Cyrusk - Cyrus K.

its so hard to believe someone could love me. im always always too much or too little. never enough.

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you…I could walk through my garden forever.”

— Alfred Tennyson

I want to lose myself in your love

make you my home again.

But your happiness doesn't belong to me

it is she that makes you bleed

and I watch without being seen.

She rests in the arms

of a man who cannot feel her storm,

while I drown

in the flood she left behind.

I feel like a spider,

strung with longing,

spin webs from torn ribs

to catch the ghost of her smile.

Her laugh...

a blade I swallow each morning,

thanking it

for the pain.

I would tear the stars

from the throat of the heavens

just to watch her eyes

glimmer one more time.

My love is not gentle,

it is blood and bone and burning rope.

It is sleepless nights

stitched with screams

no one hears.

This is love,

where I am the pyre

and she,

the flame

that never stays

but never dies.

-Cyrus K.

You don't have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.

Ray Bradbury

We scroll past

starving children

to buy shoes we don’t need

and call it life.

Babies are born

with lungs full of poison,

their bodies warped

by toxins we dumped for profit.

Mothers wrap sons

in flags

like it softens

the sound of a coffin closing.

We skin the earth

for gold and oil

and hang it on our necks

while forests burn

and oceans bleed.

We worship Gods

but not Their creation.

Pray louder

than we love.

Animals scream in silence.

Children rot in camps.

Water is sold.

Air is dying.

Truth is filtered.

Kindness forgotten.

We kill over dirt

though we are made of stars.

We hoard

while others die thirsty.

This is not a world,

it is a graveyard

we are still digging

with our eyes wide open.

-Cyrus K.

She believes she knows my ache,

she thinks she understands my sorrow,

because once, she too was broken.

My pain is

a slow implosion,

a daily funeral

with no mourners,

a storm I must swallow

so she may walk beneath clear skies.

She remains with another,

while I cradle her chaos in the dark,

I try hold her world steady,

bleeding in silence,

so she never sees the stain.

Quietly tearing at the seams

just to keep her whole.

I laugh when I want to scream.

I smile so she can cry.

I disappear so she can shine.

And each day,

I wake inside a coffin

just to hold her hand.

This doesn't feel like love.

This is a man burning

so she may feel warm,

and never knowing

that the smoke

is me.

-Cyrus K.

The woven silk of

Silence, petals fluttering

A delicate day

And the world is wavering

Between soft kiss and collapse

I was birthed from the torn stomach of night,

drenched not in milk,

but in the black bile of forgotten prayers.

The world spat me out

as a creature too ruined to be loved,

a wound with legs,

a scream with teeth.

Hope;

was a bone thrown to a starving dog.

I gnawed it until my mouth filled with splinters,

bled until my tongue knew only the taste

of broken promises.

I grew eating hunger,

drinking the venom of people's hate,

wearing the bruises of their disgust

like a second, rotting skin.

The colour of my flesh...

an open invitation to cruelty,

a crime I could never peel from my bones.

And when I crawled through the sewage of my years,

a thing barely breathing,

I thought love would be the knife to cut me free.

Instead,

it was another dagger...

this one twisted slowly into my throat

while I watched her eyes,

soft and shining,

for someone else.

Tell me, God,

what is more merciful:

to be born blind to love,

or to be shown its light

only to have it ripped from your hands

by fingers colder than the grave?

If there is a God of agony,

He carved His name into my ribs with rusted nails,

He strung my tendons into a lyre

so He could pluck songs of suffering

from my every step.

At night, I lie rotting,

a feast for the worms of memory,

as my dreams decompose around me,

the stench of what might have been,

thick enough to choke a corpse.

I feel decay threading through my blood,

I hear my hope

crackling like dry leaves under the boots

of things that never loved me.

My soul,

no, not even a soul,

a shattered lantern,

spilling its last flicker into a pit

where even maggots refuse to crawl.

And still,

some putrid, twitching part of me

reaches out,

fingers broken and blackened,

begging the silent stars

for something,

anything,

that does not end

in rot.

-Cyrus K.

“Until we have seen someone’s darkness, we don’t really know who they are. Until we have forgiven someone’s darkness, we don’t really know what love is.”

— Marianne Williamson