Deft Street & Art Journal

She whispered, “Before you become a ghost above your corpse?” Her words twisted like a knife. I saw my reflection—a broken animal begging. She kissed my ear, lips slick with her poison: scorched earth, lavender,...

She slid off me, harvested sweat and saliva like fallen-angel nectar, flicked her Frankenstein cigarette into the leaves, and sparked a tiny inferno: final punctuation on our apocalypse.

I slammed into her one final time, body arching against her thighs, raw power and desperation hybridized into one frenzied release. My seed erupted inside her, hot and harsh, and she followed seconds later, her...

The wallpaper peeled like a scab, the mattress groaned like an accomplice, and the air reeked of sweat, lube, and ideological decay.

a half-eaten peach and erotic pictures of her with other men. The air was saturated with it: burnt resin, heat-split citrus, old sex, and the faint stench of dollar-store candles pretending to be sandalwood.

And if you’re reading this wondering how it all ends, here’s the rub: it doesn’t. Not for girls with guns and ghosts between their legs. Not for bastards like me, still chasing the next story down a...

You caught the faint trace of whiskey that wafted from a half-hidden flask stashed in her cleavage, something old, something that had lingered too long in barrels and regrets.

“I came inside someone else’s pleasure and felt my soul roll its hips again". The Archivist’s Final Entry

The wind tastes like her name being remembered by a city that tried to forget. Her story, begins again—not with thunder, but with a girl who stands up. And the world finally leaned in to listen for...

Eyes locked, a silent narrative unfolded, a story of surrender, defiance, inevitable, uncontrollable shaking, and lovely nectar shards of becoming one shooting through the toes simultaneously.

The whole room stinks of chlorine, sweet nectar sweat, and the kind of decisions you only make at the bottom of a bottle.

He drank coffee at ten o'clock at night because he liked its stillness, the way the steam curled into the air, and the way it marked time without demanding anything from him.