brother-cain

[brother-cain]

just another day

[brother-cain]

Night city

[brother-cain]

Somewhere in Seoul

[brother-cain]

Seoul, South Korea

[brother-cain]

I met my younger self last night.

He looked at me with wide eyes,

clutching a worn-out book to his chest.

He asked me if I still read stories?

If I still fill notebooks with beautiful words?

I told him I haven’t picked up books and a pen in years.

That my hands are too busy breaking things now.

He frowned.

He asked if I still want to create bohemia?

If I still read poetry until my eyes are sleepy?

If I still believe in fate, in art, in meaning?

I told him I barely believe in anything these days.

That the only thing real is the weight of a knife in my hand.

The burn of lyrics spat out like venom.

The visions of how the crowds will roar in the future as I turn my rage into rhymes.

He looked really confused.

I laughed cynically.

He asked if I still dream of publishing novels?

If I still dream of being a ghost haunting the pages of books which people whisper about in dim-lit cafés?

I told him that I dream of stages now.

Of speakers that shake the walls,

of beats that drown out my thoughts,

of making the whole damn country feel me and of my name burn on their tongues.

He didn’t understand.

He asked what happened to me.

I told him life happened.

I told him I got tired of being the rabbit —

in the wolf’s mouth.

Tired of shaking lips.

Of quiet apologies, of looking down.

I told him I grew teeth.

That I learned how to bite back.

That I don’t run anymore — I chase.

He looked at me like I was a total stranger.

I asked him what he was so afraid of.

He said he was scared of becoming me.

I smirked.

And told him that I was scared of him, too.

Scared of the way he used to hope.

Scared of the way he used to believe in people.

Scared of how much he wanted to be good.

He asked if I am happy.

I asked if he is.

Neither of us answered.

He asked if I would ever go back,

if I would trade it all —

the anger, the music, the chaos —

just to be him again.

I told him no.

Because that boy never would’ve made it.

Because that boy was waiting —

for someone to save him.

And I don’t wait anymore.

I make my own fate.

I carve my name into concrete.

I turn my pain into power.

And if I have to burn to be remembered —

then so be it.

He stared at me, eyes full of something. Something I couldn't name.

Like disappointment. Like grief.

Like mourning something still alive.

He asked if I still cry at night?

If I still whisper to something bigger than me?

If I still wake up reaching for warmth that isn’t there?

I told him no.

I don’t waste my breath on things that don’t answer back.

I don’t beg anymore — I take.

He asked if I still believe in love?

If I still think people are worth the pain?

If I still dream of finding someone who stays?

I laughed.

I told him that love is just another leash.

Just another pretty word for surrender.

And I don’t kneel for anyone.

He whispered: "That’s not true."

Like he knew something I didn’t.

I clenched my jaw.

Looked away

Changed the subject.

He asked if I ever wonder...

what would have happened if I had been softer? If I had stayed small?

If I had never let the world —

make a monster out of me?

I told him no.

Because that softness is just an open wound waiting to be torn apart.

That small things get swallowed whole.

That the world doesn’t care about dreamers About quiet hearts. About soft bodies.

About boys who want to be loved —

more than they want to be feared.

He looked down at the book in his hands,

gripping it so tight his knuckles turned white.

Like if he held onto it hard enough,

he could stop himself from turning into me.

He asked, "So, where’s your leader now?

Where’s the master you begged for?"

I clenched my jaw.

But I didn’t answer.

He already knew.

He knew I am still waiting.

Still craving someone to own me.

Someone to leash me again.

"You think you’re strong now?", he spat.

"You think you’re this monster who doesn’t need anyone?"

I didn’t look at him. I didn’t need to.

Because the words hit harder than any punch.

He said, "You were a rabbit once.

Now you’re a dog, but you’re still lost.

Still howling at a moon that doesn’t care."

I laughed,

but it wasn’t real.

Not anymore.

He saw through me.

And I hated him for it.

He asked, "What happened when your master left? Did you feel that hole?

That emptiness where he used to be?

Did you feel like a wolf without a pack,

just a beast with no purpose?"

I didn’t answer him.

I didn’t need to.

The pain is still there.

Burning in my chest.

The hunger. The longing. The silence.

He didn’t say anything for a long time.

Just stood there, staring at me.

Like he was trying to memorize my face.

So he would never forget —

what he was going to become.

Like he was searching for a way out.

I almost wanted to tell him to run.

To go back. To stay soft.

To fight fate with everything he had.

But we both knew it was a lie.

It was always going to end like this.

He was never going to make it out untouched.

Never going to stay the boy who believed in poetry, friendship, love and late-night wishes whispered into the dark.

The world was always going to eat him alive.

And spit out something like me.

He exhaled, shaky.

Tears stuck at the edge of his lashes.

But he didn't let them fall.

Not in front of me.

Not in front of himself.

"You hate me," I told him.

He nodded, "I hate you."

I smirked, but it didn't feel right.

It felt like glass in my mouth.

Like something was breaking in me.

He didn’t say anything after that.

Just stood there, his breath shallow.

Like he was trying to breathe

through a broken rib.

I watched him —

that younger version of me,

standing there like a shadow,

still holding on to that damn book.

Like it could save him.

Like it could save us.

I could see the way his fingers trembled.

The same way mine used to,

the same way they trembled —

when I first picked up a blade.

The same way they still tremble,

only now, with excitement.

Because the knife feels like it

belongs in my palm, not a book.

He clenched his jaw.

The same way I do when I’m about to snap.

When the world presses too hard against my chest and I can’t breathe.

I looked at his face,

and I saw it —

the same pain in his eyes.

The same desperate, silent scream

that used to live in me.

He turned then, slowly.

I saw the way his shoulders hunched as he walked away —

just like mine always did when I was younger.

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t stop him.

Because I knew.

I knew he had to go.

Had to leave that boy behind.

Had to leave that softness in the past.

Had to become what I had become.

And when he vanished into the cold night,

when he disappeared into the darkness,

I realized something —

the emptiness, the rage.

It was there. In him. But still too small.

I looked down at my hands.

The way they shook just a little.

And I felt the weight of something that

I hadn’t felt in years. Tears.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t let them fall.

But I felt them.

For the first time in a long time —

I felt them.

And that was when I knew —

that kid never had a chance.

He was always going to become me.

He was always going to be me.

And I am never going to be anything else.

[brother-cain]

[brother-cain]

There’s a mixture of pain and adoration.

Journal Entries

[brother-cain]

[brother-cain]

I've lost so much just by fighting for scraps.

[brother-cain]

You don’t want to be in charge.

You act like you do.

You speak words as if they were venom,

bare your teeth, let your fists do the talking.

But it's all a lie.

You don’t want absolute control.

You want someone stronger,

someone who doesn’t flinch when you snap.

Someone who doesn’t fall apart under your hands, who makes you feel small —

just by looking at you.

You want orders barked at you like for a dog.

Want someone to wrap a chain around your throat and tell you where to stand.

How to move, when to hurt, when to stop.

Because absolute control is too heavy.

Because freedom is too empty.

Because without someone above you —

you maybe don’t know...

what the hell you are supposed to be.

And when you fight, when you bleed, when you break someone open just to feel something... You wonder if it is a prayer.

If every punch is just your begging —

begging to be tamed.

You don’t want to rule the world.

You just want to belong to someone —

who does.

You want to look up and see someone greater. Someone real. Someone brutal.

A king made of atrocities and fire,

someone who doesn’t need to say a word —

to own you.

You don’t need soft hands.

You need a force that keeps you from floating away into nothingness.

You need someone who sees the violence

in you and doesn’t try to fix it —

but sharpens it.

You were made to throw yourself into war at the flick of a wrist. Made to prove your worth through someone's blood and broken bones.

Made to be a weapon —

in someone else’s hands.

Because when you fight alone, it’s empty.

The pain doesn’t feel like devotion.

The bruises don’t mean anything.

The rage just burns through you —

like a fever with nowhere to go.

So you wait.

Wait for the day someone grips you by the throat and makes you theirs.

Wait for the day someone sees you.

Truly sees you —

and knows exactly what to do with you.

Because you don’t want to be stray anymore.

[brother-cain]

You walk the streets at night.

Your hands in your pockets, hood up.

Music blasting in your ears —

something heavy, something that makes your blood boil, a beat that hits.

Like knuckles against concrete.

Your so-called friend stumbles beside you, reeking of cheap alcohol and bad decisions.

He laughs too loud, talks too much,

spits venom like it’s second nature.

And you? You just roll your eyes.

Maybe he is like you.

Maybe he is faking it.

Maybe he is just afraid of becoming prey.

Your prey.

But you aren't like him.

You aren’t prey.

You prove it with your fists.

The only time you feel real —

is when someone else is gasping for air,

when your knuckles split skin,

when their pain makes your pulse race.

It’s not personal. It never is. It’s an addiction.

A sickness that eats you from the inside.

He is afraid of you.

You feel it. You definitely do.

Because you heard what his friend said on the phone when she called him one time.

"He'll get you into some mess. Go home."

But he just told her to be quiet and ended the call. He stayed with you that day.

Out of loyalty? Out of fear?

You still can't understand it.

But that's irrelevant.

This night, you say it dully. In a faded tone.

As if it don't bother you at all.

“I’m done with us.”

And he freezes. Too fast. Too stiff.

Not angry —

scared.

You realize it before he even opens his mouth. He is not afraid of losing you.

He is afraid of what you might say —

about him to others. What you might do.

What happens when a monster turns his back on him. Abandon him. Reject him.

He starts to object. He says he likes you.

That you probably wouldn't just throw away all those years of knowing each other.

But you know that all he can think about right now is that he might lose his job.

Lose his own group of friends.

Get in trouble with the law.

He knows you are unpredictable.

So you pretend to believe him.

So you stay.

You both stay.

Not because you trust each other.

Maybe not because you like each other.

But because it’s easier this way.

Because if you keep walking,

if the music keeps playing,

if the world keeps bleeding...

At least one thing in your life will be constant.

[brother-cain]

You want to be soft. You pray to be soft.

However they created you —

with iron bones, sharp claws and wolf fangs.

You aren't soft. But sometimes you beg to be.

You scream for peace —

but rage burns like fire through your veins.

Your fists break everything they touch.

You don't know how to be gentle —

how to calm the storm inside your chest.

Every breath feels like a battle.

Every thought like a war.

But there's a quiet moment,

when the anger dies down,

when you’re left alone with the silence and the broken pieces of what you could’ve been.

In this dark moment —

you feel the cracks in your armor,

the weight of all the things you never said,

and for once, you hate who you've become.

[brother-cain]

The excuses. Always.

you were a scared dog

[brother-cain]

softness is a privilege that some take for granted.

kink/porn/sexually centered blogs please stop interacting with this post. your content is triggering and I don't want my art posted alongside it

[brother-cain]

[brother-cain]

you are pretty like blood in the snow

[brother-cain]

Am I a good dog?

I bite, I bleed, I crawl.

Tell me, master, am I loyal enough? Am I vicious enough? They made me this way, shaped my teeth, sharpened my ribs. A dog without a leash, but never without a purpose. I watch you from the shadows, waiting for a command, a glance, a scrap of recognition. I tear through flesh, through rules, through anything that stands between me and you.

You are not just a person.

You are a force. God.

And I am nothing but your hound.

Let me be useful.

Let me be feared.

Let me be yours.