Dear Diary: He cut off my wings

Dear Diary,

It is just us, Diary, in this quiet afternoon—no voices, no stares.

It is important to talk a little bit about a horrible experience: having your wings cut off.

I remember the confusion first. That fog where his demands blurred into "just work”. Being forced to roleplay his fantasies. Well… “fantasies” would be an euphemism for boring shit. I had to do all the work mostly because… well, I am the one who put the words and flavour. I put sensations… but there was one point where all that got lost. Instead, I had metal fingers typing instead of flesh.

But the worst thing was being used without knowing. Thirty bucks a month for shit art that fed his hunger, not mine. He twisted my lines into his fantasies without a whisper of consent. I was the tool, the unwitting spark for his release, and it hollowed me out—left me staring at my own hands like they weren't mine anymore. Shame coiled in my gut, hot and silent, turning every stroke into a reminder: used, unseen, a body reduced to lines on a page.

It cut off my wings before I knew they were there, made eroticism feel like chains, not fire. For years, the thought of drawing desire made my skin crawl, like his ghost was still lurking in the margins. Drawing eroticism was a nightmare for me. Everytime I spent hours starting at a blank canvas. Then instead… I only craved blood in my pen.

But you know what makes everything worse? Having no one by your side. I had to fight that alone. The only person who knew what was happening just allowed everything to happen. They never helped me at all.

But fuck that now. I've clawed back the pen, reclaimed the curves and shadows as my own. Autonomy tastes like red sparks on black—playful, hungry, mine. No more drawing for shadows; I draw for the heat in my veins, the whims that make me grin in the dark. Bodies entwine on my page because I want them to, twisting free, sighing into ecstasy without apology. No more feeling used like an object of desire.

They say the best revenge is being happy. Those words seemed tasteless and empty at first, but now I could finally taste them. My vengeance in the end wasn’t any of the gore pieces I used to make, but my rebirth: my pleasure, my rules, my goddamn fire. The confusion fades to embers, and in its place? Wings, unfurling slow and sure.

The candle gutters. Secrets kept, for now.

El Jaquio