Bastard’s Verse-Hell’s Poet

This isn’t decoration.

It’s a record of the crime scene.

Every skull is a creature I’ve been — numb, stubborn, alive out of spite, carved into a totem of all the animals I had to become just to keep breathing. Beauty in the bone, irony in the survival.

The roses don’t belong to me.

They belong to Rose — the woman who raised me, the one who deserved a throne in every world I build. She’s the only soul in this whole mess who earned a place without ever asking for it.

And the phoenix‑woman‑butterfly at the top?

That’s Quill.

The nymph who should’ve grown into a goddess.

She burned in my fire, rose anyway, and flew higher than I ever could.

I watched her ascend…

and then I clipped the wings.

Not to kill her — just to keep her close.

But gods don’t forgive that kind of sin.

Which brings us to the angels.

Those aren’t my guardians.

They’re hers.

Her gods.

Watching the whole thing unfold with the kind of silent judgment only divinity can manage. They saw every moment — the rise, the burn, the fall, the ruin. They didn’t intervene. They didn’t save her. They just watched, because gods don’t stop tragedies. They witness them.

This entire portfolio is the story of that witnessing.