Esoteric Submission

In the shadowed hour,

you sit with a cigarette’s ember

dying between your fingers,

watching me unravel like silk

one thread at a time,

until the cold air bites my bare soul.

Your gaze is a scalpel,

a surgeon of agony,

and I am your patient,

willing, trembling under

the weight of your silent commands.

“Stay,” you say without speaking.

I cannot leave—

you’ve sown roots inside me,

thorned and thick,

twisting through the dark soil

of my ribs.

Your kiss is like a wound.

Your lips carve deep,

feeding on the salt of my surrender.

I taste the blood in the spaces

between our breaths,

and I cannot decide

if it is mine or yours.

It doesn’t matter.

We are both bleeding now.

I tell you I trust you

as you press a knife

to the softest part of my mind.

You laugh, low and sharp,

and carve my fears into poetry,

each word a bruise I’ll cradle later,

longing for the pain

only your voice can ignite.

I beg you to love me

with your teeth,

to consume me like a drug, but you only graze,

only tease,

only starve me enough

to keep me begging.

I want the hunger.

I want the ache

that you so carefully craft.

And yet, in the quiet moments,

your touch is a hymn, a vesper I cannot refuse.

You pull me close,

fingers trailing the fragile glass

of my soul.

“I would never break you,”

you whisper,

and I believe you

as you shatter me again.

We are each other’s addiction,

each other’s ruin.

In the ruins, we bloom.

In the ashes, we grow.

A garden of thorns and fire,

rooted in the exquisite agony

we call love.

I watched the summer sky to see what I’ve become, blood and deeds are always darkest in the
light of the sun.

I invited you in because you have the arrogance of a myth. Your mind tastes like debauchery disguised as a sweet fruit, and the other parts of you, the ones that only I know, those feel like wisps forgotten dreams.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to pay our respects to our dear departed friend, Vibby, the USB-charged wonder who lived a life full of highs—literally and figuratively—and endured a merciless owner who just couldn't get enough.

Vibby wasn’t just any vibrator; she was a cutting-edge piece of technology, always fully charged and ready for action. She knew no boundaries, no limitations—except, perhaps, the occasional low battery. But even then, she would rally, plugged into her trusty USB port, quietly charging up for her next heroic endeavor.

Her owner, let's be honest, was a bit of a tyrant. Vibby was used daily, sometimes multiple times a day, without a break in sight. She faced her duties with the kind of bravery you rarely see outside of superhero movies. Every charge was like a battle cry—she was ready to go, no matter how many times she’d been drained before. The glow of her little charging light was a beacon of hope, a signal that soon, very soon, she’d be back in action.

And action she saw! Vibby was the unsung hero of self-care, the silent partner in late-night marathons, and the key to unlocking more doors than any of us care to count. She vibrated her way into our lives and hearts with a dedication unmatched by any other device. There was no off day for Vibby—just the occasional pause to recharge before she was right back at it, shaking things up like only she could.

Vibby’s life was short but oh, was it impactful. She lived fast, buzzed hard, and gave it her all every single time. She may have been small, but she was mighty—delivering joy, pleasure, and a bit of soreness here and there. She didn’t just meet expectations; she exceeded them. And even when her battery was on its last legs, she would valiantly fight to keep going, until finally, even a USB charger couldn’t bring her back.

So today, we bid farewell to Vibby, my steadfast companion who charged through life with unparalleled energy and enthusiasm. Let us not mourn her passing but celebrate her life—a life lived to the fullest, a life that truly gave until it could give no more. Rest in peace, dear Vibby. Your legacy will live on, and while your USB charger may sit idle for now, it won’t be long before it finds a new purpose.

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There’s a warning on her label, it’s better to empty her pockets onto the table.

Take a close look at all that ultraviolence, this time all you need is her silence.

This sharpened little knife, working her way in. An afterlife spent, slicing away at your sin. 

I cry in the gloaming night,

caressed by his devils touch,

dark and recondite.

In the stillness of silken shadows,

his obscure secrets unfold,

a debauched dance with daggers,

my bloodied soul is sold.

I exist in his silent dreams,

a wretched puppet forged by delicate pain,

my labyrinth of stolen moments,

become desperate screams,

as my golden spirit drowns

in his relentless rain.

My shadow is made of dark, smoky glass,

a fragile reflection of the shards within me.

Love once wielded its

cruel hammer,

shattering the delicate mosaic of my heart,

leaving worthless fragments

scattered in the void.

In the depths of brokenness, I wandered,

lost in a maze of

whispered promises,

each echo a reminder of what was,

the dance with darkness,

seductive and cold,

a lovers bloodied blade cloaked in the

veils of night.

But in the ruins, I found a spark that grew into

a golden beacon in the

blackest night,

His call to embrace the jagged edges of

my soul,

His desire to cultivate strength from my

fragments of despair.

Through the pain, I discover a

higher power,

a love that transcends the mortal bounds,

a union of our spirits and shadows,

fierce and true,

as we journey into the recondite corners of our

beings.

Our dark desires weave their

Labyrinthine threads

As I embrace His love.

I find my reflection anew, not as a shattered

remnant,

but as a whole,

a symbol of strength born from vulnerability.

Our bond,

forged in the crucible of longing,

resilient, profound, and unafraid,

illuminates the darkest paths with the light of

our Unity.

remnants of a broken soul,

each sliver dangerous , each edge a whisper of recondite pain.

Your hands, careful, deliberate,

trace the cracks with liquid gold,

binding me back together, as your delicate art.

In the dim light, our shadows play,

as the gleam of repair glistens,

intimate, sensual in its precision.

Every fracture tells a story,

a seductive tale of sacrifice,

and the allure of being remade under your touch.

The seams shimmer, golden veins,

a map of our scars, a testament,

not to the damage, but to the exquisite mending.

You see the beauty in my ruins,

and in this darkness, we find something

both haunting and mesmerizing.

In your hands, I am not repaired,

but transformed, each crack

an invitation, each golden line, your promise.

I figured out it was the last straw when it bloodied my hand,

Now it’s just me in the night with crude lines drawn in black sand.

Somehow the going went past tough and got hard,

 I ended up playing your game with a blank deck of cards.

I got out my crayons to color them in,

There’s always a price to pay for trying to win.