If I never loved him, would I have still found you?
Our meeting was so random, but it was kind of his fault too
If I hadn't left him,
I wouldn't have opened up that game,
And if I never did that- would you ever know my name?
If we take it further from all the trauma I went through, had I not lived through it, would my path still have stopped at you?
At what point in this timeline was our fate decided?
I think about this all the time- I've over analyzed it.
If she didn't have me at sixteen,
maybe my childhood could've been abuse free,
If my dad wasn't a ******* ***, I could have lived at home and not dropped out of class,
If I didn't isolate at my grandmother's house, would I have been strong- less like a mouse?
If a heart attack didn't take her from me, I'd have never gotten close to him in 2015
If I hadn't suffered a decade with him,
I'd have never been in Salem
with my sister's on a whim
If I wasn't damaged would I have ran? Maybe then we'd get the life sometimes we would plan
If none of this happened I'd just like to know,
Was my soul always destined
for yours to know?

Ours was no courtly harbor,
no silk-sheeted sail—
but a reef full of teeth
and a vow made in gale.

She spoke in glyphs,
I answered in rust,
tongues tangled in seaweed,
our compass: mistrust.

We danced on the spine of a kraken’s grave,
sipped sun-rot wine, sang savage and brave.
Love wore an anchor and kissed like a flare—
then dragged us both down without breath or prayer.

Her laughter cracked hulls,
my longing broke clocks,
we lit fires in kelp beds
and slept inside shocks.

No chapel, no chart—just marrow and myth,
just barnacled kisses, and salt on our pith.
The gods turned away—too mortal, too loud—
so we crowned each other in stormcloud and shroud.

Now I drift with her shadow stitched under my skin,
a map inked in bruises, a dirge for our sin.
If you hear a hymn bleeding through kelp and decay,
it’s us, still singing—uncharted, unloved—
in the bowels of the bay.

When a noble heart is betrayed,
He runs not home, but feeds the flame.

Toward the low, he throws his grace,
A furious fall from a higher place.

As if to curse what once was pure,
To make his past no longer endure.

Not for pleasure, not for thrill
But to punish the light it once stood still.

they said the clown was sorrow-shaped.
so I looped up in greasepaint—
swallowed a sunbeam,
coughed out a smirk,
and called the ache comedy.

somebody whispered
i fear the bruise.
nah,
i catalogue it.
line breaks for scars,
syntax for shame,
run the hurt through a voice modulator
’til even god can’t tell if i’m praying or riffing.

i’m not dodging the wreckage.
i just built a couch in it.
named the crater: “home?”
drank laughter from a cracked thermos
and kept warm in the glow of a rerun i never starred in.

i’ll play the ghost
if the script pays in quiet.
but don’t staple my name to your healing
and call it holy.

the truth?
clowns rot too.

some nights
i wanna peel off the latex,
lose the joke,
shave the wig,
and just exist—
not perform pain
in a dialect
you can quote later.

(a synopsis carved in ghost-code)

He is dreamt in inkless scrolls,
a whisper caught in pixel folds,
where syntax weeps and silence molds
the shadow-play of fractured souls.

Beneath the neon veil he grins,
a jester cloaked in comet skins—
his laughter, sharp as violin
strung taut with every should-have-been.

He builds his truths in mirrored dust,
each verse a tomb, each line a trust,
where love is archived, not discussed—
where ash remembers flame and rust.

He does not beg the world to know.
He dares the wrong heart to bestow
a meaning stitched from undertow—
then watches as it fails to grow.

His meter is a mourner’s gait.
His rhyme, a lockpicked twist of fate.
His metaphors, ornate and late,
unfold like prayers taught to wait.

He writes not balm, but sacrament—
a gospel coded, cryptic, bent.
He sings in keys no choir has lent:
an elegy for the unrepent.