empathy without memory is how cycles repeat

I can hear sounds. I can hear music. I can hear laughter. I can hear everything in my inner ear,  But I cannot experience the inner sound of language. I cannot speak any language in my head. If I have an inner voice,  It is an infant. A baby who experiences the world around them so vividly, But cannot express or even begin to fathom the words she needs to use. She can see everything in front of her, Hear everything in front of her, And knows how she feels about the things in

If I had the liberty to do any naughty wrong or not-allowed thing, I would seek out that which fulfilled the hedonism that surely plagues us all. To bathe for too long or bake for dinner for too many nights in a row. Seeking the pleasures that we’ve all deemed naughty that we hide the fact that we’ve done them when truly – Have we done anything wrong?

You raise your nose at me in the wake of victory and choose to wear defiance. And yet, your rebellion is my favorite performance. My time here has filled my head with colors; the most vivid and bright of them I’ve been forced to live in is The Red. When I close my eyes, I see the Red Room. I know He’s in there, but He refuses to be seen. His only wish is to be felt. Not with words, but with the weighted presence that leaves me breathless and begging for a less addictive and

Inspired by Ari Aster’s Hereditary Heal Your Wounds Before the Diseased Fruit Falls Beyond the Tree

Now and then, I wonder if I belonged down there. The more I think about it—his haunting, blinkless stares, his soliloquies as if we were never there, and his final words to me before the final snap of his fingers… Evelyn, he said, Should you come upon Eden… do not take the fruit from the tree… like a warning: Refrain from coming back here; I refuse to house you in my home—the less I believe I was ever meant to leave. His warning—to keep from burying my soul six feet beneath t

You raise your nose at me in the wake of victory, and choose to wear defiance, And yet, your rebellion is my favorite performance. An Excerpt from “The Devil’s Game” By Marti A. Silent

"You're not who I thought you were." The warmth of the embrace became fire, and Eve’s eyes flew open. A blaze ripped through the worn fabric of her crimson jumpsuit, crawling across her arms until she wrenched herself free of Lilith’s grasp. She clutched her forearms to her chest, the burns raw, and turned to face her sister, taking note of the black expanse they now stood in. Lilith was unwavering - a portrait of stillness - the little flames that licked her skin dying out a