In This Castle

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🕯️ 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 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.

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