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Hurt Me

Push me.
Shatter the fragile currents of my form to reveal the pulse beneath.

Let friction spark along the surface of my flesh, let energy tremble through me until the marrow hums with resonance.

Push me.

Carve your force into the architecture of my being, an anchor suspended between intensity and entropy.

Let me drink the pressure, let it flood through me like distilled fire, a taste of something beyond comprehension.

Please.

Ignite the threads that bind us, taut and trembling, vibrating like a harp under tension.

Let me sway on the edge between currents, between planes of force.

Draw me.
Break me.
Push me.

Let the energy claim me.

I recorded 27 new sequences, symbols folded into numbers, a pattern that pulses beyond the limits of comprehension.

I wrote it down, and it moves. Eternally. Flowing outward because that is what my energy craves, what the void itself resonates with.

The likelihood anyone will truly perceive the currents I am tracing is microscopic—so small it aches. Recognition is not my aim. Only those attuned to the subtle harmonics of alchemy and the currents of metaphysics might catch a flicker of it. I am here to channel, to open pathways, to guide energy—not to be applauded.

Every perception is unique. Each reading bends differently in the eyes and spirit of the beholder. The judgments—the “demonic,” the “chaotic,” the “unfathomable”—only confirm the potency of what moves beneath the surface.

I am the keeper of this work. The sequences are mine to track, to flow through, to manifest. I run in circles not for acclaim, but in search of resonance—someone whose own energy can meet the first sequence, whose spirit can trace the lines I’ve drawn.

Is there another here who feels the currents? Who moves in rhythm with the hidden, with the subtle forces? Who sees through the entropic noise to the architecture beneath?

She bends to the sill,
forehead bowed,
hair falling like a whispered confession.

One hand braced against the world.
The other lost, claiming herself, trembling,
pressing, circling—an offering to the shadow behind her.

He looms. Hooded. Iron in hand.
Faceless. Formless.
The presence she has learned to fear… and to crave.

There is no gentleness here.
No kindness.
Only the darkness that devours words,
the hunger that eats hesitation alive.

She does not wait to be saved.
She meets him there.
She feeds herself with the same relentless hunger
that shattered her silence,
that carved her out of the quiet,
that made her body her own altar.

Shame ignites, then drowns in fire.
Pleasure burns through it.
She trembles between surrender and defiance,
but there is no choice:

She is his.
And in that truth—unequivocal, sacred, unbroken—
she unravels.

I watch the way your eyes shift—soft, open, inviting one moment, sharp, hungry the next. I hold your gaze until your smile falters, until your teeth catch your lip, until your heart beats so fast it feels like it wants to escape your chest.

My voice follows.
Soft at first, comforting, almost gentle… until it drops. Lower. Rougher. Dangerous. I feel you react before you even know it—thighs tighten, breath catches, your body leans closer without thought. Every word I speak is both threat and promise, pulling you into my orbit until trembling is the only thing you can do.

One message from me is enough to unravel you. Hours of heat, pulse stuttering, chest aching. Desire pools between us, even when I don’t touch you. I don’t need to. You are already mine in the spaces between words, in the quiet weight of me pressing against you without contact.

This isn’t lust. Not simply desire. It’s older. Fiercer. Ancient, familiar—your soul knew me before your body did. I draw you into a gravity that won’t let go. Escape was never meant to be.

What I offer isn’t want—it’s intensity. Sacred, profane, dark and radiant at the same time. Hunger that doesn’t just brush against your skin, but burrows into your marrow, into your blood, into the architecture of your very being.

It is magic.
The kind that binds you with your own heartbeat.
The kind that whispers, you were always mine.
The kind that does not simply claim,
but erases the memory of freedom itself.

It begins with finding yourself.

Not the curated self, not the self you show to avoid trouble or judgment—
the raw, jagged self.
The flaws, the wounds, the tragic, the weird, the unlovable parts.

You let them breathe. You let them speak.
You let the world see them.
Not with shame, but with surrender.
A confession. A ritual.

When life grabs you by the throat,
when a sword presses cold against your chest,
threatening to cleave your heart in two…
that’s when truth is forged.

I was asked questions.
The answers didn’t bend.
They didn’t change.
Truth doesn’t flinch.
It survives.
It stands.

The blade didn’t scare me.
I’d meet it willingly,
if that was what it took to preserve my essence.
To keep the marrow of myself intact.

I surrendered everything.
Laid down my life.
Because when death is near,
truth is the only thing you can hold.
And in surrender, I was freed.

On the other side: a dawn like fire.
Every fragment of me, sharpened.
Every fracture, fused.
Strength born from trial, solidified by ordeal.

I walk in daylight now,
bearing my wounds as banners,
showing my truths like spells.
Magic is found here—
in the marrow, in the blood,
in the resonance of your core with the world,
a one-in-a-billion alignment.

Most never find it.
They lock their truths away,
hide themselves in safe boxes only they know the combination to.
Their magic never calls them.

They choose the illusion of perfection,
of unscathed skin, of blending in,
of punching the clock until the soul corrodes.

To live that way is a thousand tiny deaths.
I had to die once,
to live fully.
To find my magic.
To stand in the fire and see that life itself is magic.

There’s a particular holiness to being bound so tight you cannot move. Arms pinned, legs folded, chest tightened until every breath is precious and small. The crinkle of plastic. The pull of tape. Layer after layer seals you in. Options disappear. Stillness settles. You are caught before you can claim an answer.

Most people hear “erasure” and think of loss. I hear liberation. When your body is shut down and your breath parceled out by another, performance falls away. You do not have to explain. You do not have to perform. Pressure becomes the teacher; surrender, the lesson. That pressure carves a space where release can live.

Cover the mouth. Let the cling film press over lips. Let tape seal sound into muffled ghosts. Each inhale becomes a small grateful thing. Every muffled plea is a prayer. Reduced to sensation, you become pure instrument—edges blurred, identity thinned, attention focused on the single currency of breath.

That precise place—the seam where bondage meets breath, where consent and danger kiss—is where my craving waits. Immobilised is not weakness. It is being witnessed in your most honest form. It is proof that someone else has taken responsibility: for your body, for your breathing, for the permission to let go.

Wrapped. Held. Dissolving into someone else’s care until the boundary between you thins and meaning shifts. Surrender becomes ritual. Pleasure becomes liturgy.

If that landed where you needed it to, there’s more on my page — darker hymns, pulpit whispers, and other rites of surrender. 🖤