deliciouslydamagedmentality

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MELANCHOLY'S THRALL prompt by @definegodliness.

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Only in the eyes of love you can find infinity.”

Ouroboros Eye Yoshi Busan (부산대타투)

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I only really exist in the perception of those who believe in my existence --

There is no, "think, therefore --"

I simply believe that I exist, and so I do.

So, when you all forget, and when I stop believing in my ability, in my right, to touch and think and feel --

when I'm so alone that I'm no longer sure, that anyone else can see me?

I will disappear, then, completely.

V. Rue, 2025.

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" Hawling With the Pack " // © Philipp Steiger

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— Jay Vespertine

Text ID: “Maybe in a parallel universe i was not betrayed so poetically.”

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I would live here in my mind if I could If the earthly world did not always snatch me away With its incessant needing and needing Earth, why are you so attached to me?

I am in my mind today, like most days Don't say it is not a place because you can't walk there When your thoughts wander Is it through a desert? A forest? Do you swim?

Everything that has died is alive here Here is my dead friend that I used to kiss, looking well Here is the art I gave up on in frustration Here are the words you said to me in anger The dreams we dreamed together, still breathing

I walk up creaking steps from my stomach to my head The body is such a desperate thing sometimes Always needing validation and hand holding So I would live up here tucked away in the ethereal

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I walk the ridge where the hawthorn stretches,

its branches gnarled, defiant against time.

There, the earth smells of roots and rain,

a raw, loamy promise of something unbroken.

Above, a sky bruised by evening’s hand

spills light in streaks of copper and gold,

a benediction for all that lingers unseen.

The blackbird’s song threads the silence,

each note stitching something whole

from the fabric of the frayed.

Even the river,

churning with its unrelenting purpose,

hums a song older than sorrow,

as if it knows the art of letting go.

The air is thick with the ache of memory,

its weight pressing heavy on the chest,

In the hush, grief unfurls its fingers,

a shadow slipping between birch and bramble.

Here, it is allowed—this ache, this weight,

but only for a moment,

the wild is no place for chains.

I kneel in the meadow, the damp soil cool,

and press my palm to the pulse of the earth.

the land itself, a quiet keeper of our undoing.

It beats steady, unhurried, as if to say:

Grief is a season,

but the green returns.

Author: Kevin McManus

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"imagine being loved the way you love." - s.colinson

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