Fragments of Pain
@fragmentsofpain666.bsky.social
40 straight ⛓️🔥⛓️ 🔞 MDNI/DMs open
I write poetry with my fingers pressed into the fault line between pain and pleasure, teasing language until it trembles where ache becomes invitation, restraint turns intoxicating, and desire learns to speak in bruises.
I write poetry with my fingers pressed into the fault line between pain and pleasure, teasing language until it trembles where ache becomes invitation, restraint turns intoxicating, and desire learns to speak in bruises.
Pinned
𝘐𝘯𝘧𝘰 𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘔𝘦:
° 𝘎𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯
° 40 𝘺𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘭𝘥 (aries ♈️)
° 𝘚𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 (𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘮 / 𝘴𝘶𝘣)
° 5.87𝘧𝘵
° 𝘊𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘵 & 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘳
° 𝘋𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤
𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴, 𝘴𝘶𝘣/𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺, 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘸𝘢𝘹, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰-𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴.
° 𝘎𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯
° 40 𝘺𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘭𝘥 (aries ♈️)
° 𝘚𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 (𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘮 / 𝘴𝘶𝘣)
° 5.87𝘧𝘵
° 𝘊𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘵 & 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘳
° 𝘋𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤
𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴, 𝘴𝘶𝘣/𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺, 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘸𝘢𝘹, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰-𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴.
A Dark Center That Thinks
There is a center in me
that does not want healing,
only comprehension.
It studies despair
the way astronomers study black holes:
not to escape them,
but to understand
what bends around them.
There is a center in me
that does not want healing,
only comprehension.
It studies despair
the way astronomers study black holes:
not to escape them,
but to understand
what bends around them.
December 26, 2025 at 3:00 PM
A Dark Center That Thinks
There is a center in me
that does not want healing,
only comprehension.
It studies despair
the way astronomers study black holes:
not to escape them,
but to understand
what bends around them.
There is a center in me
that does not want healing,
only comprehension.
It studies despair
the way astronomers study black holes:
not to escape them,
but to understand
what bends around them.
The Inner Trial
Inside me, I am always on trial.
Fear prosecutes.
Memory testifies.
Grief serves as evidence.
The verdict is endlessly postponed,
which is its own sentence.
Inside me, I am always on trial.
Fear prosecutes.
Memory testifies.
Grief serves as evidence.
The verdict is endlessly postponed,
which is its own sentence.
December 26, 2025 at 3:00 PM
The Inner Trial
Inside me, I am always on trial.
Fear prosecutes.
Memory testifies.
Grief serves as evidence.
The verdict is endlessly postponed,
which is its own sentence.
Inside me, I am always on trial.
Fear prosecutes.
Memory testifies.
Grief serves as evidence.
The verdict is endlessly postponed,
which is its own sentence.
Where Pain Becomes Meaning
At some depth, pain stops asking why
and starts asking what now.
Here, philosophy bleeds into sensation.
Here, suffering rehearses its arguments
until meaning gives in
out of exhaustion.
At some depth, pain stops asking why
and starts asking what now.
Here, philosophy bleeds into sensation.
Here, suffering rehearses its arguments
until meaning gives in
out of exhaustion.
December 26, 2025 at 3:00 PM
Where Pain Becomes Meaning
At some depth, pain stops asking why
and starts asking what now.
Here, philosophy bleeds into sensation.
Here, suffering rehearses its arguments
until meaning gives in
out of exhaustion.
At some depth, pain stops asking why
and starts asking what now.
Here, philosophy bleeds into sensation.
Here, suffering rehearses its arguments
until meaning gives in
out of exhaustion.
The Inheritance
Grief was given to me
without explanation.
A language learned too early,
spoken fluently by the nervous system.
I carry it not as weight,
but as lineage.
Grief was given to me
without explanation.
A language learned too early,
spoken fluently by the nervous system.
I carry it not as weight,
but as lineage.
December 26, 2025 at 2:59 PM
The Inheritance
Grief was given to me
without explanation.
A language learned too early,
spoken fluently by the nervous system.
I carry it not as weight,
but as lineage.
Grief was given to me
without explanation.
A language learned too early,
spoken fluently by the nervous system.
I carry it not as weight,
but as lineage.
Fear Thinks Before I Do
Fear speaks first.
It drafts my thoughts
before I can object.
It is rational, persuasive, ancient
a philosopher trained
in worst-case metaphysics.
Fear speaks first.
It drafts my thoughts
before I can object.
It is rational, persuasive, ancient
a philosopher trained
in worst-case metaphysics.
December 26, 2025 at 2:59 PM
Fear Thinks Before I Do
Fear speaks first.
It drafts my thoughts
before I can object.
It is rational, persuasive, ancient
a philosopher trained
in worst-case metaphysics.
Fear speaks first.
It drafts my thoughts
before I can object.
It is rational, persuasive, ancient
a philosopher trained
in worst-case metaphysics.
The Self as Ruin
I walk through myself
like an abandoned structure.
Every room remembers voices.
Every wall holds impact.
Pain is the architect
that never stopped building.
I walk through myself
like an abandoned structure.
Every room remembers voices.
Every wall holds impact.
Pain is the architect
that never stopped building.
December 26, 2025 at 2:59 PM
The Self as Ruin
I walk through myself
like an abandoned structure.
Every room remembers voices.
Every wall holds impact.
Pain is the architect
that never stopped building.
I walk through myself
like an abandoned structure.
Every room remembers voices.
Every wall holds impact.
Pain is the architect
that never stopped building.
Grief as Gravity
Grief does not pull downward
it pulls inward.
It compresses time,
turns years into seconds,
and teaches the body
how heavy remembrance can be
when nothing is left to bury.
Grief does not pull downward
it pulls inward.
It compresses time,
turns years into seconds,
and teaches the body
how heavy remembrance can be
when nothing is left to bury.
December 26, 2025 at 2:58 PM
Grief as Gravity
Grief does not pull downward
it pulls inward.
It compresses time,
turns years into seconds,
and teaches the body
how heavy remembrance can be
when nothing is left to bury.
Grief does not pull downward
it pulls inward.
It compresses time,
turns years into seconds,
and teaches the body
how heavy remembrance can be
when nothing is left to bury.
The Quiet Terror
Fear is not loud.
It is administrative.
It organizes my thoughts,
assigns meaning to shadows,
keeps records of every moment
I learned that safety was conditional.
Fear is not loud.
It is administrative.
It organizes my thoughts,
assigns meaning to shadows,
keeps records of every moment
I learned that safety was conditional.
December 26, 2025 at 2:58 PM
The Quiet Terror
Fear is not loud.
It is administrative.
It organizes my thoughts,
assigns meaning to shadows,
keeps records of every moment
I learned that safety was conditional.
Fear is not loud.
It is administrative.
It organizes my thoughts,
assigns meaning to shadows,
keeps records of every moment
I learned that safety was conditional.
Anatomy of Pain
Pain does not scream.
It archives.
It labels corridors of memory
and files them under self.
Grief becomes a method,
a way of knowing
how deeply the world has entered me.
Pain does not scream.
It archives.
It labels corridors of memory
and files them under self.
Grief becomes a method,
a way of knowing
how deeply the world has entered me.
December 26, 2025 at 2:57 PM
Anatomy of Pain
Pain does not scream.
It archives.
It labels corridors of memory
and files them under self.
Grief becomes a method,
a way of knowing
how deeply the world has entered me.
Pain does not scream.
It archives.
It labels corridors of memory
and files them under self.
Grief becomes a method,
a way of knowing
how deeply the world has entered me.
The Interior Night
Inside me lives a night
that does not end with dawn.
It thinks in slow pulses,
counts losses like rosary beads,
and calls this ritual “being.”
Fear is its language,
spoken fluently in silence.
Inside me lives a night
that does not end with dawn.
It thinks in slow pulses,
counts losses like rosary beads,
and calls this ritual “being.”
Fear is its language,
spoken fluently in silence.
December 26, 2025 at 2:57 PM
The Interior Night
Inside me lives a night
that does not end with dawn.
It thinks in slow pulses,
counts losses like rosary beads,
and calls this ritual “being.”
Fear is its language,
spoken fluently in silence.
Inside me lives a night
that does not end with dawn.
It thinks in slow pulses,
counts losses like rosary beads,
and calls this ritual “being.”
Fear is its language,
spoken fluently in silence.
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can i share this gif without everyone getting mad
October 21, 2025 at 4:19 PM
can i share this gif without everyone getting mad