Cyrusk - Cyrus K.

I do not believe there is a more dangerous and destructive force in all the world than hope, but I do not believe there is a more necessary or perfectly beautiful one either.

Tyler Knott Gregson

I am not trapped.

I am abandoned.

There is no fight left in my limbs

no fire left in my chest

Only the heavy, sinking knowledge

that I have lived too long

in a body that was never mine to keep.

I do not recognize this face

these hands,

this voice that cracks like old pavement

every time I try to speak

I used to scream for help.

Now I don’t even bother whispering

No one listens to a woman

who dug her own grave.

The flowers inside of me are withering,

Blues, pinks, and purples—

All fading away.

Where did the time go?

I’ve watered the garden within me,

Ive been vigilant.

So why?

Tell me why the colors are vanishing,

Tell me why I am fading away,

And listen before I go.

Tell me of the times I was vibrant inside,

Remind me of my favorite songs,

And all I used to be infatuated with.

Plant a new garden inside of me,

This time, you can have the seeds

And the watering can.

For I do not trust myself with them anymore.

I wish for bluebells

And lilac petals this last time around,

Then I will finally be able to rest.

“I wish I could say everything in one word. I hate all the things that can happen between the beginning of a sentence and the end.”

— Unknown

She does not know

how I love her with the kind of ache

that gnaws through bone

and drinks from the marrow.

Even when her smile blooms

for another's dawn,

I gather my own ruin

just to make her laugh,

as if her laughter

could stitch the torn seams

of my unraveling soul.

I do not touch her skin

to feel warmth...

I touch her silence,

her chaos,

her dreams curled like fists in sleep.

When I kiss her,

my lips meet her heart,

I am drinking from the chalice

of every life she’s lived before me.

I am not licking her body,

I am tasting her soul.

I am not undressing flesh,

I am peeling open the pages

of her heart’s forbidden scriptures,

reading with reverence

the verses no man has dared recite.

Our love,

if it can be called that,

is no polished jewel.

It is a rose

born in rot,

drowned in rain,

fed by sorrow,

suffocated in shit,

burnt by longing.

Still, it grows,

bloody petals,

razor-edged thorns,

aching upward for a sun

that forgets it daily.

She wounds me without malice,

yet I kneel in thanks.

Each time she leaves,

she takes the breath

but leaves the lungs,

so I may remember

what drowning in her felt like.

Even now,

knowing I will never be

the reason her eyes glow,

I carve poetry from pain

to gift her joy,

like a madman

plucking out his own ribs

to build her a cradle of light.

Let the last tree fall,

let the stars bleed out

in the throat of the sky.

Let the oceans forget their names,

and even after they become dust,

I will still love her;

not because she is mine,

but because loving her

taught me how to survive

a fire that asks for nothing

but to burn

and burn

and burn.

She is not mine.

She is no one's.

But I am hers...

even after the last songbird

chokes on dust.

-Cyrus K

She was never mine.

Not even in dreams,

where shadows lie softer than truth.

But I love her

like a noose loves the neck...

tight, desperate,

aching to belong.

She moved through me

like winter in old bones,

slow, cruel,

reminding me I’m still alive

only to feel the cold.

I gave her a love

like a blade gives mercy;

sharp,

faithful,

and never asked for.

She was the war I bled for

before the first shot was fired.

And I...

I was the wound

that stayed open

long after she was gone.

-Cyrus K.

Blacklit Sky

Iam ridiculously jealous at the moments

you give to her instead of me

and that

your hand will never reach mine

except through

my mind

my shadow and yours

collide

not by chance

but by some forgotten vow

etched in stardust

and sealed in sleep

our eyes look up the same sky

over and over again

untill the orbs meet

for the first time

as if the heavens are tired

of holding our longing

my velvet fire embers

and your hues of ocean

dancing across the sky

that never noticed

between the void

and the constellations

above the world

entwined

for a lifetime

I miss you every day. But today, it feels like everything I do is just here to remind me I am living without you.

2 April, 1937 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov

The roofs shackled deep,

Far below the spires of the churches

That not a soul wanders into

For fear of being seen and accosted.

The roofs shackled deep,

In the pockets of the pictures

That crop up on midnight lights

Every half year or so.

The roofs shackled deep,

And then held out of reach

Because blood is thicker than water

And both are bought to let.

Reap torn bodies with a bare hand

Because we'd all do it if we can,

There are those, and there's me

And then the crop of the land.