In This Castle

recent posts

about

🕯️ About the Castle I am the castle. These halls creak with memory. Some walls have wept. Some still do. Each room you enter here each piece of writing—is something I couldn’t keep inside any longer. My thoughts live like dust in the corners. My stories breathe through the cracks. You’re not just reading… you’re wandering through me. You’ll find: Diary pages dressed up as poems Holy things broken and glittering on the floor Flirty whispers tucked between grief There is pain here. But there is also hope. Somewhere between the ache and the softness, the candle never quite goes out. If you’ve come looking for something quiet and real—welcome. I won’t give you answers. I’ll give you rooms. Some may be locked. Some might know your name. Stay a little while. Or longer.
  • B L A K E

    B L A K E

    Page 4

    Chapter 1

    Dear Diary,

    I wailed all the way home.

    Blake is a bastard.

    I keep hearing him say it. Over and over.

    I keep flashing back to what just happened tonight in his car.
    In the usual place, in the Taco Bell parking lot next door to church like fucking sinners.
    Like we didn’t just lift our hands in worship a hours earlier.

    He kissed me like I was sacred.
    He said my name like it was an answered prayer.

    “Oh finally,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to mine, breath warm, hands already under my dress.

    Liar.

    He didnt want me. But only enough to unzip his jeans.

    After, he wouldn’t even hold me.
    Just sat there with his eyes closed, hands gripping the headrest of the front seat, whispering that he “needed to go pray.”

    I stared at toward dashboard light glowing soft blue, thinking, this can’t be what love feels like, this is not the man for me. Why do I want him?
    But I stayed quiet. I stayed still. I stayed good.
    Because I thought maybe if I didn’t cry, he wouldn’t pull away.

    But he did.
    I have to remember he always does.

    And now I sit here writing this, hating myself more than I hate him.
    Because I knew.
    Deep down, I always fucking knew.

    He wanted to talk.

    His voice rises from a whisper, hoarse and firm—as he asks me if I know a girl named Maryanne Roberts.
    Of course I know her. Who the fuck doesn’t?

    She’s practically perfect, our very own Virgin Mary.
    Perfect body. Perfect hair. Those fucking green eyes. The kind that look through you and make you feel like a peasant in church sandals    .
    And the worst part? She doesn’t even try. She just is.

    Then he told me he thinks she’s “the one.”
    Are you fucking serious?!
    Then what the fuck am I?

    A premarital test run?
    Some flesh-and-bone confessional booth for him to unload his guilt into?

    I should’ve walked away right then.
    But instead, I sat there with lubricant between my legs, waiting for him to explain.
    Waiting for what, exactly? An apology? A crumb of decency?

    There’s no version of this where I come out whole.

    I leave my diary open to dry. As you can imagine, I cried on it.

    Desperately, I yank at the zipper on my Sunday dress I can’t wait to get it off.
    My soaked panties are already on the floor; I couldn’t bear to sit in them another minute.

    I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and cry harder.
    I look pretty when I cry.
    It makes me hate myself even more.

    Once I’m in the shower, I let the hot water hit my face.
    I wish it were scorching, just enough to burn, just enough to hurt a little more.
    Maybe then I’d feel clean.
    Or maybe I’d just feel something else.

  • B L A K E

    B L A K E

    Page 3

    Chapter 1

    I help at the little coffee station after the service. Most Sundays, I don’t want to, but my family’s well known, and I’m expected to ‘be the example.’ I’m carrying a long sleeve of cups across the square courtyard, where I can see everything—and everyone. They gather there like cockroaches. I should say ants, but I’m dramatic. There are so many people walking, talking, laughing, hugging, that I become almost invisible. I like that.

    In a split second, Blake’s presence fills the open courtyard, and I start watching him from the corner of my eye. I don’t understand myself sometimes—just moments ago, I hated him. He makes me cringe, yet I want his attention. He makes me feel insecure, but I still want him to want me. From the sea of voices, I catch his laughter echoing—and suddenly, my heart races, and my palms go sweaty.

               Blake knows exactly how to ignore me. He can be so physically close I catch the scent of his expensive cologne, and yet he stays emotionally distant—like we’re strangers.

    Then I spot Alejandro, a church friend I actually enjoy talking to. He’s into fashion, a little too feminine for my romantic taste, but witty—hilariously so. As we start talking, all my senses heighten. I laugh louder than usual, lean in more than I need to, exaggerate my hand gestures. I want Blake to hear me, to notice.

    And I hate that. I feel stupid for doing it, but somehow my body insists—it needs to prove I’m not thinking about Blake, when really, I am.

               The courtyard starts to clear out—people must be heading to the second service. I lost track of Blake. Damn. He’s probably part of that worship team too.

    Dammit. Now I’m getting a little melancholy.

              But before I can slip too deep into my own thoughts, his voice cuts through the stillness. Blake’s voice makes clitoris throb, “You looked like you were having a good time with Alejandro.”

    I hate that he startled me, I hope that he didn’t noticed that I jumped a little. I turn toward him with a smile already plastered on my face, one I didn’t even realize I was putting on.

    “Yeah, Alejandro’s hilarious,” I say, tossing my hair like I’m in some rom-com I didn’t audition for. “He actually knows how to carry a conversation.”

    My voice is too light. Too practiced. I’m performing, and I know it—but I can’t stop. It’s safer than whatever truth is waiting under the surface.

    “You never answered my texts,” he says almost in a heavy whisper.

    “I didn’t know you actually wanted me to answer,” I sneer, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

    I grab a rag and wipe at invisible crumbs and phantom coffee stains.
    I don’t look up—I don’t want to seem eager.

    “So…” he says, his voice lower now, the smugness back.
    “I’ll see you tonight after the 7 o’clock service? Same place. Don’t be late… or you’re not getting this holy meat.”

    When I realize he left, I come down to earth and wonder if anyone saw him talking to me; I look around and I don’t see anyone whose opinion matters to me.

    My panties are wet, very wet. It makes my mouth smile, but my spirit ache. It stirs my flesh, but unsettles my heart.

    I know I’m a descarada… but right now, my flesh wins. And it doesn’t care.

  • B L A K E

    B L A K E

    Page 2

    CHAPTER 1

    I beg myself not to spit out Blake’s heavy fluid; I cannot ruin my record, and I most definitely cannot let him see me be weak. I hide behind my sweaty hair, and I painfully swallow— oh gawd, I winced, I almost peed a little. As I am raking my long hair back, he directs me with a nod to move to my left. I climb the stiff cushion of the back seat to sit as he struggles with his jeans. I am looking out the window of my now fogged up car, and as I am about to draw little hearts to clear the window, his voice startles me.

    “Hey, we gotta stop doing this.”

    I squeezed my eyes, “Yeah, we should.”

    I feel the midnight breeze rapidly fill my car— Blake swiftly leaves and slams the door. I’m sitting here, and I want to laugh, laugh at myself for being so stupid, I let him use me again. He took what he wanted and didn’t give me anything. Not even touch where I wanted him to touch me.

    On my way home, I drown my thoughts with music, I put it as loud as my ears can take, just so I don’t have to speak with God. I want to be forgiven for my sins, of course, but I do not want to ask for forgiveness just yet— because I know I am not done being a church hoe. I ugly cry myself to a deep sleep, I hear and I feel nothing, not even a dream.

    ————— Sat, June 22 ——————

    “I can tell u lost weight, didn’t u?” 1:22 AM

    “Baby, I want to poke u with my chile pepper😊” 2:01 AM

    “Had a good time.

    U made me cum faster this time. See you in the morning,” 2:45 AM.

    What a jarring contrast of texts to wake up to. And as if that weren’t enough, there’s Blake on the church stage, arms raised to God, those filthy hands on full display.

    It’s Sunday.

    Look at him—acting all holy and handsome. How does he do this? He makes me sick. I wish the congregation knew his praises are worthless. I wish those doe-eyed girls, swooning over Blake’s performance and quietly praying to marry him one day, could see how he forces my head onto his “head”. I wish they could all see he only texts when he wants something. That Blake’s one of those guys who minds if you’re a little chubby—he doesn’t see the beauty in love handles.

    I’m fleshy—I’ve got meat on my bones. I’m Mexican; I love my tacos and my mom’s homemade tortillas de harina.

    Why am I judging Blake when I am in the same damn boat? I am letting him seduce me, I let him open my legs, I let him use my mouth.

    Hmm, I can see the outline of his long penis.

    Fuck.

    Sorry, Lord, where were we?

    Ah, yes, worship.

    I want to thank you for becoming my greatest supporter. You are what makes me keep going. I cannot stop thanking you, my dear reader, for taking a moment of your time to read and enjoy my creativity. You are very kind.

    ,

  • B L A K E

    B L A K E

    Page 1

    CHAPTER 1

    B L A K E

    How did I get myself into this mess? I do not understand how I am currently on my knees using all my strength trying not to choke and vomit on his throbbing dick. I had enjoyed this a couple of weeks ago when I deceived myself into thinking he liked me, and he was the man I was praying for. His name is Blake Rios, and we met at church. I am cringing just thinking about it right now. Ugh, why isn’t he cumming already, dammit, hurry up please, I cannot keep going, I can feel my jaw lock.

    Blake is incredibly handsome; it hurts, incredibly good-looking, so that it’s cloying, making my teeth itch. His physique is your All-American Dream boy, tall, dark-haired, strong, soft in the eyes, and that square chin that held his perfect kissable lips. Blake Rios is a sublime blend of his Latino father and his Irish descent mother. He caught my attention that day we had our church community outreach, and he asked me for my phone number. Something about him made me feel very uncomfortable, uneasy, and insecure, but I was intrigued; I was all in. When Blake asked for my number, I freely and voluntarily recited it to him. I think I know what you are thinking, ‘she met him a couple of weeks ago and now she is sucking his dick?’ I know, I know, I seriously know how it sounds, which is why I am wondering how the hell I get into this situation? It must have been his enticing text messages and those abs that peeked through his Hanes Comfort Soft Crewneck T-shirts. My God, I hate myself right now.

    Ok, now he is spilling out, oh lord, it tastes very bitter today, it tastes like warm hatred, I promise he used to taste like sweet nothingness.

    Hello, I am Eve. What a name for the kind of person I am, huh? Biblical. My parents decided to name all their children biblical names, and of course, being the oldest of four, they named me Eve, Life. Oh, and my last name, well, chisme has it that my Mexican-American dad’s great great great puta grandmother slept with an Italian that had the most Italian last name ever, “Romano,” and bada bing bada boom she stole the last name for her male twins out of wedlock. I don’t know how much of that snippet is true, but I’d like to think that part of her being a puta is true, just to find some sense of why I am such a slut, it ran in the family. 

    ——————

    Thank you for reading my words. Come back next week for another page of this story. I am writing this as I go along, so I do ask for your patience, and if you must critique, critique me kindly. 

  • Meant for More

    Meant for More

    I miss my husband.
    The warmth of him,
    The steadiness,
    The kind of love I was meant to grow in.

    I want a man’s love
    But not just any love.
    A Godly man’s love.
    One that sees me.
    One that honors me.
    One that stays.

    I’m so lonely.
    Some nights it echoes like a prayer
    I’m too tired to pray.
    I feel I was meant
    To be in a relationship.
    I was meant
    To be married.

    And sometimes…
    I hate her, myself
    Maybe not fully
    But enough to feel it sting.
    Enough to wonder if she’s part
    Of what took that love from me,
    Or kept it away.

    There’s a silence in my chest
    That used to be filled with laughter,
    A bed that feels like absence,
    A life that feels paused.

    I wasn’t made for this kind of alone.
    But I’m still here,
    Still breathing,
    Still hoping.

    Even in the ache.

    Have you felt so lonely you can’t breathe? Lmk