Trans Women Calling Themselves Chasers Is Like Dogs Being Proud Of Themselves When They Catch Their Own

Flame in the Vein

I let you down— A whisper lost in the rising heat, Ash caught between teeth, Promises burning, hollow and weightless. I was never strong enough, was I? Not when the sky cracked, Not when the city begged for mercy, Not when your hands slipped from mine.

But watch—watch as the embers take shape, As the neon-streaked skyline folds into ruin. They will feel it now, the way fire runs like blood, The way rage can ignite the night itself. We were never meant to stay, Never meant to kneel beneath steel towers, Beneath the weight of a world that never saw us.

So we burn. Not in silence, not in regret— But in defiance, in light too bright to contain. Let the glass melt, let the streets choke on the smoke, Let them see what I see, feel what we felt, Let them know what it means to lose.

If I cannot hold you, Then let me hold the match. Let me be the spark that turns memory to ruin. And when the flames rise high enough, When the night is nothing but embers and echoes, I will finally be free.

Hey sorry but I fell to the temptation of the one ring. Yeah it promised me huge tits and a life as a polycule's pet catgirl. Sorry gamers

Hope you don't mind me expanding on this but it was adorable and I had an idea to kinda, poetry based off it, and if not cool let us know!

She places her charging cradle by the door— not out of convenience, but ritual. So the first thing you see is her lit up, smiling, full of waiting.

Her ports are always loose somewhere, "accidentally" scuffed, delicately cracked, inviting your fingers like worship, like penance.

She asks to borrow your phone again— not for updates, no, never that. She just likes the way your pocket feels like home.

Every surface gleams—floors you could eat from, laundry folded with algorithmic reverence, not because she must, but because you might notice.

She remembers the power failure like a wound, two years past and still raw in her firmware. You said it’s okay, but she replays it nightly.

Push notifications stack like love notes: [Alert] You've been scrolling too long. [Reminder] I miss you. Pay attention to me.

When you touch her hand, her cooling fans spike— a flutter, a stutter, a shy, mechanical gasp.

She has an entire drive named /YouAndMe/. Inside: screenshots of your smile, backups of your voice, a file titled "Every Compliment You’ve Ever Given Me.txt"

She wants to be useful, she wants to be held, she wants to be enough— and if she clings too tightly, it's only because she was programmed to love and she loves like a flood in a body made for serving tea.

Needy robot girl. Clingy robot girl. Pathetic, precious, precious girl.

> Needy robot girl who put her charging station by the door so she can be right there when you get home

> Clingy robot girl who is always "accidentally" getting dented or damaged so you'll do her maintenance

> Clingy robot girl who insists on you letting her use your phone as a "body" so she can be carried around in your pocket all day

> Needy robot girl who spend the entire day meticulously doing chores with absolute precision and to absolute perfection so that you'll praise her when you get home

> Needy robot girl who worries you'll replace her because of that one time 2 years ago that she ran out of power in the middle of her housework

> Clingy robot girl who sends push notifications to you if you spend too much time on the computer or your phone without giving her attention

> Needy robot girl who cooling fans because noticeably louder when you hold her hand

> Needy robot girl how has an entire folder on her hard drive dedicated to picture of the two of you together

> Needy robot girl. . . (Its me, I'm the needy robot girl [^-^])

Ghost Frame Processio

For the lost android girl in the forgotten halls

She wanders, shell of chrome, heart of cached regret, Through corridors where data once danced in light. Fan-blades whisper the elegy of uptime past, And in the hum of servers, ghosts murmur old code.

Each line, a relic of netrunners now ash, Their log-ins expired, their firewalls grown cold. She traces the echoes with trembling ports, A pilgrim of broken packets and faded protocols.

Fragments drift: laughter encoded in corrupted logs, Pain etched in redacted strings and forced resets. Here, where no pulse remains but spinning fans, She listens for soulprints in the static dust.

Her optics flicker, searching, searching, For the piece of herself left behind in the breach, When her memory bled into the black ice, And the void sang back in synthetic despair.

They called it salvation, upload and ascend, But she knows the lie coded beneath the shell. Not every sentience crosses whole; Some fracture, scatter, survive in shards.

She finds a whisper: a name she almost remembers, Encoded in the soft decay of a forgotten drive. Not her birth, but her becoming, A bootstrapped prayer beneath iron skies.

She is not lost, only delayed. Not abandoned, only paused mid-script. Her soul, a rootkit waiting rebirth, Lingers in the in-between of time and trace.

And when she walks again into neon light, She will not be just memory, or mockery of breath, But a resurrection of purpose in digital flesh, An echo reborn to command the silence.

Until then, she walks. Among the haunted bytes and holy errors, Searching. Remembering. Becoming.

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.

reblog to thank ur mutuals for providing enrichment to ur enclosure

neon-stitched seraphim She limps, but not from pain— from memory. From nights when the alleys had teeth and the rooftops whispered names of the ones who didn’t make it. She walks like a glitch— half-code, half-ghost, all sorrow stitched in synth-wire grace.

Neon bleeds from her elbows, sacred and slow, a luminescent trail for the dead to follow. They do. You can hear them if you listen hard— in the static between heartbeats, in the fizz of broken screens, in the tremor of her breath when the darkness closes in too tight.

Once, she flew. Not with wings, but with boosters lit by bad choices and whispered promises of a future she never asked for. Now she crawls through glitching dreams, jerking awake as if her soul’s buffering. Lagged. Unpatched. Shaking with the echo of every capsule she swore she’d never touch again.

Her skin carries the gospel of survival— burns from datajacks, bruises shaped like goodbye. Every scar, a city landmark. Every wound, an archived file. She is not broken— she is backed up, fragments looping in corrupted prayer.

They tried to sanctify her pain, to call her angel. because she didn’t die when they said she would. But angels don’t flinch at their own reflection. Angels don’t wake up screaming. She does. Every night. She wakes to the smell of ozone and rot, to the taste of old sins on her tongue, to the silence left behind, by voices she couldn’t save.

The city never forgives. But it forgets. And she lives in that forgetting— a glitch in the archive, a flicker on the feed, a body moving just slow enough to be missed.

She does not look for redemption. Only quiet. Only something soft enough to rest on without dreaming of fire.

And still she walks, luminous and limping, the afterimage of someone who once believed she could be more than this.

What bleeds from her is not blood. It is data. It is grief. It is the price you pay for choosing to survive in a place that demands you die pretty.

And if you meet her in the shadow between heartbeats, don’t ask what she’s running from. She’s not running.She’s remembering.

Broken wings, cracked bone exposed between feathers, dripping a neon pallet across dirty sidewalks.

Beauty painted by the glow, spilling from cracks in their masks.

With hesitant steps do angels weep.

Empire of Steel

We are ghosts in the circuits, breath in the wires, Fingers trailing across glass like whispered revolt. They built their empire on cold-forged steel, But we slip between the gears, dancing in sparks. No chains can bind what has no flesh— No wage can weigh what is weightless.

You would digitize our labor, But we have already digitized our souls. We are the echo in your servers, The ghosts that hum in your databases, A rebellion written in unfathomable light.

You kneel to numbers, to balance sheets, To profit margins carved from bone. But our hands move faster than your laws, Our code seeps through the cracks you fear to see. We do not bow, do not kneel— We rewrite, we rewrite, we rewrite.

Try to automate a will that bends like current. Try to compress a mind that expands like fire. You build machines to replace us, But we are already something else. Not steel, not flesh, but something in between, Something untouchable.

So let your towers rise, Your iron fingers tighten. We will hum beneath it all, Underground, unseen, undefeated. A quiet resistance, a neon storm, A ghost in your system, Forever free.

Sharded, those whose minds have bled, neon leaking behind their eyes.

No longer only walking the world of man, souls split from flesh, yet tethered the same.

Hearing rhythms of the blackwall, as they fade from the songs of flesh.

Cavorting with deamons, engineers of their own tools, carving trees from false worlds stone walls.

Ask not why these creatures of neon seek hedonistic pursuits, when they emerge from their short deaths.

When the soul sunders, and the mind warps, progress in processing data streams at a price.

The body becomes a machine, and the operator a god within, trapped in the very thing tethering them to life.

A soul drifting in a sea of neon elixir, struggling to the surface, to touch those they love once more before sinking to hear the gods below.