They called me restless, ruined, and rough, as if seeing too much was not seeing enough, So I learned to make love like an occult craft.

A little more blood, little more bloom - A little more smoke choking the room. A little more marrow where mercury flows A little more heat where the dark root grows

Dark hydrangeas, still untouched - And This is how I show my love

If I follow the recipe precise, the potion may function, but never suffice. It won’t split the stars. It won’t rupture above. It won’t ever be worthy of deathless love.

So I stir till my thoughts become fever and fire, till floorboards drink smoke and walls breathe desire, till crimson spills thick from the cauldron’s side like every soft thing I was taught to hide.

Too much hope. Too much need. Too much at all. Too much of me. Too much chaos where there should be peace. Still I add. Still I burn. Still I ruin all that I try to earn. One hand to my head, one hand in the flood, brewing “stay” from sweat and blood.

Maybe if I make it glow, maybe if I make it hurt, maybe if I make it more than they deserved, no one will leave what glows through hurt

I’m the sinister kid with the trembling knife. cutting her sleep into pieces of life. Through hands shaking crimson at five forty-five, through carving devotion in spells and spice, through loving so hard the room comes alive, through wanting so much it devours paradise.

Till crimson erupts in catastrophic flowers, flooding the ground in violent red showers, while smoke claws up in branches of night and I stand in ruin still feeding the light.

I love like collapse. Like devotion possessed. Like insomnia dressed in a slit-open chest. The same cursed mind flooding the room still creates beauty from absolute ruin, Still blooms, even through the spite

but alchemy demands sacrifice.

So take my peace as the final debt. Take every soft thread from the ruined witch with her hands shaking red, still waiting for someone to lift up her head

and speak softly:

before the fire, before the flood, you have already been enough.

Still I stir the impossible stuff.

Whispering down to the boiling flood:

This is how I show my love.