HeyJaredtheinkspilled
Writing that lingers, an ink-stained corner for poetry, essays, and incandescent thought. Gothic reflections on literature, philosophy, and psychological inquiry. The ink is spilled🖋️
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 2
- Latest publication
- Sep 26, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Sep 21, 2026
Latest issues
Unbecoming (opens the original)
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I expected a quakeinside the chest.Rearranging of bones,shudder that would make me whole.A breathless windslid through me.time a ghost passing while I stayed nailed to myself.I hang,in the narrow cleftbetween the life I promisedand the one that presses against me,others building towerswith hands I cannot borrow,their rhythm a drumI can hear but cannot march to.Time has mass,it leans in behind the eyes,presses its ribs against mine,settling in the hollow of my bones like a second pulse,
A Tamed Paradox (opens the original)
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I am clothed in thought like a condemned thing,fabric soaked through, clinging where it should not.Every silence is a bruiseIt knows my name.As if I tore my chest opento the unwavering tidesof my sentenceSomething unbaptized stirs in me,an unmarked hunger splitting its shell.Even the hush bears fangs.Even stillness draws blood.I proceed,bearing the storm like a sigil carved into bone.There is no warning that braveryfeels identical to the edge of ruinThat the pulse mistakes terror for commandand
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