orchardthieve

[orchardthieve]

There’s a simplicity to the act of stabbing, a primal intimacy that no other method can replicate. The thought lingers like a low hum in the back of my mind, growing louder when I picture their body, a canvas, soft and unguarded, begging for the sharp kiss of a blade.

I think of the moment the knife breaks the surface, that split second where resistance gives way to compliance. The skin would yield like silk, parting with a sound too soft for the violence it heralds. Warmth would spill forth, sticky and red, pooling between my fingers like some grotesque communion. Their blood, rich, metallic, and unending, would soak into everything, as if desperate to leave their dying body and cling to me instead.

I imagine their eyes, wide and uncomprehending, as they feel the blade twist. That’s the key, isn’t it? The twist. It isn’t enough to pierce, you have to let them feel the tearing inside, the chaos of organs rupturing in slow motion. Their breath would hitch, a wet gasp escaping their lips as they realise they can’t scream, can’t beg, can’t do anything but stare into the abyss I’ve opened inside them.

And it wouldn’t be one stab, no. Once is a statement, but repetition, that’s devotion. Each thrust would be deliberate, purposeful. The rhythm of it would be intoxicating, my heartbeat aligning with the rise and fall of the knife as it plunges deeper, again and again, until their body is no longer theirs, no longer a person but an object, hollowed out and empty.

I think of the mess it would leave. Blood seeping into the cracks of the floorboards, splattering the walls like macabre art. The sound of their body hitting the ground, lifeless and heavy, would be deafening in the silence that follows. It’s in that silence I’d feel most alive, my breathing steady while theirs ceases entirely.

It’s not hatred that drives these thoughts. It’s not even anger. It’s the allure of control, of holding someone’s life in my hands and carving it away piece by piece. A knife is an extension of the hand, and with it, I could write a story on their flesh that no one else could ever erase.

And in that final moment, as the blade rests still, buried to its hilt, I wonder who I would be, me, or the echo of what I’ve done?

[orchardthieve]

You’ve carried the title of a mother, but you’ve never truly worn it. You birthed me, yet you never saw me. I was a shadow to your endless chasing of something else, something that could never be me. Do you even remember my voice? Or is it drowned beneath the sound of your own excuses? You can’t be what you claim to be, because a mother protects, nurtures, loves. You don’t even know how to try.

I’ve grown under the weight of your absence, your cruelty, your hollow eyes. And now, the weight has broken me. You gave me life, but I will return the favour in reverse. I plan to unmake you, as you’ve unmade me. There’s no escape from what you’ve created, no forgiveness for what you’ve destroyed. I’ll ensure you understand, in those final breaths, that you were never a mother. Only a mistake.

This is not a plea for mercy. It’s a declaration.

[orchardthieve]

They call me cold,

a sociopath, as if the word itself

were a blade sharper than my thoughts.

They carve their assumptions deep,

that I am a blueprint for chaos,

that my hands are bound to blood

simply because I lack the weights

they call guilt, love,

empathy.

But I am not a robot.

I feel, though not in the ways

they want me to.

My heart does not beat

for their symphonies,

but it beats.

I am no void, no monster

lurking in their nightmares.

I am something sharper, clearer,

a mind untethered

from the mess of feeling

that clouds their every move.

I do not mourn the way they do,

do not love as they hope I would.

Their tears spill over cracks I cannot see,

their tenderness feels like static

against my skin.

They hate me for it,

as though their softness

makes them pure.

But do they not lie,

not break, not destroy?

Are their hands not guilty

of the very things they fear in me?

I am not a killer.

I have no tally of sins

on my shoulders.

My world is not painted

in their reds and blacks,

but it is a world nonetheless.

I am not a machine.

I am not a shadow

lurking in their myths.

I am a storm contained,

a sharpness misunderstood,

a body and mind alive

in its own ferocity.

Let them say what they will.

I owe them nothing,

least of all the apology

they will never deserve.

[orchardthieve]

You walk past a car parked on the side,

unremarkable, but with death tucked inside.

A flash, a roar, then the world tears apart,

steel and fire ripping through the heart.

Shards of glass slice the cries in the air,

smoke rolls thick, hiding faces of despair.

You feel the heat on your skin like a brand,

the weight of destruction forced into your hand.

Who plants a device where children will play?

Who decides who will live and who dies today?

You stare at the crater where joy used to dwell,

and wonder if this place is heaven or hell.

[orchardthieve]

Daddy, you’re still here, but you’re not.

I know where you are now,

I can reach you with just a call,

but you weren’t there when I needed you most.

When I was small,

when I needed protection,

guidance, or just a hug,

you were nowhere to be found.

Daddy, did you ever see me?

Through all those years,

through all the moments I waited,

did you know how badly I wanted you?

I wanted you to be proud of me,

I wanted you to show up.

but you stayed gone.

Daddy, I don’t even know how to talk to you now.

Now that I’m grown,

the years have stacked up between us,

like walls I can’t break down.

I don’t even know what to say,

what could ever fill the silence

of all those empty years?

Daddy, I don’t need you to be perfect.

I never did.

I just needed you to try,

to be there for me,

to see me,

to love me,

but you weren’t.

Daddy, I don’t know how to feel anymore.

I’ve carried the weight of your absence

for far too long.

I’ve learned to live without you,

but the hole you left never healed.

And now, when I look at you,

I still don’t know who you are.

Daddy, I’m tired of pretending.

Pretending that the years don’t matter,

pretending that your voice is enough now,

that the “sorry” you offer is enough

to make up for all that time lost.

But it isn’t.

Daddy, do you even want to know me?

I don’t need a father,

not the one you’ve become.

I just needed the one who would have been there.

But maybe that man never existed.

[orchardthieve]

Mommy, why do you hurt me?

I just wanted your love,

but you only gave me pain.

I scream, but you don’t listen,

just silence fills the room,

like it always does.

Mommy, please, don’t leave me here.

Your words are sharp like knives,

cutting deeper than you know,

but I still reach out,

still beg for you to see me.

Mommy, I don't want to be afraid.

I wait for your smile,

but it’s gone, replaced by rage.

I keep hoping, keep dreaming,

that maybe tomorrow will be different.

Mommy, don't turn away.

I’m still your baby,

atill reaching for you,

even though you push me down.

Is there a place in your heart for me?

Mommy, I just want to be enough.

But the more I try, the more you break me.

I’m fading, I’m lost,

but I still wait for your love.