mothlanguage

poet // he/they // obsessed with stillness, unraveling, and the ache beneath language

https://www.instagram.com/mothlanguage/profilecard/?igsh=c3kznnf0yne4ohj4

Writings

Followers

Following

mothlanguage

poet // he/they // obsessed with stillness, unraveling, and the ache beneath language

https://www.instagram.com/mothlanguage/profilecard/?igsh=c3kznnf0yne4ohj4

Writings

Followers

Following

Grotesque Angel Boys (Pt. 4)

mothlanguage

1 min read

All the pretty angel boys are nothing but grotesque. Their wings wilt velvet-black beneath the light, stitched smiles too tight, and love like glass—sharp, soft, and broken best.

They’ll never live up to the beautifully defined—only the broken and bruised. He’d learned that much. And hearing unapologetic words—even the half-assed apologetic ones—seared his mind like branded wings: **a punishment...

Poetry

Tell me, Anxiety

mothlanguage

1 min read

**What do you want me to say?** That I was wrong? _You_ were right? My hands tremble, filled with panic. My legs bounce, encased with dread. And my eyes are flooded and blurry.  Why are you running wild through my veins?

Was it my fault for letting this go on? Would I have fought harder—kicked my way to the surface—if I had understood? Would I not have let myself slip beneath the waves?  You pois...

Poetry

Angels Breath, Dead Wings (Pt 3)

mothlanguage

2 min read

The angel moved just enough for him to notice. A slight turn of their fingertips as if a string is attached to each, tugging softly. It wanted to be seen as human, but it could never be. The movement was too fluid, yet it was too heavy to be divine.

The pretty angel boys were nothing but an afterthought. Now though? They are his worst nightmare.

His nightmare was simply only a hum—low, constan...

Poetry

Second Skin

mothlanguage

2 min read

You wake up in the dirt not fully buried—only up to your waist. But still, you’re not free. You can’t move. Your hands tied together by the roots. Legs under pressure from the dirt. Rocks pierce your skin, your veins, in every other direction. The pain feels real. The pain is real. And thoughts drip from your eyes—seeping into your skin like water, like blood. Fertilizing yourself with your own bl...

Poetry

What God’s Dream Of?

mothlanguage

1 min read

Consider this: God once dreamed of a ladder made of eyelashes and climbed down into our ribs. He dreams there still, underneath our skin, where silence is imprisoned by breath. It’s unable to leave our lungs. Time drips backwards around him, like melted clocks. It clings to him. Never wanting to let go, it haunts him.

He never leaves—lingering in the soft machinery of becoming, staying through n...

Poetry

Taxidermy As Medicine

mothlanguage

2 min read

I mistook preservation for peace, letting them stuff my sorrow with something that would never rot. Was it grief? Love? Or ashes that never forgot the shape of a flame?

Not only that, but I mistook their volcanic lullabies for a hush between my thoughts. I thought I was safe with the warmth, the laughter, the pain—but now? I seem to let them siphon out the color that resides in my memories—they ...

Poetry

The Angel Beside Me(Pt 2)

mothlanguage

2 min read

He was as quiet as an abandoned stadium overgrown with vines. Haunted, not by the crowd, but by the lack of noise—every vine being a whisper of what it once was.

The silence crept through the rusted bleachers, winding its way back to him, to his mind. Broken echoes encased his thoughts and he longed to elude them, but they settled in the hollowness of his chest. He couldn’t breathe. It was all t...

Poetry

Starvation or Silence

mothlanguage

1 min read

One might say it’s cruel—others, though, agree with it. The fact that one needs to earn respect, not just give it. So, I bite the hand that feeds me, so maybe it’ll let me starve.

Because it’s easier to deal with hunger than humiliation. It’s easier to explain. Starvation makes sense. If you don’t eat, you die, right? It’s simple. No tricks or excuses.

But what about respect?

It’s uglier. It’s...

Poetry

To Be Touched by Angels, Never Felt (Pt 1)

mothlanguage

2 min read

All the pretty angel boys are nothing but an afterthought, staining his taste buds like acidic lemonade. Coming in nightmares disguised as dreams—like burnt sugar left on one’s tongue—their laughter sharp and shrill. They bury themselves in the rot of his memory, leaving no room for thoughts. No room for positive thinking.

Every day, he wakes with their fingertips pressed deeply into the back of...

Poetry

Petalless Ache

mothlanguage

1 min read

I don’t want to stick out like a weed in a field of wildflowers. A weed envying how their colors never apologize for being seen, yet I’m left pleading. Shrinking beneath the sun, curling inwards. I’m crying out for help, yet no one comes to comfort me. They go to the wildflowers as they bloom without shame, without hesitation. The breeze even seems to favor their petals over my ‘thorns’.

Their be...

Poetry