Full Pieces

Doodles

God of Agency

₍₂₀₂₃₎

I am, I was, I am not.
God of Agency, God of World.
Hunched over at a desk
eyes trailing manuscripts
timelines of events
occurring, recurring, redacted.Who is the God of God, if not God himself?
Relinquishing the power of creation,
unto bastardized projects
Conceived from wretched minds
paradises, paradigms, poetry and pottery.Demented mirrors of all you were,
reflecting back all you could have been,
within the echoes and aches
of mothering a mother.Each dip of ink,
each stroke of quill,
each mallet slammed down upon parchment
Births a new life
Reveling in light both pure and sinful.

Bugs

₍₂₀₂₄₎

Under sickness I fester, rolled and rotted under the roiling thunder sitting just outside.
I don’t know when it happened, nor do I think I will ever come to understand it.
I don’t think I have enough time to, anyway.
I feel them crawling inside of me. Up my nose, into my throat and bedding into the thick mucus of my esophagus.
I don’t know when the rot started. I don’t know when it will end.
But for his sake, I hope it does soon.

INTRODUCTION

_{an excerpt from THE RESTORATION PROJECT (2022)}

I could feel her claws digging into me, but for some reason, I could not let go of her.This is always the typical case for us. My lady, the month before May and the month after March, and I, the month before September and the month after July. April and August, we call ourselves. April and August.We are spring and summer, always on the cusp of a harsh winter or a dying autumn, yet straying far from the edge. This is what life was like for us. One always came after the other, August always wrapped up what April had left behind. But now, I must clean after my own mess, and I’m unsure if I know how.I still hear her sometimes. I still hear her, calling for my name, weeping throughout the halls for someone, anyone, to fix the messes she left. It haunts me. She still haunts me, as the chest of her corpse rises and falls beside me in the bloodied bed we sink into. The daggers of her breath dig into me, but I can’t let go of her. I don’t think I’ll ever learn how.It scares me sometimes. She scares me sometimes. But, even then, I don’t think I could ever let go of her, not like this.
Her fangs hurt, but I’ve numbed to the pain. The sensations of her sweet venom slowly and painfully eating away at my veins are enough to keep me grounded, enough to keep me going to see the sunlight of tomorrow.No matter how many times she has killed me, I cannot seem to die. I always seem to come back, and like the autumn, what am I alive, if not dead? What am I alive if I am not dead?I don’t like thinking about it.

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