Speak Only When Her Feet Allow It
“You breathe when I lift my foot. Not before.” He thought silence was safety. He thought if he didn’t
Trample
Weight, power, and the violent poetry of being beneath. These are not playful stompings. They are deliberate erasures. She doesn’t walk. She imprints. Her steps don’t pass over—they settle into you. Not pain for its own sake. But pressure that makes truth rise. You were not just stepped on. You were rearranged.
2 stories
He Thought He Had Time
“And every second he remained upright, his value diminished.” He thought he had time. He always did. The kind of