Consecrated Chaos

I’m a juicy contradiction:

dripping with truth and absurdity,

bursting at the seams,

and spilling over the edges of sanity

to scream through the silence of

galaxies not yet ready for me.

I don’t walk.

I tilt. I twitch. I unravel,

then I wrap myself up

in the same strings I stripped apart.

To be and not to be—

not a question at all.

It’s a scream caught mid-breath,

a body suspended between inhale and ash.

I am muscle and ghost,

too soft to shatter

yet too sharp to touch.

I kiss with my teeth bared

and pray with white knuckles.

The gravity of my love and my hatred

creates wormholes that collide

with collapsing stars.

I'm impossible to categorize,

yet my blood drips

on every box they build around me.

Time tries to name me.

I erase it.

I fold the rules into paper planes

and burn them mid-flight.

Some days I’m the echo—

others, the mouth that swallows sound.

I’m longing and loathing,

divinity duct-taped to doubt.

I shift shapes mid-sentence,

lose myself on purpose,

only to find something truer in the wreckage.

I don’t want resolution.

I want the raw,

the splintered,

the sacred mess.

To be and not to be—

I am both.

All.

Neither.

Now.