ink drowned

holding you ruins the wings

05/02/2026 i keep thinking about jars, about the way glass pretends to be invisible but is really just a wall with better lighting, and how i would hold something soft inside it. like a butterfly, or maybe you, if people could be folded gently enough without breaking their wings. i imagine the quiet certainty of that, the kind of safety that hums instead of trembles, the knowing that you would still be there in the morning, tapping lightly against the edges of me, and i wouldn't have to wonder if the sky had taken you back. i think i want that more than anything, which feels like a confession i'm not supposed to make.

but then i picture the powder on the butterfly's wings coming off on my fingers, how it would dull its colors, how the beating would slow not because it chose to rest but because there was nowhere else to go, and suddenly the jar feels less like safety and more like a paused breath that never gets released. and i wonder what love is supposed to look like if it isn't this. if it isn't holding tightly enough that nothing can slip through, if it isn't building walls so clear you can pretend they're not there. what is security if it doesn't come from keeping, from pressing something close until it forgets there was ever distance?

i get lost in that question, like walking through woods where every tree looks almost the same, where i keep turning in circles thinking i've found a path. because i do want to be soft, i think. i want to be the kind of person who opens their hands and trusts the leaving and the returning, but there's something feral in me that flinches at open space, that thinks vulnerability is just another word for standing in a field during a storm and hoping lightning has poor aim. and i don't know how to reconcile that with the version of love everyone talks about, the one that breathes and moves and chooses, over and over, without being asked to stay.

maybe that's the part that aches, the choosing. because if you chose me, freely, with all the sky still available to you, wouldn't that be more real than anything i could trap? but it also feels thinner somehow, less guaranteed, like trying to sleep without locking the door, like trusting a river not to change its course overnight. i don't know how to sit with that kind of uncertainty without wanting to gather it up, to contain it, to make it smaller and quieter and mine.

so i keep circling back to the jar, to the butterfly, to you, to this idea that if i could just hold something carefully enough it would never leave, and then immediately unraveling at the thought of what holding would cost. because what is love if it needs walls to survive? what is tenderness if it can't exist without fear standing right behind it, whispering instructions?

AUTHOR'S NOTE : i wrote this on my camping trip, watching bugs drift, the forest creak. love and possession have been struggles for me. i asked myself: can love and possession exist together without breaking something?

mine, even when seen

04/14/2026 it starts as pressure. not even a thought, just a density behind the eyes, a storm that refuses to become weather, and i crack it open, just a hairline fracture, just enough to let the statis leak, and suddenly there are foosteps. voices. fingerprints pressed into places that were never built to hold them. they come with their lanterns and measuring tapes, trying to map the inside of something that dissolves when looked at too directly, asking what it means as if meaning isn't the first thing that dies when i drag it out into the open. it isn't a message. it isn't a puzzle. it's a snarl, a broken frequency, a mouth full of gravel that i spit onto the page so i don't choke on it, and they pick through it. a ruin that is still actively collapsing.

i can feel them reaching, always reaching, like hands through thin walls, like teeth testing the edges, wanting a key, a translation, a confession wrapped in something pretty enough to swallow. there is no key. there is no center. there is only this shifting, blistered mass that refuses to sit still long enough to be named without turning into something false, something sanitized, something dead. and still they ask. still they pry. as if i owe them the blueprint to a house that is on fire, as if sharing the smoke means i've invited them to sift through the ashes for something recognizable, something they can hold up and say this is it.

but it wass never for them. it was never meant to survive them. it's a private combustion, a locked room chewing through its own walls, a language that bites back when you try to speak it too clearly. i am not interested in making it digestible. i am not interested in being understood in neat, consumable pieces. i want it jagged, misfiring, wrong. i want it to feel like grabbing a live wire and insisting it's a necklace. i want it to repel, to confuse, to leave a taste that won't rinse out. because the moment it becomes clear, the moment it becomes explainable, it stops being mine. it flattens, it behaves, it lets itself be held, and i don't want it held. i want it feral, i want it pacing, i want it to rot before it ever learns how to sit still under someone else's gaze.

so let it stay fractured. let it stay loud in the wrong ways, silent in the wrong places, stitched together with things that don't belong. let it be something you can't finish chewing. let it be something that looks back at you when you stare too long and refuses to answer. not everything that escapes me is an offering. not everything that is seen is yours to understand. some things are spilled. some things are alive in a way that doesn't include you.

AUTHOR'S NOTE : no notes needed for this one. i'm done posting for a few days nowww