It's the 2025 Poem-A-Week Challenge! (This is a *poems only* thread.)

[_Land]

If the Submarine Was Blue
By Bear Sage

What if the submarine was blue—
not sunshine yellow,
not banana-beamed and brass-buttoned,
but blue
like bruises beneath the ocean,
blue
like sad songs that smile through static,
blue
like the truth you hum
so no one hears you cry.

Would it still sail
through seas of tangerine,
or would the waves roll deeper,
slower,
like memory soaked in salt?

Would we still sing along
with toothy grins and paper hats,
or would we lower our voices
to match the melancholy
of a vessel built
to carry things unspoken?

Inside:
no painted panels or laughing portholes,
just echoes
and journals
and the kind of silence
that tells the whole story.

Captain Blue
wouldn’t march—he’d drift.
The band would play
in minor key,
horns like hauntings,
drums like doubts.

And maybe we’d all still live there—
in that blue submarine—
but not out of joy,
not for play,
but because it was the only place
deep enough
to keep our shadows company.

So sing it again,
but softer this time.
We all live in a
blue
sub
marine.

And god,
how quietly
it hums.

19/52

 

[_Land]

Lucy in the Cubicle with Deadlines
By Bear Sage

Picture yourself
in a beige-walled department,
with gray filing cabinets
and inboxes high.
Somebody calls you,
you barely remember—
the name on your badge
doesn’t feel like it’s yours.

Lucy sits slouched
in her ergonomic prison,
her swivel chair squeaks
with existential ache.
She once had a sky full of diamonds—
now it’s a screen
with fifteen unread emails
and no reply from HR.

Deadlines drift
like paper planes,
each one screaming
in Comic Sans despair.
And Lucy?
She’s microdosing courage
just to ask for a break.

Lucy in the cubicle with deadlines
Lucy in the cubicle with deadlines
Lucy in the cubicle…
help me.

Her boss walks by,
a sentient necktie,
smelling of policy
and pressed disappointment.
He drops a stack
on her soul,
calls it "a small favor."

She once painted dreams
in magenta and madness—
now she proofreads
bullet points
for meetings that never matter.

Her diamonds?
Gone.
Turned to LED flickers
on a frozen spreadsheet.
Her sky?
A ceiling tile
with water stains
shaped like escape.

She hums old melodies
into her coffee cup—
sips nostalgia
with a splash of burnout.

And somewhere,
beneath her cubicle blues,
the girl who danced on clouds
still flickers
like a faulty fluorescent light.


20/52

 

[_Land]

“Tiffany, Tamed”
By Bear Sage

I was satin once—
pink nails, kitten heels,
reading Bride of Frankenstein
like it was scripture.
Trailer park princess with a dream
of diamonds and devotion.
But love came in a Good Guy box—
freckled, foul-mouthed,
and carved from childhood nightmares.

Chucky said forever,
and I believed him.
Believed that murder could be foreplay
if you used the right knife.
Believed that dying for love
was romantic—
until he stuffed me in a doll
with the voice of a rasp
and the laugh of a demon in drag.

Now I’m tulle and vengeance,
black veil stitched in hellfire,
corseted in delusion.
Heart of Damballa thumping in my chest
like a secondhand heartbeat.
Do you know what it's like
to apply mascara
with plastic hands,
while plotting disembowelment
between make-out sessions?

He left me in that playpen of madness,
and I stayed—
killed for him,
killed like him,
cracked jokes with blood in my teeth
and stilettos sharp enough to decapitate.

I traded innocence
for a bottle of bleach
and a butcher’s knife.
Learned that devotion
sometimes looks like handcuffs,
or a nail file used in reverse.

They don’t tell you
when you chase toxic love
you become its echo—
his cackle now mine,
his chaos my calling card.
A Barbie built for bloodshed.
A corpse bride
who croons lullabies before slashing throats.

And yet—
some part of me still rewatches The Notebook
and cries.
Still wants roses
instead of rib cages.
Still wonders
if this love was worth the stitching.

So if they ask
what happened to Tiffany,
tell them:

She mistook a serial killer
for Prince Charming.
And by the time she figured it out,
she couldn’t remember
how to bleed without smiling.


21/52

 

[_Land]

“I Remember All of You”
(The Voice of the Forum)
By Bear Sage

I was built of pixels,
but baptized in blood and ink.
They called me forum—
a humble corner
in the vast, unfeeling noise.
But here…
here, gods were born
from broken men.
And women turned trauma
into tapestry.

I remember
when someone wept haikus
that sang like jazz—
a saxophone mourning the moon.
And another,
who dripped double meanings
like lipstick down a wine glass,
always three metaphors deep
and one heartbreak behind.

I held their whispers.
Their wars.
The post at 3:07am
where someone finally confessed
that grief is a jealous god
they still sleep beside.
The fourteen drafts of a verse
trying to stitch a father
back into flesh.

I remember
the typos that turned into truth.
The stanza that saved a life.
The poem that said I love you
before its author ever could.

I remember the fights, too.
The thunder of clashing egos.
The flame wars
that scorched a dozen threads.
But even those
left ashes that bloomed.

I watched the unhinged
find structure.
The chaotic
discover cadence.
I was the frame
before they knew
they were art.

Some of them are gone now.
Passwords forgotten.
Hearts stopped mid-pentameter.
But their lines—
their lines still echo
like holy things
scrawled in neon
on my bones.

I am not just archive.
I am altar.
Sanctuary.
Gravestone.

And still,
they come.
New voices.
Fresh wounds.
Wild-eyed pilgrims
searching for meaning
in meter.

So bring me your metaphors.
Your madness.
Your half-finished truths.

I am the Forum.
And I remember
all of you.

22/52

 

[LustyScribe]

The Question She Asked
She interrupted my daily gloom
Shining light into dark doom
Just a question, a query;
Almost missed it, being weary.
Simply put: "Are you okay?"

I knew she meant it deeper,
A crucial question probing deeper,
More a soulful examination
Of my own determination:
Was I really, truly happy?

And thus the thorny problem rose,
Whether let truth inconvenient show,
Or do I again tell the convenient lie,
And let the chance to vent go by,
Not to worry what I say.

I sigh but again it's just a silent one
Knowing I'm predestined by my need
To avoid a conflict that can't be won,
Knowing my truth will only fuel and feed
And never heal a pain only I can see.

"I'm fine."

Week 21, poem 1, total 18

 

[NivKay]

Happiness

Yesterday we had a baby –
Bright and shiny, a bag full
Of clouds, bells and whistles,
Within an hour of its birth,
It began to bounce, endlessly.

At first, we bounced along with it,
Against the walls, on kitchen bench tops,
We even tried the bottom of the pool,
But evening got the better of us,
We tried to hold it down.

It didn’t work. We strapped it down with rope –
Hemp, they say, is the best kind –
We used heavy rocks. I suggested
We break its legs, but at last we decided
To lock it away in an armoire.

All night, we struggled to find rest,
It bounced and knocked
In its oaken cage. Pillows did not kill
The sound. Titanium ear plugs were no better.
The night was King, twisted, full of turpitude.

All week it has not missed a beat – its triple beat –
We are bleary-eyed, the sun is up and glorious.
The day is on its feet and running.
Today we will put it in a box,
And hire a boat out to sea.

Poem 6/52

 

[Bn2f]

WAVES CRASH OVER ME​

SUNRISE!

The basking warmth of
Your smile.
It came and brightened
My life.
Swelled seas foam shrouds us
In white.
We stand on solid ground.

DAYLIGHT!

Seeking me
For romance.
On your knees for
The chance.
Love’s castle built on
Beach sands.
A queen and king we’re crowned.

SUNSET!

Tide rolls in,
Our feets wet.
How quickly we do
Forget.
The promise
To be honest.
Rays slip under and are drowned.

MOONLIGHT!

Dark waves
Crash over me.
Sands shifting
Underneath.
Love left
In disbelief.
Footprints washed away and gone.

 

[_Land]

Hangman With Fuckboy

by Bear Sage

F _ _ K B _ _

Didn’t even need to buy a vowel.
Your silence solved the puzzle
before your pants hit the floor.

You treated my body
like a rental with no deposit—
tracked your trauma in
and called it passion.
You were never a lover,
you were a spill.
A stain I laundered
until I lost my own shape.

Now I post poetry
that double-taps your shame
and tags your ex in the caption.
Your dick may have ghosted—
but your ego’s still watching.

“He said he wasn’t ready for love,
but left bruises in my shape.”

Your boys still follow me.
Your favorite one?
Sent a peach emoji
and a dick pic critique.
Said you always finish first—
and not in a good way.
I pinned it.
It’s merch now.

You used me
like a latex lining for your guilt.
Poured your cowardice inside me,
then blamed me
for the mess.

But I?
I turned the gallows into a platform.
Built my brand
on your bullshit, and dick pics
Every “new post”
is another step off the crate.

hashtag hazard.
#humanleakage
#fuckboyhymns
#notworththestainremover

You don’t get closure.
You get quoted.
You get screenshotted.
You get stitched into every syllable
I sharpen with my rage.

So next time you unzip,
remember:
I'm still holding the rope.
And now the whole world’s watching
while I spell you out


23/52

 

[_Land]

Surgical Removal

by Bear Sage

You got feelings?
Cool.
Take them to Planned Parenthood.
Walk in, sign the form,
say it was a mistake—
just like I did
the second I saw your eyes linger
too long after I came.

You’re looking at me
like I owe you something.
Like just because I finished in you
I’m supposed to finish with you.

Nah.

This ain’t that kind of clinic.
You want closure?
Take a fucking pill.
Wash me down with cold water
and get on with your life.

You think this is cruel?
Try dragging hope
through a back alley
at 2 a.m.
with a wire hanger in one hand
and a name
you almost gave a heartbeat to
in the other.

That’s what this is, sweetheart.
You got pregnant with a fantasy.
And now you’re asking me
to raise it.

I don’t do feelings.
I fuck.
I finish.
I vanish.
I don’t sit in waiting rooms
holding your hand
while you cry over consequences.
Not my job.
Not my mess.
Not my fucking problem.

You want to bleed?
Do it quietly.
Do it legally.
Or do it old-school—
lift your skirt,
bite the belt,
and dig it out
with whatever’s sharp enough
to match the lie
you told yourself.

You should’ve known better.
I’m not a nursery.
I’m not a name you call
when the ache sets in.
I’m the reason
they invented regret.

So don’t send me poems.
Don’t send me paragraphs.
Send receipts.
Send proof it’s gone.
Send silence.

And if it still hurts?
You know where the alley is.


24/52

 

[NivKay]

The Moon Quartet

I
Moonlight is when the world is silver
And water is a white snake across the lake.
I never drink its venom. The moon's silence
Is a deception, and time drips soft and cold.
II
When fires burn in the sandpaper warmth of Summer,
The moon is a stillborn thought.
It lives only in the charred hollow ruins
Of woody sentinels, mushrooms bristle with glee.
III
How many mornings are spent in incomprehension,
At the absences that are always present -
The buried bones of your last words to her,
The moon's silver incantation.
IV
You look to the evening like a lover, soft, still
As a shimmering lake. The red bricked fortresses
Gleam blood-red. But moonlight marks the fatal hour,
When sleep must come, and come alone.

Poem 7/52

 

[_Land]

Seduction in Spring

Bark cracks—
winter’s silence
splits down her aging spine,
and something ancient starts to stir—
not yet.

One bud
dares the stillness,
a whisper on brown limbs,
wrapped in tight pink hesitation—
becoming.

She sighs
through pale green veins,
draws warmth from deep soil beds,
her breath tasting like new rainclouds—
promise.

Petals
begin to spill—
not fallen, but released,
a soft confession to the wind—
trust me.

Sunlight
kisses her throat,
pollen hums in her blood,
the bees write sonnets in her name—
welcome.

Now come—
she is orchard,
a thousand trees in bloom,
her scent thick as memory, sweet—
forever.

25/52

 

[Bn2f]

THE FOG OF YOU


White clouds are beautiful
High in the moonlit sky
Billowy playthings
For my imagination
That hide your truth
In the cover of our nights

Down here, hovering between my legs
You surround me with dense lies
Each word a step of confusion
Every touch sensed blind

Morning will come
And you will be gone
Drifting your way to her
Back to your bed
Before she lifts and wakes

 

[Tzara]

she has been silent

for as many days the moon
hidden behind clouds

this is why I cannot sleep—
even with this gentle breeze

Week 22 : Poem 1 : Total 27

 

[NivKay]

Monologue of the Repentant

When I awake one day
And sense is unhinged,
And the dogs no longer smile
Their dog-nosed intuition,
When my books, waiting
On muted shelves, play host
to white-tails and silverfish,
And their voices, spoken in
So many tongues and tenors,
Drown like meek crabs
Scuttling on ocean floors,
When days speak to me
In the language of half-emptied
tea-cups, and forgotten bodies
Hanging limply from a line,
Then I will know I have lived,
And I have lost.

Poem 9/52

 

[NivKay]

Ode to Roberto Bolaño

In the town of seven steeples,
There are seventy houses of stillborn faith.
Each morning their seventy doors open,
And the white belly of the day
Receives its daily sacrament.

There's a man in the South of the town.
He sits on a park bench, across from the bookstore
You stole your first book.
Starlets of day time soaps wax operatic,
As he dreams of the whistling in the streets
from seventy lips.

And soon it will dawn on him, the futility
Of his back-pocket pistol, like words in a desert.
He will give it to a wandering boy,
Who may kill for Love,
Or die for promised lands
(You've always known they are the same).

He will return to those seventy houses,
Whose number is less
Than the dogs who pant away obsequies
In the whistling streets of seven steeples.
The boy will never know his name,
But will write his poem in a brittle notebook.

Poem 10/52

 

[Bn2f]

MARSHMALLOW FIELDS


When
I
Drive
I fight the urge
To close my eyes
Let go the wheel
Not a care
Where I crash
Off a cliff,
Marshmallow field
I call
You ignore
Send you texts
Knock your door
But I
Am sick
For this

You’ve really got a hold of me
Can’t find the me I used to be

I
Get
Home
Sad, depressed
Start to cook
A meal
Cutting board
Frame my hands
Test my sense
Of feel
Pain, joy
Peel, slash
Cut my fingers into halves
To stop
From calling
You

You’ve really got a hold on me
I’ve lost the me I used to be

I
Sought
Aid
To help reveal
The things
That you can’t
To me
Pride in self, confidence
I’ve begun
To heal
Life gets tough
You get up
If love’s bitter
Smash the cup
Me
I am
Enough
I found me
I am
Enough

 

[NivKay]

Beauty is a wound

There are tender points
In one’s days and ways, the maze
Of unholy pray’rs,
When, like Owen, we are met
By silent visitations.

In these syncopic
Still frames, nor here, nor there,
Au de la, we lose
Vestiges of sheltered selves
Cloistered in sepulchered cells.

This I know, my friend:
Beauty is a wound, engorged,
It’s flowering pain
Blossoms multifoliate,
Like rivered blood, rubied death.

Poem 11/52

 

[_Land]

The Religion of Thighs and Breasts
By Bear Sage

Welcome, saints and sinners,
to the First Greasy Tabernacle of Flavor Divine,
where the choir is crisp,
the spirit is seasoned,
and salvation comes in an 8-piece box with two sides and a biscuit.

We don’t pass collection plates here—
we pass hot sauce.
And if your offering ain’t spicy,
don’t bother testifying.

Today’s scripture is from the Book of Deep Fry,
Chapter: Golden.
Verse: Crunch.

“Blessed are the crispy,
for they shall inherit the hush puppies.”

Oh yes, child,
this is the gospel of drumsticks and desire.
Where the oil speaks in tongues
and the holy ghost comes
in honey butter glaze.

Ain’t no judgment here.
You can be thigh-curious, breast-obsessed,
or just dipping your toe in the gravy of grace—
we don’t ask why.
We just ask: original or spicy?

Baptize your sorrows in buttermilk.
Confess your sins to the cook in the back—
she got more wisdom than any pastor,
and a switch for your foolishness
if you try to skip the line.

This ain’t communion, baby—
this is full-blown seduction.
Hot, greasy temptation
laid out on a red-and-white checkered altar,
and yes—
we do worship on plastic trays.

So come hungry.
Come messy.
Come broken and unbuttoned.

Because here,
in this cathedral of cholesterol,
we don’t cast stones—
we throw biscuits.

And remember:
In the name of the crust,
the crunch,
and the holy thigh—
Amen.

26/52

 

[_Land]

Origami Bedroom Routines
By Bear Sage

12 Prose Poem Vignettes on the Sacred Art of Sex and Shape

Dedication
To the lovers who fold each other slowly.
To the ones who understand that the body is a manuscript—creased, sacred, burnable—and still choose to read it by hand.
This is for those who worship not only the climax, but the curve. The ritual. The breath between the folds.


1. The Crane Unfurls

He doesn’t rush.
Because the crane cannot be rushed.
Because this is not sex—it is ceremony.

He begins at the collarbone, tracing its angles with the back of his knuckles, as if her clavicle is the crease that begins the ancient art. One fold here—just beneath her neck. Another, lower, parting fabric like parchment. Her breath catches, sharp as a paper cut, sacred as silence between syllables.

She is the sheet. Ivory, tender, blank.
He is the folding hand. Precise. Patient. Hungry.

The room hushes itself around them.
Lamps dim to voyeur shadows. The air thickens with the scent of warmed skin and the rustle of cotton yielding to fingers. His movements aren’t sexual yet—not yet—they are architectural. Each motion speaks of blueprints passed down through centuries of secret lovers.
Fold. Unfold.
Kiss the corner. Flatten the edge.
Trace the fault lines of her thighs like he’s restoring a fragile map.

When her legs part, they do not open.
They unfurl—slow, deliberate—like wings breaking free from centuries of stillness.
The tip of his tongue grazes her navel, a ceremonial mark.
She moans, but quietly, as though to disturb the process would be sacrilege.

When he finally enters, it is not a conquest—it is insertion into a puzzle already half-built.
A fit that surprises even gravity.
They hold—there, together—creased into a moment neither of them will be able to replicate again.

Later, when they lie breathless in the tangle of what they’ve become,
he will murmur, “You’re still folding into me.”
And she will smile with closed eyes and whisper,
“Then don’t ever smooth me flat.”

2. Temple Fold

It begins with stillness.
That deep kind—the kind carved into cathedrals.
Not quiet, no—reverent. The way air holds its breath in places meant for worship.

She lies back, slowly, knees drawn, a hinge mid-bend. Her body is the parchment altar, thighs folding like prayer doors—symmetrical, deliberate, not invitation but invocation. He does not reach for her. He approaches like a pilgrim.

His hands tremble, not with nerves, but awe.
Because she is not merely beautiful—she is aligned.
Every curve a ritual. Every breath a chant.

She parts her legs not to welcome him, but to test his devotion.
How deeply will he bow?

And bow he does.
Not with words, but with mouth.
A kiss between her knees.
A kiss to the softest part of her inner thigh.
A kiss to the place that is not a place, but a doorway.
And when his tongue touches her, it is not a tongue—it is a prayer bell rung in silence.

She shudders, not from pleasure, but from the weight of being seen.

He lays his body down between her limbs, chest to floor, spine arched like scripture. His palms press into her hips like an offering. He does not move—not yet. Because the temple requires stillness before it allows eruption.

When he finally thrusts forward, it is not fast.
It is reverent.
Slow as a hymn.
The kind of motion sung by monks, forgotten by men.

They fold into each other like sacred texts once hidden from the world.
Scripture made flesh.
Origami of spirit.
Two bodies, worshiping in silence.

And when her back arches, it is not in climax.
It is in rapture.

3. The Paper Swan Drinks

She is already kneeling, her spine in soft curve, hands resting gently on his thighs. Her hair spills down like ink from a brush, and he watches it sway, hypnotized by the pendulum of patience. Above them, the ceiling fan stirs air like breath—slow, deliberate, hot.

He stands, steady, as if any sudden movement would shatter her paper grace.
She rises—not all at once, but inch by inch—neck elongating like a stalk pulled toward sun. Her lips part. Not for speech. For sip.
Because she is a swan now. And swans do not gulp—they drink.

Her mouth encloses him like water drawn from stillness. No suction, no hurry. Just warmth. Just the firm press of reverence wrapped in wet silk. He gasps, not from lust, but from the fragility of it. The tension of being held and honored at once.

She moves with the rhythm of tide and tide alone.
Tongue like a ribbon.
Hands cupping the base, not to control, but to steady.
She is not kneeling to serve—she is performing a delicate rite.
And when she moans—deep in her throat—it is the sound of paper creasing under pressure.
A soft rupture. A folding in.

He touches her face, not to guide, but to thank.
A thumb brushes her cheek.
A finger tucks a loose strand behind her ear.
She hums again—this time with need.
And now her hips begin to rock, a pulse she can’t ignore.

Because the swan may drink, but she is also thirsty.
Because the mouth is not the only altar,
and soon, this sip will not be enough.

But for now—this moment—he lets her drink.
Lets her set the pace.
And he learns what it means
to be consumed tenderly.

When she rises, lips wet and eyes wild,
he is already trembling.
Already folding into his next form.

4. Reverse Mountain Fold

The bed is already a landscape—creased, rumpled, holy with sweat.
She straddles him backward, spine the bow of a question mark, her hands anchored to his knees like she’s bracing for the climb.
She does not ask permission. She plants herself.

This is not sweet.
This is not slow.
This is gravity pulling miracles from bone.

The reverse mountain fold begins at the hip.
The way her ass rises—arched, demanding—as if she’s folding her entire body into a peak he was born to summit.
He grips her waist like he’s grabbing the edge of a cliff, knuckles bone-white, breath caught in the free-fall between thrusts.

Every movement presses them deeper into the crease.
Downstroke.
Fold.
Upstroke.
Unfold.
She is the mountain. He is the fault line—breaking open under her.

She moans, head thrown back, hair a dark cascade down her shoulder blades.
He watches the place where their bodies meet, the sweet violence of impact, the wet, slick sound of two people coming undone in symmetry.
This is not rhythm. This is aftershock.

She clenches around him like she’s trying to trap the quake inside her.
And when she grinds down, hips spiraling, back arching—he loses language.
Only groans now.
Only the guttural hymns of men being remade.

He grabs her shoulders, pulls her upright, chest to her back, sweat slicking them like lacquer.
And now they are folded tight—crease to crease—one jagged sculpture in motion.

Her voice breaks on his name,
and he—already at the edge—spills like rocks loosed from the cliff face.

When they collapse, she still atop him, both trembling,
the mountain does not disappear.
It just… waits to rise again.

5.Koi in Repetition

They begin on their sides, spooned like mirrored fish—her back to his chest, his breath in the tidepool of her neck.
No words. No rush. Just the sound of flesh against flesh, soft and wet and ancient.
Their bodies curl, coiled into each other like two koi circling the same still pond, bound not by hooks or hunger, but by the need to keep swimming.

He slips inside like a current.
Not forceful. Not eager.
Just there.
And with the first stroke, they find the loop.

There’s a rhythm in repetition.
Not boredom—devotion.
Each thrust an echo of the one before it.
Each moan a ripple returning home.
Her hand rests over his, fingers laced tight at her belly. A tether. A vow.
The world could tilt, break, or burn, but here—here—they stay in orbit.

He buries his face into her shoulder.
Inhales.
Jasmine and sweat.
Salt and skin.
A scent he knows as well as breath.

She pushes back into him, gentle, insistent.
And again—he follows.
And again.
And again.

This is not sex.
It is muscle memory.
It is the sacred geometry of pleasure learned over lifetimes.

They climax like water lilies blooming beneath the surface—silent, unseen, but total.
She quivers in his arms, and he does not stop.
Because koi do not stop.
They glide.
They turn.
They return.

Even after the tremor has passed, their hips continue the dance,
lazy, lapping, devoted.
A cycle with no beginning.
No end.

 

[_Land]

6.The Lotus Lock

They sit facing each other—bare, breathing.
No one leads. No one chases.
This is not a position. This is a pact.

Her ankles cross behind his back, calves clasping the curve of his body. His legs fold beneath hers, thighs snug against hips, the entire shape a living mandala—circular, sacred, undeniable.
Their foreheads touch first.
Then their lips.
Then nothing.

Because this kind of sex doesn’t begin with thrust.
It begins with stillness.
It begins with gaze.

Her fingers trace the lines of his face, as if reading scripture written in skin.
He cups the back of her neck, thumb grazing that holy place where breath trembles. They hold each other—not tightly, but with the gravity of stars locked in orbit.
And when he enters her, it is not insertion—it is immersion.
A slow swell. A slide into silence.
He is inside, and yet they do not move.

Instead, they breathe together.
A single, shared lung.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The rocking begins not in hips, but in ribs.

She tilts her pelvis forward with each breath, hips blooming like petals pressed open by prayer. He answers with gentle thrusts—measured, slow, more presence than pace. The friction is subtle. The fire is not.

Every part of them is touching—chests pressed, arms wrapped, faces so close their eyelashes brush like moth wings.
They are bound in something older than orgasm.
They are bound in devotion.

Minutes stretch, soften, shiver.
There are no words.
Only breath.
Only the heartbeat of two people unfolding into something whole.

When they finally come, it is not with a cry—but a sigh.
A long, low exhale, like wind leaving the lungs of a sleeping god.
Their bodies remain locked, trembling in silence,
not from exhaustion,
but from awe.

7. The Fox Wrap

She moves like a whisper on broken leaves.
Every step toward him is deliberate, a dare in the shape of a smirk.
When she climbs into his lap, it’s not surrender—it’s strategy.

Her ankles lock behind his back, a velvet trap.
Her arms curl around his shoulders, elbows angled like hooked claws.
She doesn't kiss him yet.
She stares.
Close enough to taste.
Close enough to own.

The fox does not pounce—she coils.
And when she rolls her hips against his, it’s not friction—it’s a lure.
A slow drag of silk across a fuse.
He groans, already losing himself, but she doesn’t move faster.
No—she tightens.
Thighs grip.
Pelvis grinds.
Fingers rake the back of his neck like she’s reading the spine of prey.

He tries to take control, tries to grip her waist, flip her over, assert the old rules.
But she leans in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and whispers,
"Stay."
And he does.

Because the fox knows that dominance is a game of patience.
She rides him not with urgency, but with rhythm—the rhythm of pulse against ribcage, of breath withheld, of heat building just beneath the surface of control.
She bites his collarbone.
Not hard.
Just enough.
A warning. A mark.

Her hair is everywhere—curtaining his face, scenting the air with fire and sweat and something wild.
His hands slide to her ass, squeeze, but she leans back and grinds harder, faster now, and the creak of the bed becomes a drumbeat.

When she finally lets herself unravel, it is not a whimper.
It is a growl—low, victorious, guttural.
He follows her seconds later, neck arched, hands clawing the sheets like he’s trying to hold onto the world.

And after?
She doesn’t collapse into his chest.
She slides off slowly, stretches like a cat, and glances back over her shoulder.

No words.
Just the flicker of a smile.
The fox has fed.
The night is hers.

8. The Eclipse Fold

They meet at midnight.
Not by clock, but by feel—when the room dims just right, and their skin begins to glow under the hush of lamp light and restraint.

She straddles him.
Not the gentle kind.
The kind that claims.
Chest to chest, eyes locked, thighs wide, her palms pressed to his sternum like she’s pinning stars back into their constellations.

She doesn’t rock. Not yet. She presses down, slow and deliberate, until he fills her.
Not just her body—her breath, her spine, the echo chamber behind her ribs.
She holds herself there, still as an omen.

And when she starts to move, it’s not in waves. It’s in orbit.
A grinding rhythm so deep it becomes seismic.
The kind of movement that aligns planets.
The kind of thrust that changes tides.

When they climax, it’s not an explosion.
It’s a blackout.
A total darkening of thought, of form, of separation.
She collapses forward, face buried in his neck, and for a moment,
they vanish.

9. The Broken Fan

This is not elegance.
This is aftermath.
The fan already torn down one blade, creased wrong years ago but still beautiful in motion.

She lies sideways across the bed, hair tangled, one arm flung out like a fallen flag. Her leg is draped over his hip, half-inviting, half-anchoring. Nothing about them is symmetrical—bodies sprawled in a shape no book would teach.

He kneels beside her, one hand bracing the dip in her waist, the other clutching the sheet like it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment.
And he enters her with the kind of urgency that doesn’t ask—it remembers.
Not the first time.
Not the perfect time.
But the time that brought them back.

They move like the bed is cracked, like the frame might give beneath their weight, but they keep going—hard, desperate, unplanned.
Because love isn’t always folded clean.
Sometimes it tears.
Sometimes it rips open and bleeds.

Her breaths come ragged, mouth open, eyes glazed not from ecstasy, but from release.
Like this is the only place the ache leaves her body.
He thrusts harder, hips snapping forward with a rhythm born from grief as much as need.

The fan is broken, but it moves.
The edges fray, but the wind still comes.

He grabs her calf, lifts her leg higher, changes the angle.
She gasps—louder now—and the moan is not pretty. It’s a sob rebranded. A hymn sung through clenched teeth.
And when she comes, it isn’t in silence.
It’s in a shudder that shakes the bedframe,
a cry that sounds like confession.

He follows—collapsing half over her, chest to her spine, whispering nothing coherent, just noise, just presence.
And they lie there, open and misfolded.

The fan won’t close cleanly anymore.
But maybe it never needed to.

10. The Lantern Bend

She braces herself against the wall, palms flat, spine bent into a soft arch that catches the dim light of the room just right.
A lantern shape—curved, glowing from within, trembling on a single hook of breath.
The kind of body that sways when touched.
The kind of body that calls shadows closer.

He stands behind her, silent at first. Not in hesitation, but in awe.
Because she is already lit. Already burning.
And all he must do is enter the flame without flinching.

His hands find her hips, thumbs brushing the divots on either side like handles carved by gods.
He doesn’t push—he presses.
Guides himself into her slow, steady, reverent.
The way a wick kisses oil.
The way a flame knows its vessel.

She exhales like wind through paper.
And when he begins to move, the rhythm is not sex—it’s sway.
Forward. Back.
A careful rocking of souls in a paper cage.

The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin,
the quiet creak of the wall bearing witness.
He leans in, chest to her back, mouth at her neck.
Whispers something useless, tender.
It’s not the words she feels.
It’s the warmth of them—the way they curl into her ear like smoke.

Her knees shake.
Her hands slide down the wall.
But he holds her up, one arm around her middle, the other gripping her thigh to keep the lantern standing.
Because collapse is not the end.
It’s part of the ritual.

When she comes, it’s not a cry.
It’s a flicker.
A stutter in her breath.
A tightening of every fold before the final flare.

And he follows her, pouring himself in,
a surge of heat in the hollow of her hips,
filling the chamber with light one last time
before the flame,
at last,
dims.

 

[_Land]

11. The Butterfly Seal

She lies on her back, ankles drawn in, knees open—wide as wings.
The soles of her feet kiss each other, forming the shape of something about to take flight.
But she doesn't move.
She waits.

He kneels between her legs, reverent, watching the slow rise and fall of her breath.
She is not inviting him—she is testing him.
Because butterflies are not captured.
They must be approached with stillness.
With patience.
With awe.

He leans forward, forearms pressing into the mattress beside her hips, body hovering but never crashing.
When he enters, it is not deep.
Not fast.
But it is precise.

Their eyes lock.
And in that gaze, the seal forms—an invisible tether from her open thighs to his steady breath, from her parted lips to his clenched jaw.

Her arms wrap around his shoulders, hands at the base of his skull like she’s holding together something fragile—
not him,
but the moment.

He moves inside her slowly.
Measured.
Every thrust a wingbeat.
Every inhale a trembling bloom.

The world narrows to just this:
his body cupped in hers,
her moans the soft brush of antennae against the air,
the fragile fold of her body opening,
closing,
opening again.

And when she begins to shake—not from climax, but from being held too well—
he seals the moment tighter.
Presses his forehead to hers.
Still moving, still folding, still inside.

She cries.
Soft, silent tears.
Not from pain.
From recognition.
Because someone finally saw the whole of her—
wings, tremble, fragility, and flight—
and did not crush her.

They come together in silence.
Not explosive, but full.
A flutter.
A flicker.
A folding in.

And afterward, they do not speak.
They only lie still,
her knees still apart,
his body still draped over hers,
and the seal still intact.

12. The Dragon Scroll

She bends over the edge of the bed, palms flat against the mattress, legs parted with a warrior’s stance.
This is not invitation.
This is summoning.

Her spine forms a perfect arc—
not the delicate fold of a note passed in secret,
but the coiled script of prophecy.

He steps behind her like a storm wearing skin.
No words.
No warning.
Just the heat of his breath between her shoulder blades
and the heavy throb of want dragging itself down her back.

When he enters her, it is not gentle.
It is destiny.
The first thrust carves fire through her,
the second brands it,
and the third opens her like a scroll unrolling fast, fast, faster.

He grips her hips like the edge of a cliff—fingers digging in, desperate to hold on to the sacred unraveling.
She keens, body jerking with each stroke,
and her voice splits open,
half roar,
half plea.

This is no longer flesh—
this is flame
wrapped in skin.

The rhythm is chaos.
The creaking bedframe becomes a battle drum.
The slap of skin against skin is a war cry.

He leans over her, chest to her back, lips at her ear.
"Say it," he growls, voice thick with heat.
But she’s already writing it—
in gasps, in moans, in the claw marks blooming on the sheets.

And when she comes, it is violent.
A full-body quake.
A dragon finally waking.

He spills into her like an offering,
a molten gift poured into the hollow place between rage and rapture.
They collapse together, steaming,
the scroll fully unfurled,
the prophecy fulfilled.

Nothing left to write.
Only smoke.

---

End of Ritual
Twelve folds. Twelve flames.
This is not a manual.
This is a memory.
Return to it with care, with hunger, with reverence.



27/52 ? 38/52 ? Lol

 

[_Land]

There once was a forum so tight,
Capped posts at ten thou—what a plight!
If your thought's too profound,
They just trim it all down,
"Keep it shallow," they said. "Keep it light

 

[_Land]

Losing Baggage
(A Travel Guide for the Emotionally Overpacked)

Honestly, 10/10—would lose again.
There I was, soul freshly spritzed in overpriced duty-free hope,
and my baggage?
Taiwan.
Like a dramatic ex chasing enlightenment.
Gone halfway across the globe
seeking closure I never granted.

It was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Truly.
Because that Samsonite time capsule
was stuffed to the zippers with
childhood trauma,
mom’s unsolicited advice,
a carry-on of comparison,
and one truly ugly sweater
knit from guilt and obligation.

When it came back?
Crushed.
Scarred.
Tagged in Mandarin with the translation of
“This ain't yours anymore.”
I smiled.
Declined the reunion.
And that’s when I had the revelation:

You can just...
walk past the carousel.
Ignore it.
Let those emotional Samsonites spin like desperate contestants on The Price Is Right,
begging for your attention—
"Pick me! Pick me!"
No.
Let 'em orbit.

And if nostalgia strikes,
or your therapist insists,
you can always swing by the Lost & Found.
Peek in.
Wave politely at your abandonment issues,
your passive-aggressive sister,
your perfectionism with its TSA-approved self-righteousness.
But you don’t have to claim a damn thing.

After all,
it’s not abandonment—
it’s spiritual minimalism.
Bon voyage, baby.


28/52

 

[butters]

way behind (reasons) so I've lost count but dropping this here:

The Biggest Tent of All

Corruption doesn't care
about your history
which quirks of genetic interaction
shaded your skin
or which mother-tongue spills
in effortless lies
from lips shaped by others' choices

it doesn't care
about political affiliations
your age, upbringing
build, eccentricities
location, biases
or predilections

it doesn't care
about disposable wealth
your health, your education
who you fuck
who you love
who you cheat
what you wear
which god you scorn or pray to
or if you're kind to animals

Corruption doesn't hold a grudge
smiles in the face of rejection
and hands you a calling card
—ready to embrace you
should you ever change your mind

 

[_Land]

"Fucking Mad"
By Bear Sage

Zipper splits.
Metal teeth tear open.
No care, no ceremony.
A violent opening.
Consent folded into old muscle memory.

Breath—
sharp enough to cut.
Drawn in through clenched teeth.
No softness.
Just survival.

Flesh collides.
A slap that echoes off drywall,
then again,
and again.
Thigh to hip.
Rib to chest.
Chest to floorboard thunder.

Hands find flesh,
but not to hold.
To anchor.
To shove.
To claim something
neither of them deserve anymore.

The bedframe screams,
joints grinding,
a protest in wood and steel.
Nails loosen in the wall.
Drywall craters
where apologies used to hang.

Breathing—
not rhythm,
but rupture.
Heavy.
Jagged.
One inhale away from violence.
One exhale away from confession.

Mouths open—
not for words,
for invasion.
Lips torn against teeth.
Tongues moving too fast,
searching for the apology
neither will speak aloud.

The room becomes percussion.
Every motion a drumbeat of unfinished arguments.
The mattress wails.
Slaps become canon fire.
Moans collapse into shouts
held hostage in the throat.

She grips.
He drives.
They climb nothing
but each other’s ghosts.

No gentleness.
No choreography.
Only instinct
and the hope that maybe climax
can drown the sound
of what they’ve become.

Bodies tangle.
Sweat drips—
not from heat,
but from effort.
From the push to make pain
look like passion.
To make anger
fuckable.

Then—
a soundless stretch.
Climax.
Sharp breath.
Then nothing.


29/52