I continue to work on these. When I feel like it is complete, I give them their own page. The Death of Hope feels finished; for example.

The Death of Hope

It doesn’t happen quickly.

It never does ......

What Kind of Evil ... ?

You say I'm evil because I

Delight in the misery of those who prey on the weak

Wish for the death of those who torture the helpless

Smile when the manipulator is outmaneuvered

Feel peace when the abuser is abandoned

Sleep soundly when the liar is exposed

Celebrate when the tyrant is dethroned

Laugh when the gaslighter is ignored

Perhaps… but…

It's the good kind of evil

Silent Reflections

I'm scared.

Boredom was one thing—this is something else.

The emptiness here feels near,

like it knows my name.

Will I find outlets that honor me?

Or lose the thread completely?

This mirror demands a subject.

Without one, I risk becoming

the silence itself—

and vanishing.

Wilderness of the Diminished

It is really about me and not you.

The focus has always been inward.

I see you are letting go—

a loosening of the shoulder muscles,

moving on,

a slow emergence into sun.

Perhaps you are even forgiving, but

not me. I am the permanent exception.

I cannot find the flat, common earth of peace.

This memory of mine is a haunted blueprint—

a map of the structure that was designed to stand,

now shown only in outlines of dust.

Every day I re-trace the ghost-lines of possibilities,

the sudden, shocking vacancy of hopes dashed,

plans torn asunder.

I have done this. I am the sole, vigilant custodian

of the wreckage.

I have blame, and I cannot set it down.

It is an anchor I forged myself,

sunk deep into the marrow,

a core-sample of regret.

To let it go would imply my failure

was not catastrophic enough to warrant

this perfect, consuming penance.

I must be the last one suffering, or the loss

was simply trivial.

It is deep inside me now, a constant pressure,

slowly, surely, carving out my soul.

Not a clean cut, but an erosion,

the acid drip that hollows stone to air.

This is the process: how I die.

Bereft of hope and wandering

the wilderness of the diminished.

Where You Are

You’ll never get where you’re going

if you keep lying to yourself

when it’s time to figure out

where you are.

Maps don’t work

when the landmarks are make-believe.

And no road leads forward

from a place you won’t admit you’re standing.

So name the ache.

Trace the fault lines.

Say it plain,

even if your voice shakes.

Because the truth isn’t cruel—

It is just the first step.

Both

Yup.

I'm going to win.

But maybe I will lose.

Now that I am thinking about it...

It will probably be both.

Victory tastes like silence.

Defeat like memory.

Gold medal received.

The view from the top—

Darkness

Haunting Echo Chamber

Each time I say “I am yours forever,” it reverberates—not just in the moment, but through the haunting echo chamber of memory. Every past vow, every whispered promise, returns like a ghost, asking: Was I lying then? Am I lying now?

It's not forgetfulness that torments me—it's remembrance. A perfect memory is a curse when fidelity becomes recursive. I panic. I spiral. I feel the urgency to hold you, to press the truth into my skin until it leaves a mark. I want my words to be load-bearing, not ornamental.

This anguish isn't about failure. It's about the unbearable weight of sincerity. I don't fear being false—I fear being insufficient. And so I squeeze harder, hoping that truth, once compressed, becomes diamond.

There but for the grace of gods ...

I want to thank you—not for the dramatic moments, not for the highs or the declarations—but for being there. For showing up when it mattered. For being real when everything else felt like performance.

Last night I saw what I could've become. I watched Bruce paw at strangers, buying attention, mistaking proximity for connection. I saw the loneliness behind the grin. And I realized how close I've come to that edge before.

But I didn't fall. Because you were there.

You didn't fix me. You didn't save me. You just gave me something solid to hold onto when I was drifting. And that made all the difference.

If you ever wonder whether you mattered—this is your answer. You did to me. You still do.

Thank you.

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