ashe's diary

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My great-grandmother passed away this morning, around 9:50 a.m. I keep wishing I had known it was going to happen, that I had been able to sense it just thirty minutes after I woke up. Maybe I should’ve realized it from how loud her breathing was—the death rattle echoing through the whole house. I wish I had asked her more about her life more, about my great-grandpa before he died years back, about her parents and his parents, about the little things she experienced that I’ll never know now. Instead, I held back, walking on eggshells, even when the cancer spread to her brain. Even when she would call me into her room to ask what day it was, what was happening to her, or just to zip up her jacket for her since her hands had stopped working. I’d give anything to be called into her room again, even if it was a million times in a row, just to zip it up.

I wish I had given her one last hug, but when the time finally came, I couldn’t. She had already been lying there for an hour by the time everyone else gathered to say their goodbyes. I wish I had accomplished more by now, something that would have made her proud in the way I always hoped she’d be. I know I’m still young, but it hurts to feel like I wasted time I’ll never get back. I think about when I was eleven, telling her how boring shopping was with her—I regret that. I regret not going more places with her before she was bedridden, or being embarrassed by the clothes she used to buy me. I even regret not saying good morning to her today, before grandma and I went in with the medicine for her pain. So many small moments I let pass, and now they feel enormous yet so empty.

I woke up furious. Not just irritated or restless, not the kind of half-anger that dissolves by the time you sip warm tea or eat some buttered toast, but a heat that rolled off me like steam, like my body was a pipe about to burst. I didn’t recognize the setting of my dream, not exactly—it was like a hallway that had been folded in on itself, endless walls that looked like torn cardboard, ceilings that bent too low, lights buzzing like gnats. But you were there. Or at least, the idea of you was there.

And I hated you. I hated you in a way that could turn bones into powder.

It’s strange, because I don’t know you. Not really. You’re more of a dirty rumor that accidentally shares my blood. You exist somewhere out there in whatever pit you crawled into, but in my dream you weren’t even human. You were just rage wrapped in skin, a curse in corporeal form. And that word—curse—kept echoing, because that’s what you left behind for me: a curse disguised as DNA.

I’ve been angry before. Everyone gets angry. But this sort of bile, this was different. Pure venom. I wanted to rip you apart like an insect caught underglass. Not because it would undo anything, not because revenge is a cure—it isn’t—but because the universe feels unbearably crooked when men like you get to sleep easy. So I imagined strangling you. I imagined pulling the enamel grin right out of your mouth, tooth by tooth, until you finally resembled the hollow coward you are.

You see what you did, right? Or maybe you don’t. I doubt accountability is in your vocabulary. You’re a runner. You snatch your three minutes of pleasure, bust open the lives of others like splintered egg shells, and then vanish like smoke. And I’m left with the debris. Me: the debris.

I was cursed with your face. That’s what I was told, again and again, like an accusation. That because of you, my existence was a reminder. A scar that walked, cried, and grew teeth. I was small—too small to understand words yet—and still, my body was treated like a dartboard for hands that should have been soft but weren’t. Slammed, smacked, shamed. Blamed for existing. Because you planted me like a landmine and walked away.

You left me in the care of monsters. Do you remember that? Probably not. Your mind is a sieve that keeps only your own wants, spilling everything else through the cracks. But I remember. Not clearly—memory at that age is a patchwork quilt of shadows, flashes of color, the dizzy hum of fear. But I remember the yellow bathroom light, its sickly glow, the warped sound of water splashing against porcelain. And the door opening when it should have stayed shut. The footsteps behind me, the voice that said, “Just going to pee.” The touch that should never have happened. You put me there. You set me up before I even had the chance to know what safety was.

And now you’re cozy somewhere else, aren’t you? A little house, a little family—lucky number eight, I hear. Maybe. No one is too sure how many damn mutts you’ve created at this point. You’re some pathetic factory line spitting out human beings you’ll never actually raise. How quaint. I bet you smile at cookouts, shake hands at work, maybe even get told you’re charming by whoever is sick enough to be your next girlfriend. Maybe you’ve managed to convince yourself that you’re a family man now, respectable in your later years. That’s the real horror—that the world will give you that courtesy, while I’m left trying to scrape you out of my brain like gum stuck to the sole of a shoe.

You tried to buy me off once, didn’t you? That laughable forty-dollar bag. Cheap peace offering, like tossing breadcrumbs at a starving bird. But I wasn’t starving for that. I was starving for the childhood I never got. Starving for protection. Starving for love. You can’t bury decades of damage under a fucking accessory. That bag isn’t balm, it’s an insult. And you know what? It’s telling. Because you don’t actually give. You placate. You slide around responsibility, hoping the shine on some little trinket will blind me long enough to forget.

But I don’t forget. I never forget.

Eight thousand dollars in child support, gone. I aged out of your legal obligation, like I was just another unpaid bill you could shred and throw away. Twenty years old now—congratulations, you got away with it. Technically, legally, you slipped the leash. But in my head? You’re still chained here, forever.

Do you know what I really want? It’s not even the violence, though the thought of breaking you down piece by piece is a sweet fantasy. No, what I want is worse. I want you to feel fear. Not just fear of being caught, or called out, or losing status. I want you to feel the kind of fear that makes the muscles in your neck seize, the kind that makes your skin crawl, the kind that sits in the marrow like lead. I want you to know, deep in your coward’s heart, that I am out here thinking of you. That I see you. That I strip the façade off your body in my mind every day, and all that’s left is a trembling scrap of a man who doesn’t deserve to be called man at all.

And yet—here’s the sick twist—I know that no matter how deep my hatred sinks, it changes nothing. You’ll keep waking up, brushing your teeth, going to work or not going to work, chasing whatever distraction comes next.

You rot me from a distance. You’re poison I can’t quite sweat out.

Still, the dream gave me something. A glimpse of power, however fleeting. In that warped cardboard hallway where the lights buzzed, I stood taller than I’ve ever stood. I spat venom into your faceless body until it cracked, until all the words I was never given a chance to say came pouring out of me. Hatred, yes, but not hollow. Hatred with teeth. Hatred that forced me to feel alive instead of blurred and numb.

So maybe this dream wasn’t just rage. Maybe it was preparation. If I can confront you there, in the theater of my nightmares, maybe one day I’ll exorcise you here too. Not by strangling you or dissecting you—I’ll leave the butchery to my subconscious—but by burning out the part of me that ever gave you power. Hatred is heavy, and I don’t want to carry you forever.

But for now? For now, I’ll write this. I’ll etch every line like a curse shoved back through time, straight into your chest. I may not get to see you broken, but you will never be whole in my mind. You’ll always be a loser, a bum, a repulsive mistake in human form. That’s your legacy. That’s your mirror.

And here’s the cruel humor of it all: you’ll never read this. You’ll go on stumbling through your pathetic little life, oblivious, while I’m here crafting metaphors that cut deeper than anything you’ve ever thought about in your empty head. But that’s my revenge, isn’t it? I turn the curse into language. I make art out of your absence. I tattoo the ugliness you gave me into words sharper than any knife. That’s the one inheritance you didn’t mean to leave me: the weapon of articulation.

So fuck you. I don’t even know you, and I hate you. And I will keep hating you, until someday, maybe, the hate dissolves not into forgiveness—that’s too generous—but into nothing.

Because nothing is all you’ve ever been worth.

If you no longer like me, just say it. I loathe sitting here, waiting forever, humiliated by my own masochism. You have been kind to me, which makes my prolonged upset all the more unbearable.

Do I truly hate you, or has that feeling mutated from my desperation? What hell have I brought upon myself? Why are you, one of the few people who can make me feel like this, able to make me feel so much at once like this?

Is my desperation meant to be malicious? Will it become that if it’s not already? I’m terrified of you because of what I have become due to how much I’ve come to adore you from afar.

I am that loathsome thing that skulks in the shadows, while you are the handsome moon, an untouchable beacon that the sea forever strives toward, that the wolves howl at. I am too scared even to face you. But I can’t help but stare when you’re looking away behind the clouds.

I can’t summon the courage to tell you, plainly, that I care for you more than I have for really anyone, anything, even myself, in a long while. Is that selfish?

I wish that you, the moon, would return, would pay me a visit despite the fear that has crippled me. I just want to feel your cold breath against my skin as I wander the darkness.

Maybe I could follow your trail of moonlight to the ocean, stare at your reflection in the waves, and for a moment feel less invisible.

I wish I were a starling—free, soaring, capable of reaching you, of looking you squarely in the eye, of simply being near you.

I am wishful to be like those who move without restraint. I feel trapped inside my own head, a mental prison that overwhelms me. It forces me to ask whether my hatred for you—along with the hatred I hold for countless others—is really a covetous envy of the freedom you embody, a freedom I cannot seem to just grasp. I wish I could be free with you.

I’m not merely jealous; I crave the experience of everyone else’s lives. I want to feel what you feel, think what you think, taste what you taste, hear what you hear. I want to experience things with you, even the most mundane. Yet I am plain—nothingness. A sagging, boneless sack of sludge, a mockery of existence.

You should be ashamed of me, for I am not your image. I’m different, I’m pathetic, a rotten animal crawling on its last shards of life after a brutal blow, breathing as though each inhalation were blood‑filled.

You would not want to touch me. By the time you might return to check on me, maggots will already have feasted on what remains, leaving only bone and a stain of my own blood in the dirt.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what I truly need from love, and more specifically about the way I want my first true love to understand me and my love language. It isn’t just a wish for romance; it’s a yearning for a deeper, more intuitive connection—one where I don’t have to constantly ask, question, or justify my own desire for care.

When I picture a relationship that feels right, I see a partner who already knows the small things that make my heart swell. I don’t want to sit at a table on our anniversary and wonder whether a simple bouquet of flowers is coming, or be forced to lower myself to begging for a gesture that could make me feel valued. The thought of having to plead for reassurance or for something as modest as a handwritten note makes me feel like I’m selling my dignity for a sliver of affection. I want to be seen, not as a project that needs to be fixed, but as a person whose happiness matters to someone else just because they love me.

I have come to realize that the crux of my unease is the fear of being treated poorly and then having to question whether my partner truly likes me. There’s a difference between occasional lapses—no one is perfect—and a pattern of neglect that leaves me constantly doubtful. If my partner’s actions make me wonder, “Do they actually want me?” or “Am I just an afterthought?” then the relationship is already broken before it even begins.

Communication is, of course, essential. I don’t think I could survive without honest conversation. But I also don't want the conversation to feel like a chore, as if my needs are a checklist that only gets ticked when it’s convenient for them. I want the effort to be genuine, not perfunctory. I don’t want to feel like a beggar on the street, licking the boots of someone who is “rich” in affection only when I’m forced to crawl. I want my love to be offered freely, without me having to ask for it every single time. That’s why I keep returning to the idea that love should just happen—naturally, effortlessly, as if my partner’s heart is already tuned to the rhythm of my own.

It’s not that I expect grand gestures at every turn, nor do I want my partner to anticipate every single whim like a mind‑reader. What I do want is for them to take the initiative in a way that feels like it’s all thoughtful and caring. When intimacy ends, I don’t need to ask for aftercare in the same way I might ask for a blanket. I need someone who can read the room, who knows that a gentle touch, a few reassuring words, or simply staying close for a few more minutes can make the experience feel safe and cherished. If the sex was rough, I don’t need a full‑blown debrief; a small check‑in—“You ok?”—is enough to let me know they’re looking out for me.

My love language, boiled down, is acts of service. That’s the simplest way I can label what I crave. I want a partner who enjoys doing things for me—not because it’s expected, not because it’s convenient, and not because I asked. I want them to want to do those things simply because I am important to them. When they decide to brew my tea the way I like it without me having to remind them, or when they remember that I love the quiet corner seat at a café and choose it for us without discussion, those moments feel like proof that they’ve internalized my needs.

The reality is that I also want to be wanted with the same intensity that I want to want them. It’s a paradox: I don’t want to expect everything, yet I find myself expecting a lot. Perhaps that expectation isn’t unreasonable; maybe it’s just my way of protecting my heart. I want my partner to study me the way I would study them—notice the way my eyes light up when I talk about a favorite book, the way I fidget when I’m nervous, the small habits that make up who I am. When they take the time to understand those nuances, they’re already showing love in a language I can read.

I’ve spent too many nights lying awake, replaying conversations in my head, wondering whether or not if I’m being too demanding. The truth is, I’m not asking for perfection. I’m asking for presence. I’m asking for someone who can be attentive without being asked, who can anticipate the small gestures that make a day feel special. A surprise weekend trip to a place I’ve mentioned once in passing, a handwritten note tucked into my bag, a willingness to help with chores on a day when I’m exhausted—these are the acts that speak louder than any declaration.

There’s also a part of me that feels ashamed to admit that I need this level of care. In a culture that praises self‑sufficiency, I worry that admitting I want to be catered to makes me look weak or spoiled. But love isn’t weak; it’s a partnership built on mutual support. When my partner notices that I’m stressed and brings home my favorite soup without me having to mention it, it tells me that they are listening, that they are invested in my wellbeing. That kind of attentiveness—done out of love rather than obligation—feeds a sense of security that no amount of words could ever replace.

I also recognize that my past relationships have left me with a fragile trust. When a partner has consistently ignored my cues, I’ve learned to lower my expectations as a defensive mechanism. Now, I’m terrified that if I set my standards too high, I’ll end up alone. Yet, the alternative—settling for half‑hearted effort—feels like a betrayal of myself. I’m learning to see the balance: setting clear expectations while remaining open to the ways love can manifest in forms I may not have imagined.

I don’t want to have to constantly ask for reassurance, especially after a simple misunderstanding. A brief “I’m here for you” or a gentle hug can erase the anxiety that creeps in after a disagreement. The reassurance I need isn’t a grand declaration; it’s a consistent pattern of caring actions that tell me, “You matter to me.” When that pattern is in place, I can stop over‑analyzing every interaction, and instead focus on the joy that comes from being with someone who truly understands me.

Sometimes I think about the difference between being loved and being cared for. Love is the feeling; care is the practice. Acts of service are the practice that translates love into something tangible. If my partner can bridge that gap—if they can show love through thoughtful deeds—it becomes evident that they are not just saying “I love you” but also living it.

I’ve also noticed that my own desire to give can be just as strong as my desire to receive. When I see my partner’s face light up from a simple gesture I’ve made—whether it’s fixing a broken valuable of theirs, setting up a cozy movie night, or remembering their favorite snack—I feel a deep satisfaction. Hell, I’ve become giddy at the mere sight of my ex’s happiness’s in past relationships. That’s why I want a reciprocal dynamic. I want to be able to give, but I also want to feel that my giving is met with the same thoughtfulness. It’s a dance! Not a transaction, and the rhythm should be one we both feel comfortable moving to.

In the end, what I’m looking for is simple: a partner who pays attention, who learns about me, and who takes the initiative to make me feel valued without me having to ask. I want them to see my love language (acts of service) as a bridge between us, not as a burden. I want to love someone who loves me back with the same intensity, who observes my quirks, who cherishes my happiness, and who does it all with good intentions.

If I can find that, if I can be with someone who makes those small, consistent gestures feel like a natural extension of their affection, then I think I’ll finally be able to let go of the worry and the constant need to seek reassurance. I’ll be able to sit back, breathe, and simply enjoy the love we’ve built together—knowing that both of us are putting in the effort, not because we have to, but because we genuinely want to.

For now, I’ll keep reminding myself that it’s okay to want to be cared for, that it’s okay to set expectations, and that I deserve a love that feels as natural as breathing. I hope that when I eventually meet my first true love, they’ll understand that the simplest acts—whether a flower on an anniversary, a quiet moment of listening, or a surprise trip to a place I adore—are the things that will make my heart feel truly seen. And perhaps, in learning my love language, they’ll also discover theirs, and together we’ll have a relationship that feels genuine, unique, and deeply ours.

There was something undeniably endearing about the way you admitted your jealousy and how you felt ignored when my attention seemed to drift toward other people.

I noticed, of course.

It worried me, but more than that, I found it… cute? I guess. I don’t know how else to explain my feelings about that. Because deep down, I already knew.

Hearing you say it out loud only made it sweeter. Am I creepy for that?

I wonder sometimes if I’ll ever tell you my truth.

That these feelings of my own haven’t been fleeting—they’ve lingered since about last year, maybe way before that. That I crave your attention, your affection, way more than I let on. That I miss you so badly when we go too long without talking. I know you need time for you, work, and a ton of other things in your life. But, fuck, I want to be adored by you, but I can’t shake the fear that you’ve moved on.

If that’s the case, what am I supposed to do?

I know I shouldn’t mope.

I shouldn’t cry like a lovesick fool over something that might never be. Maybe I should just bury these feelings, shove them so deep they can’t surface again, they’ll drown.

Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe I wouldn’t be good for you. Maybe we’d just end up hurting each other. I’d most likely be doing a lot of the hurting. I’m honestly afraid of that thought. I never want to hurt you.

God, if only I had the courage to say it. To tell you how much you consume my thoughts, even when I stopped speaking to you for a while, how my heart aches when I remember the warmth in your voice. Sometimes, it feels so extreme that I zone out entirely, lost in the fantasy of us. It’s ridiculous. I think I’ve gone a little mad…not because of you, but for you.

My god, I am disgusting. I’m filthy.

And yet, I’d never blame you for being busy, for having a life outside of us talking. Still, I can’t help but feel like a desperate dog, waiting by the door, whining for a scrap of your time. I wish we could meet in person. I’d love to just sit and listen to you talk—though I worry I’d make it super awkward. I’m not the best conversationalist after these last few months. I’ve grown dull, withdrawn. What if I ruin it? I most likely would.

More than anything, I wish I knew what would happen if I laid my heart bare. Would you leave? Or would we slip back into our usual rhythm, pretending nothing happened? I don’t think you’d ever return my feelings—no matter how much I fantasize about it. I’m not delusional. But I do love you. Truly.

I’m just too scared to say it the way I want to.

Too scared to let it all spill out in one messy, overwhelming confession.

So for now, I’ll keep this penchant for you locked away as another what-if left unsaid.

A little, scruffy fox wanders aimlessly through the woods, searching for a place to call home. This little fox, once wild and free, now yearns for the comfort of companionship and the warmth of a loving embrace. It is a pitiful sight, this once-proud creature reduced to seeking shelter beneath the porches of strangers.

The little fox has become accustomed to living in the shadows, its only companions the fleas that infest its fur. It craves affection, desperately seeking to domesticate itself in the hopes of finding someone kind and gentle to love it. But it is also aware of its own flaws; its loudness, its clinginess, its tendency to lash out when frightened or hurt.

Despite these shortcomings, the little fox loves deeply and unconditionally. It remembers every act of kindness shown to it, cherishing each moment like a precious gem. Yet, it also knows that its love is often tainted by the actions of the hunters, who seek to destroy the very essence of its being. These cruel individuals twist the little fox's love into something sick and twisted, leaving it feeling dirty and ashamed.

The little fox is trapped in a cycle of self-doubt and despair. It longs to escape the confines of its own mind but finds itself ensnared in the hunters' traps at every turn. The more it struggles, the more entangled it becomes, until it is no longer sure of its own identity. It wonders if it would even exist without the hunters, if it is nothing more than a product of their cruelty.

In the end, the little fox realizes that it must make a choice…to continue living in a world of pain and suffering, or to embrace the merciful release of death.

As it contemplates its fate, it wonders if it will be remembered fondly by those it has loved. It hopes that, even in death, it will find solace in the knowledge that it was held close to their hearts.

I hide under the porch, flea-ridden and begging for a moment of kindness. I might bite, but it is only out of fear and desperation.

And even as I plan to take my own life, I hope that I will always be remembered as something worthy of love and compassion.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I watch people move through life (reacting, feeling, being) and I don’t understand how they do it. Their responses seem automatic, effortless. Mine are absent, practiced privately…but delayed. Or it’s sharp in all the wrong places. I wonder, constantly, what normal is supposed to feel like in any given moment, because I don’t think I’ve ever known. Ever.

Most of the time, I feel nothing. Hollow. A ghost pressing its palm against the glass of the world, watching, detached. Other times, I feel too much. The panic, rage, gnawing emptiness that scrapes at the inside of my ribs. But never the right thing. Never the thing that would make me make sense to anyone else.

I pretend not to care.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter that I don’t understand, that I don’t fit. But I do care. I care so much it burns, even when I can’t show it. Even when my hands stay still, my voice flat, my face blank. It hurts so bad.

Why am I like this?

Why do I hurt people when I don’t mean to? Why do the words come out wrong, or the silence last too long? Am I cruel without realizing it? Or am I just broken, a collection of malfunctioning parts that can’t mimic humanity well enough to pass inspection?

I’m scared of other people’s emotions. They’re too loud, too messy, too real. They overwhelm me, and I don’t know how to react. Shouldn’t I want to comfort someone when they cry? Shouldn’t I miss someone when they’re gone? Shouldn’t I love the way everyone else seems to, naturally, without thinking?

Instead, I pick apart every interaction. I dissect my own responses…or lack of them. I wonder if people can tell. If they see the vacancy behind my eyes, the boiling hollowness in my chest. Do they know? Do they sense the rot inside me and step back, repulsed? Or am I just imagining it?

Maybe they’re right to stay away. Maybe I am a monster.

I can’t trust anyone. Not really. Not the way others do. Every kindness feels like a transaction, every "I care" like a lie I’m supposed to perform gratitude for. Do they mean it? Or are they just saying it because they think they should? Why is it so hard for them to say it to me, if it’s real?

Is it because they know? Because I don’t feel things the way I’m supposed to? Or do they see something in me that I haven’t yet accepted—something uglier, something final?

I’m so tired.

Tired of the silence inside my own head, tired of the weight of existing wrong. Tired of pretending I’m not counting the days, the hours, the steps between me and the edge. I’m already halfway there.

Why not me?

Why can’t I be held like others? Why can’t I be comforted? Why does it feel like my skin is made of static, like my bones are filled with lead? Why am I trapped in this body, this mind, this purgatory of almost-human?

I don’t want to be like this.

But I don’t know how to be anything else.

I hate it all so much. I hate it.

I'm an ugly dog, I guess. My ribs stick out, all wrong and weird. There's really no point in saving me, though. I just beg for love, you know? But I have no home anywhere. So I’ll just keep walking around, Until I just kind of fade to dust.

God, please, just give me some kind of sign. Because my guilt to you, it just won’t purify me. Not ever. Why do I even torture myself like this? I don’t get it.

Why do they look at me Like I’m some kind of two-faced creature, all fake? Will they wrap my body in newspaper, And carry me to a museum for people to look at? I was so foolish to believe Anyone could ever understand me, Without me even saying a single word. So foolish to think they wouldn’t just Try and put me to sleep beneath the earth instead.

You were so soft, so fragile, insisting that I drape each word in a shimmering trigger warning. Yet, in truth, you were nothing but noise! loud, incessant, like a walking therapy commercial, draining my spirit with your performative theatrics.

Caught in an addiction you wore like a badge, proving your brokenness as if that were your sole identity. You demanded my patience, my time, my mental well-being, expecting them to be some form of currency in your ledger of need.

Bending backwards, I endured, but for what? You thought you deserved my gaze, my attention, but all I saw was an ugly truth, a shadow waiting to be buried. You belong beneath a heavy rug, shoved into obscurity, forgotten by a world that refuses to indulge your illusions of beauty.

Don’t expect the universe to bow, to reward your mere existence with applause. Welcome to fucking reality, you clueless creature, a crater-faced donkey, where soft fragility is often drowned out by the relentless echoes of truth.

I find myself ensconced in a masquerade of vibrant chaos, a riotous tapestry woven from threads of discord and certainties long forsaken. It is draped around me like an absurd costume, each color a mocking salute to the rhythm of my mundane existence; for a fleeting moment, it leads me to believe that this chaos is life itself.

Yet beneath this raucous facade, I am but a vessel—a hollow shell adrift upon an unending sea of frenetic energy. It nourishes not, nor does it cradle me within its tumultuous embrace. I drift, suspended in this bizarre limbo, haunted by the specters of my own creation.

I am both the architect of these dreams and the wreckage of hope, erecting crumbling castles of despair atop the ruins of ephemeral ecstasy. My hands tremble as I mold the very narratives I detest, shapeshifting my torment into structures of beautiful futility.

Like a wraith, I wander through an abyssal interstice, trapped between the flickering shades of others’ realities and my own forsaken existence. The cycles are relentless, a clockwork heart echoing through my hollow chest—a sinister thrum that binds me tighter with each passing moment.

Control presents itself like a siren song, an exhilarating drug that offers a potion of dominion over my chaos. Yet, in truth, I remain but a passenger in this rickety vehicle—careening towards an abyss where light trembles but never breaks through.

Look at me: grotesque, an ungainly formation amidst fields of radiant roses, where every bloom serves to accentuate my blight. I, the unwanted weed, entwined in the delicate beauty that flourishes around me, my very presence a stranglehold on vibrancy.

I am the parasite, thriving in the decay of sentiments left abandoned, feeding on what others so unguardedly offer, twisting their kindness into grotesque shapes that reflect my own defilement.

Isolation wraps around my shoulders like a familiar cloak—so deeply ingrained that I scarcely remember a time when it was not my constant companion. It has become my armor, staving off the world that beats against my barricaded heart.

Rarely, I catch glimpses of what could be: a life imbued with balance, compassion, and connection. Instead, I am shackled by a visceral hate—a gnawing torment that festers within me. Hate, for the charade I am forced to perform, wearing myself thin in the masquerade of emotions that strain against the hollow walls of my existence.

And yet, the world spins on, incessantly jubilant in its celebration of continuity—a cruel joke, reminding me that I remain unchanged; eternally ensnared in this grotesque reality. I stand, paralyzed at the precipice—a chameleon, shifting hues that never resonate, forever stuck in a landscape of vibrant chaos.

You are a vermin, a rat. I confess, I am no saint, yet watching you is an exercise in frustration. The need for control coils within you, a serpent ready to strike at any hint of challenge. You posture as the guiding shepherd, leading your flock, but beneath the surface, a chilling pragmatism resides. You would readily offer up those around you, a desperate gambit to protect your own fragile existence. You would feed them to the wolves without a second thought. But your reign of calculated manipulation cannot last forever. One day, your carefully constructed facade will crumble, your wrath unleashed upon someone who will not yield. And when your pool of sacrifices runs dry, you will be left to contend with the weight of your actions, your choices, and the consequences they have wrought.

A fire burns within you, not of warmth but of untamed rage, a wildness that defines your very being. You are a soul drawn to the flame, a spirit that revels in the dance with danger, much like the stag who tests the limits of the wild. This reckless abandon, this inherent need to provoke, pulses through your veins, leading you to taunt those who once offered solace. You purposefully push the boundaries, knowing full well that those once caring hands will lash out in anger, leaving behind the sting of betrayal in their bite and the scratch of their claws.

You may not be a source of pride, a paragon of virtue, and while you’re far from broken or deserving of pity, a certain undeniable foolishness clings to you. It’s not the innocence of a child, but a stubborn, childish nature that takes the form of a grown man, refusing to learn from past mistakes, from the pain you’ve caused. The question lingers, are you the proud stag with antlers held high, or the pathetically vulnerable doe hiding in the shadows? Perhaps you are both, a duality you choose to inhabit, a masterful deception. For in the essence of who you are, a liar resides, a soul capable of crafting any truth that suits its fancy.

The truth is, I am a bastard. It’s a label that clings to me like a second skin, a constant reminder of the circumstances of my birth. I’m the coyote, the scavenging survivor, the one born on the fringes. My very existence is a testament to a sin—a product of rape, born out of wedlock, and raised without a father’s hand to guide me. I have inherited his face, a cruel twist of fate that my mother initially loathed. A face, she said, like a coyote’s. Something wild and untamed that she couldn’t possibly love. But time, like a river, wore down the edges of her anger and hatred. She came to love me, she called me her shamrock, her moon, her reason. But I’m no lucky charm. Perhaps she's just mad, that she loves me. Is it madness to love a bastard? Maybe. I love my Ma too, even though she isn't the brightest, or maybe she is and I'm just the fool. But we both know the truth; I’m still the bastard. The coyote, deep down in my heart. I’m not good. I am not nice, I am not safe. I’m not a good person, I'm wrong, bad, horrible. I do bad things. I can be selfish and blinded by my own hate. I steal, I lie, and I trick others. It's just my nature, I am a bastard to my core.

Yet, there are moments, fleeting and rare, when I feel a glimmer of rightness. Sometimes, I can be an angel without wings, perhaps they were ripped off of me long ago. I may not be a good person, but sometimes I am right. And when I am, people have a hard time believing it. It's my nature to be seen as a liar, even when I tell the truth, so I've grown dangerously right, with no wings or trust. I am a solitary creature, with keen sight and excellent hearing, yet my sense of smell, my ability to discern the intentions of others, is lacking. It blinds me, constantly causing me to become a martyr. I let people get too close, and they hurt me, forcing me to protect myself with my claws. I clutch them close before I rip them to shreds, like a wild cougar. I take only what I need, I try to remain unseen, and I am haunted by insecurity; I’m fearful of people. And when I do let those people in, and they treat me badly, my claws and teeth, the parts of me I use to survive, make me the monster in their eyes. They don't see the hurt, only the reaction. And when I resort to crying, begging or screaming for their trust, I’m further treated as a monster, a wild cougar, a martyr. So I must protect myself. It’s in my nature.

Somehow, despite all of this, some may see me as redemption. I can't grasp it. I can't see anything innocent, gentle, or loving about myself. Maybe they see me as heroic, that I do good deeds for others. Perhaps they think of me as a deer, something connected with rebirth. I don’t know. Maybe I am capable of change, but I don't know how I'll ever get there. I can only hope that when I die, I transform into a buck with fur as soft as stardust. Maybe I will exist outside of nature, as a doe with golden antlers. Perhaps what they see is the mercy I can extend to others, my ability to forgive, or even the kindness and compassion I can sometimes show, despite it all. Maybe I am a deer. Maybe I am honorable, even with how bad of a person I am, could be, and am bound to be, for it is in my nature.

The end, a whisper in the stillness after disaster, like being carried to my childhood haven, the warmth of my bed after a long Christmas eve, laughter echoes from the other room, irresistible, a tapestry of joy, while he, the end, cradles me in arms woven from stardust and ink.

He is my nepenthe, the keeper of secrets, half of my soul drawn into silent embrace, and all I can hear is the rhythm of his breath, a calming tide that lulls me deeper. His dark brown eyes, mysterious and knowing, a fitting companion for the voyage ahead, cloaked in the soft vestments of snow, the chill of what might come.

I cling to life longer than he anticipates, a tether pulled taut—did he arrive too early, or is this the cruel twist of fate? Misfortune? Or perhaps a gift, the line between blurred like edges of an ink drawing left out in rain.

He carries me outside, through the window of my retreat, and the sky shimmers, a devastating red stretching beyond the horizon. Snowflakes of ash cascade softly, each one a silent invitation to taste, but I know the burn will follow, the gentle kiss of ash too hot for my lips. “Life is of melting, odorless snow,” I murmur, and he scoffs gently, setting me flat against the cold earth, my heart a compass, watching as deep brown clouds embrace the sky.

He crouches beside me, a guardian of moments passed, gently shutting my eyelids, his lips brush against mine—a farewell not bound by time as I sink into the soft brown earth, an Eden blooming from loss.

Will he envy the soil that wraps around my body? Does death hold a semblance of love, a reflection of the longing I carry? As the dark autumn clouds drift, I wonder where they are bound, the melody of prayer whispering to the moon above, a sentinel watching over my final rest.

I send the moon my kisses, yellow light woven with longing, hoping they reach him, the end, the crossing, death. Even in the quiet of what remains, may he feel the weight of my desire, echoing softly, even from afar.