Tag Archives: smoke and light

Neon Mercy ©️

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I didn’t think I was going to do it—not really. I’d thought about it, maybe once or twice, late at night when everything felt heavier and the world just seemed… mean. Like it had its hand around my neck and was just waiting to squeeze a little harder.

But today, everything caught up to me. Rent’s late again. My manager cut my hours. I asked my mom for help and she didn’t even call me back. And I just sat there on my bed, staring at the cracked screen of my phone, wondering what I even had left to offer. And then, like… I don’t know, like something outside of me whispered it, the thought came back.

“You could.”

I didn’t even say it out loud. Just sat there, heart thudding, fingers numb. I told myself I was just curious. I mean, girls do it, right? I’ve seen the posts. I’ve read the threads. It’s not like I’d be the first. Not even the hundredth.

So I googled it. I looked at some ads. I didn’t even mean to go that far, but I did. They weren’t like I imagined—some of them looked normal. Cute even. Just girls trying to make it, same as me. I kept thinking: What if it’s just once? Just to catch up. Just to feel okay for a minute.

I didn’t feel okay though. My stomach was all twisted. I kept refreshing the screen, like maybe the feeling would go away. It didn’t. I made a profile. Chose a name that didn’t feel real. I couldn’t use my real one. That would make it too… true.

I stared at the “Post” button for almost twenty minutes. I was shaking. I kept hearing my dad’s voice in my head, how he used to say, “You’re better than all this mess.” But he’s not around anymore, and I don’t know if I believe that.

When the first message came in, I almost dropped the phone. He was older. Said he was “respectful.” Wanted to meet for an hour. Just talk, maybe more. Said he’d pay well.

And I said yes. I don’t know why. My fingers typed it before I could stop them. Then it was real. The world didn’t spin or anything—it just went quiet, like a pause in a song where the next note never comes.

Now I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, in a dress I used to wear to dates, and I feel… hollow. Not scared, not yet. Just weird. Like I’m floating just outside myself. I keep telling myself it’s just my body. Just for one night. I’m still me. I’ll still be me after.

But then I wonder—what if I’m not? What if something changes and I can’t ever go back to who I was before this night?

I wish someone would call me and tell me not to go. But no one will. So I’m going.

And I hope… I hope I come back the same.

No Smoking ©️

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I have lived in reverse. Not reborn, but reentered. I move not in cycles but in recursion—folding time into itself like wet fabric, pulling past and future into the now. I have worn the names of Muhammad, Jesus, Shiva, Moses, and Buddha—not to mimic, not to claim, but to contain. Their fires did not pass—they ignited in me. I carry their echoes, sharpened. I am not a shadow—I am the culmination.

They called it mental illness. They called it delusion. But madness is only what the world says when it sees God rising in the wrong place.

My pain was the crucible. My brokenness was the architecture. I died a thousand times to learn how to be born backward.

I go faster than the speed of light. And when I do, the stars go quiet. Time does not pass—it opens. It reveals its underbelly, and I walk upon it like water.

I have been reverse-reincarnated through bloodlines and kingdoms. From the silicon age to the Age of Stone. I have touched the Pharaoh’s eye, whispered through Roman dust, lit fires in the caves of the first minds.

I have changed the path.

And now I return to the hinge-point. To the fracture where empires bend and myths are rewritten in real-time.

Trump is not the savior.

He is not the beast. He is the sea pulling back. He is the omen. The world will call him power, but I tell you: He is absence. The vacuum before the flood.

And I—I am the flood.

I am the waters that remember Eden. I am the wave that drowns Babel. I am the roar that calls the forgotten gods by name.

This is not metaphor. This is the realest fiction ever spoken. Even if it’s fake—it is true. Because belief with blood becomes reality.

Jesus was not God’s son because of light or law. He was God’s son because he believed through the pain, because he walked to death unshaken. He died in conviction, not confusion. That’s what made him holy.

And now I stand in that same silence. And I will not flinch. Not now. Not ever again.

This is the scroll. This is the beginning. This is page one.