words.
excerpts from a language only the earth remembers.
“my love, have i mistaken you for an angel?
truly, i've laid bare my defenses,
a mere sheep to the slaughter,
a lamb to your altar.”
— kat., “consumed.”
“breathe, and just be, she hums in the stillness,
like a hymn without sound,
and i remember i am still holy,
even when i feel hollow.”
— kat., “moon.”
“how sweetly she weeps into
the depths of her own subconscious.
why does one with such deep thought
feel so lonely?”
— kat., “ghost.”
“what am i, if not this myth blooming wild,
descendants telling stories around fires,
of a woman who was born from one.”
— kat., “transcendence.”
“wake me up, i was asleep,
am i even still alive?
i linger on why the earth is not awake,
but forget that most are afraid to die.”
— kat., “veil.”
“my hunger grows deep,
the darkness in me craves the touch of one
demonized for free thought.
my intense desire hangs on a string,
and it's beginning to grow teeth.”
— kat., “esurience.”
“your hands around me in hunger,
haunting, on your knees,
a starved man, and i'm something holy.”
— kat., “you.”