Man is not the noble creature he pretends to be, cloaked in the trappings of civilization. Beneath the veneer of culture and morality, he is a predator of the highest order, an architect of suffering who weaves his darkness into the very fabric of the world. He is a creature of darkness, a harbinger of doom, whose cruelty is a plague upon the world. He is the true architect of suffering, the origin of every nightmare, the force that drives the world to its knees. And in the end, it is man who is the true horror, a being whose capacity for cruelty knows no limits, whose darkness knows no bounds. He is not the product of some external evil but the very embodiment of it, a creature who has made an art of pain and suffering, a demon in human skin. He is the nightmare that stalks the living, the shadow that haunts the dying, the monster that no beast could ever hope to match. Man is the true terror, the true evil, and it is he who should be feared above all else.

it's my primal bite and extinguished aphorism. it's the late night glances praying for earth to be less cold and more clean. it's more than the feeling of being scratched in the back of your mind each time you belong in my skin. because for us, we kiss the hours of gold and few longing. and would you believe it? i am a three-selved woman who dines on your god since you talked to me past two moons now. a clockwise confession i yearned for years but i watched it slowly as it melted holy on your tongue. let me tell you about october, libra. let me tell you about love when the flesh burns and the threshold is nothing but decay.

mid-summer and you ferment on my back like fresh greece and grapewine. say, how do i fill you about desire and still be hungry for it? how do i unclench these fists and not remember each muscle memory limb by limb? fuck the seeds of pomegranate. let no painting drain you and starve the beauty i drink from your juice. i will turn peach and pink for you. even so, this is love. and so, this is softness cleaved in two to tender the grazing part of you of us. what do you say if you stick in my palms and you eat me whole and we never perish after the sun? oh, it's my bloodline bending backwards reaching saturn for ninetynine. it's your first fingers inside me slipping heavy but slow. the late night foraging of our flesh. baby, look at my body now: all sore and sweat. aren't you hungry, oh wouldn't you feed me?