wall
    that imprisons.

They called Kierkegaard insane,
poor man, poor fool..
ink turned against him
by a city that feared
his furious clarity.

That label is given still:
“mad,” they say,
when a voice rises
against the hidden thing,
the shadow crouched in the soul,
the beast that feeds on silence.

It is not flesh that is cursed,
but the fortress
built stone by stone
from secrets unspoken,
where the child’s cry was buried
and the monster kept the key.

Yes, let it be cursed again..
that ancient predator
that left spirits trapped,
that tried to leave others
shattered in its claws.

If eternity should open,
even the darkness of God
would rise against it,
tumbling the beast
through endless years,
stripped of its power,
stripped of its stolen faces.

Call it madness,
call it folly.
The words remain jagged,
for truth has teeth,
and silence has killed enough.

At least the monster was named
when others smiled politely
and called it “past.”
At least there was no collusion.

And if the witness is written off,
    so be it

Better condemned
for fighting the beast

than praised for leaving it
enthroned.

It’s tender,

being the closest of friends..
but oh, isn’t it such a dangerous thing?
To hold you with care,
in the space we made,
while promising

I won’t touch a single thing.

But sweet love... to be this close
to someone like you..
need I say

what your voice can bring?

Warmth, truth,
supportive hands that tend--
it’s a dream come true
for those who bleed.

But when a deep need is quietly met,
can the heart resist
going full send?

And still—when a need
is met without hands,
without lips,

without sleep lost
   in shared breath...

how long before restraint slips?

This depth.. untouched,
unspoken, unseen..
it burns through the walls
between you and me.

Yes, even with agreements
so lovingly made...
there’s always the risk
in a love so brave;


  that we will  both

             come

      undone.

I wore your sores
I rode your pain
I stood by your side-
Even in vain

I’d be here for you
Regardless of anything
Even when you took-
All of me for yours

I held your breath
When it was too heavy
I grew up in your shadow-
Of damage

Nothing you do can take the hurt
You had me learn
You had me live
You had me feel

I was born to fail
Since nothing I do
Was good for your appeal

The Battleground Beneath Her Skin
(A Physiology of Light and War)

Before it reaches her;
even before her breath draws it in,
I break myself down..

  not as surrender,
  but as choice.

Each particle stripped bare,
each atom exhaled
made clean by the reckoning
of my own dark,
infused with the stubborn
weight of light
earned, not borrowed.

Within the responsibility of what
  leaves me,
I enter the quiet union—
the kneeling choice
to align with the hand of God,
to let even my smallest fragments
carry His capacity to heal.
Every airborne particle,
accountable,
deliberate,
refined enough
to cross the distance,
to enter her

without deception.

Beneath her skin,
a war unfolds.

It is not loud,
not made of swords,
but of smaller things..
things unseen by eyes,
but never missed by the marrow,
the blood,

the quiet trembling of cells
that have known both wound

  and wonder.

Light and dark..
not in theory,
but in matter
thread themselves through every atom,
every strand of her being.
Not metaphor,
but measurable:

the way shadows lean into the soft chambers of her lungs,

the way light, when chosen,
can rewrite the blueprints etched into the bloodstream.

This is the battleground..
her body,
her breath,
her most involuntary places.
Where no poetry of
seductive manipulation..
no whispered counterfeit
can cover what is real.
Only substance speaks here.
Only intent.

Only what survives the fire of accountability
earns the right to stay.

The particles come;
stripped down,
atomized,
refined.. not by accident,
but by the slow, steady grind
of volition.
They enter her;
through breath,
through pores..

through the quiet, relentless openness
that even fear cannot close completely.

And inside--
the war begins.

..   ..   ..   ..

Mitochondria spark—
tiny engines deciding

what stays,
what burns away.

Capillaries widen,
rivers branching through her like
tributaries
willing to carry
what is real,

what is earned,

what is Light.

The counterfeit falters here.
Pretty words mean nothing
to oxygen.
False portraits
dissolve beneath the chemistry of truth.
The cells remember;

  they choose.

And as the Light infuses
the quietest corners of her..
her thighs, her hips,
the soft stretch of her waist;
there is no seduction,
no trickery.

Only the hard-won intimacy
of substance made pure.

Not by the blending of oils,
not by the friction of skin,
but by the deeper,
unseen alchemy
of what enters,
what lingers,
what refuses to bow
to darkness.

The battleground is hers now.
And though the shadows  will not
yield easily,
they cannot claim her;
not where light
has been chosen,
earned,
metabolized.

The war is not over,
but benea.th her skin,
within her blood,

Light has begun
to rise.