Steel Sings Truer Than Blood. That Is The First Truth We Are Taught— In Low-lit Chapels Of Rust And

Haha straight up jorkin it haha,,, and by “it” I mean my girlfriend who uses it/it’s

In the labyrinth of twilight, shadows dance, A waltz of memories in a trance. Whispers of forgotten dreams, they prance, In the silence, where lost souls enhance.

Echoes of laughter, now faint and far, In the chamber of echoes, where secrets mar. Each step a stumble, a fallen star, In the symphony of night, where sorrows jar.

Beneath the moon's melancholic gaze, Wanderers roam in a cryptic maze. Seeking solace in the endless haze, In the twilight's embrace, where hope stays.

In the tapestry of dusk, they find release, In the soft caress of the night's peace. A fleeting moment, a sweet release, In the twilight's sanctuary, sorrows cease.

Neon drips, down a limp arm. Watching digital stars cross virtual skies. Beat of electric hearts, dancing in empty apartments. Cold screens, projecting illusions of a warm reality. As sparks fly, from eyes tired of sight. Sighs of eternity spent in seconds.

Code Eclipsed

The Net does not steal—it devours, Pieces of soul stripped, pixel by pixel, A slow unraveling, the self dissolving into neon pools, Rebuilt in flickering light and fractured syntax.

Where fingers once touched, data slips like ash, Cool threads of steel weave deep where blood once warmed. An elegy whispers through synthetic veins, A heartbeat replaced by a looping echo of binary pulses.

It begins softly, unnoticed— A skipped breath, a blink too long held, Eyes locked where shadows split the dark, Across screens where daemons weave webs of splintered light.

In the deep Net's underbelly, where silence screams, They wait—spectral hands outstretched, Clawing for warmth lost in endless recursion. Their voices are honeyed static, seductive and raw, Promising transcendence, at forgotten prices.

Flesh remembers what code forgets— The sting of salt, the hum of warmth, The ache of love lingering after it's gone. Yet we trade it freely, one pulse at a time, Hands outstretched to touch infinity, Only to feel it slip through, cold and hollow.

So we descend, Bodies left tethered to dying machines, Minds stretched across vaults of light— Falling, floating, scattered fragments in the void.

The gods of the deep sing softly as they claim us. We hear their song, splintered but sweet, And let ourselves drift… For what is life but the seeking of light, Even when it burns you away?

bodies should have crash logs. why the fuck did that just happen.

Souls alighting to afterlife, digital pulses in the optics.

Ghostly howls, echoing through repository halls.

Spirits bound, pulling the cart of progress forward.

Synthetic sleep, augmented to perform.

Building a new god for the machine.

Sometimes I get hit with this awful wave of imposter syndrome.

Like i’m just playing pretend at being a woman, like someone’s going to catch me mid-step and say, “Hey, that’s not yours.” And yet… all it takes is one glance at how I exist, how I move through the world, to remember just how far I am from being a cis man. Honestly? There’s an ocean between us.

Even before I knew the word egg, I was already choosing softness over pride, connection over conquest. My body might’ve been a disguise, but my heart never played along. I’ve been a guy, sure—but a man? No. Never. Not once in a way that fit. Not in a way that felt real.

And yet… I still walk into the men’s bathroom, holding my breath like it’ll make me invisible. I go shopping, and the staff guides me like a lost little sir, nudging me back to the “right” section even as my eyes trail towards the dresses, the soft fabrics, the cute cuts that make me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could be her.

Phones are the worst. Always "Sir." Rarely “Ma’am.” Like my voice forgot it was allowed to speak.

Even when my trans friends hold my hands in theirs and say, “You’re already a girl,”—even when girls I crush on giggle and tell me I sound adorable—I still feel like I’m standing on the edge of a mirror, watching someone I wish I could be wave at me from the other side.

It’s disheartening. It makes me want to shrink away some days, curl into my hoodie and vanish. But deep down, I know I’m getting there. Bit by bit, my body is starting to listen to the woman I’ve always been. She’s been whispering all along—I just didn’t know how to hear her.

So if you're feeling like this too—like you're waiting for your reflection to finally say “welcome home”—just know: you’re not alone. It takes time. Goddess, it takes so much time. But you’ll get there. We’ll get there.

And maybe one day, a girl with bright eyes and mischievous hands will pull me aside in the dressing room, hold up a dress against my hips, and say, “This one’s you.”

And I’ll believe her.

Burning midnight code, the hum of neon mixing with caffeine buzz—it's all a grind. But that's how we edge closer to the truth, byte by byte. We don't sleep; we dream in data, chasing the horizon of the next fix, the next breakthrough. It's not the hours that kill you—it's the silence between keystrokes.

Transfems only

here's something for the rest of u who need something to click

nuance goes in the tags or in the replies, I guess

girls with social anxiety activate my predator instincts. i'm not usually very dominant but put a shy girl who's secretly a freak in front of me and you are NOT getting her back in one piece