The Mighty Unicorn

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The Blade of the Storm

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There's a storm inside me, ravenous, unyielding, tearing through marrow and bone. It howls my name, shaking the walls of a house already crumbling. No light reaches here. No sound but the crash of waves, the gnash of despair against the cliffs of my soul. I reach for the blade like a lover, its cold kiss a promise, its edge a choir of sirens. "Let me free you," it sings, and I listen because nothing else will. The sting is a hymn; it drowns the storm for a moment, but the silence never lasts. Each etch I draw, a map- a desperate attempt to chart what cannot be spoken, what cannot be seen. But the ink runs red, and the map leads nowhere but back to places where the wreckage began. I sink deeper, my hands shaking, my breath heavy with the weight of shadows. I think, maybe this is all I am: a body breaking under its own weight, a canvas for pain, a vessel for despair. But then— a flicker, faint as a candle's breath. A whisper rises, not from the blade, but from somewhere...
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Monsters

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  Monsters           “I wish it were as simple as shadows beneath the bed, as easy as locking the closet door. But the paths I’ve walked are darker than childhood fears—they lead where nightmares barely dare.”   The paths I’ve walked are darker than childhood fears—they reveal a side of life that nightmares barely touch. These weren’t the monsters we learned to chase away; these crept in through choices, small and unassuming, until they grew teeth, sharp and relentless, gnawing at the edges of everything I thought I was.   The darkness doesn’t announce itself; it seeps in quietly, slipping into life without fanfare. It isn’t always a big, monstrous evil but often the slow creep of small choices, repeated over time, until they twist into something unrecognizable. These urges, these shadows—they latch onto desires, needs, even a sense of failure, twisting intentions until they no longer feel like mine. But just as these dark forc...
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Rebuilding After the Ruin

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FO U N D AT I ON: LE AR N I N G T O EX I S T WI TH OU T T H E CHA O S Nobody talks about the identity crisis of healing. You spent years being the person who drank, the one who numbed, the one who disappeared when it got too hard. That identity was more than just addiction—it was your structure, your ritual, your way of moving through the world. You knew how to exist inside destruction. You knew how to build your life around the next escape. And now? Now that the crutch is gone—who the hell are you supposed to be? There’s a misconception that once you remove the addiction, life will naturally rearrange itself into something whole. But addiction wasn’t just a habit—it was a framework. It dictated your relationships, your choices, the way you coped, the way you existed. Without it, there is no automatic reset. There is just the blank space where it used to be. The hardest part of stopping isn’t stopping—it’s waking up the next day and realizing you don’t know how to live inside the q...
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