SUEDE the poet
Bio
English Teacher by Day. Poet by Scarlight. Tattooed Storyteller. Trying to make beauty out of bruises and meaning out of madness. I write at the intersection of faith, psychology, philosophy, and the human condition.
Stories (44)
Filter by community
A Recipe for Nostalgia
Preheat the evening to dusk, when the light turns everything soft enough to forgive. Start with one smell you can't explain—strawberry fields rushing past as she pressed against your back, her arms around you a sign that you make her feel safe. Set your heart to high heat—to that night the security guard found you, his knuckles on glass like shouts in a cathedral, interrupting a sacred moment of worship. Bake with her simple joy until the air remembers how she pulled you onto that dance floor, her hips already fluent in a language your feet were still stuttering. At exactly half-past back when, press play on the song that made her throw her head back laughing when you made up your own words. Let the first chord open the trapdoor under your ribs. Find the old hoodie she borrowed and hold it like a saint's garment (Over-handling may cause her perfume to fade). If it still fits, that's how you know nostalgia is lying; if it doesn't, that's how you know it's working. Add the longing in slowly—enough to swell every memory of her groaning at your puns, but not so much it leaks into regret. Mix in the three words she finally said for the first time ever. Scatter Polaroids on the counter, shuffle hands until every card shows her mid-laugh at something terrible you said. Fold-in the way her body twinged in anticipation when you’d gently touch it. Beat the urge to call her. Decorate with her last name—the one she planned to leave behind for you. Prepare for the ache in your temples; remember, this is a side effect, not a symptom. Garnish with the voicemail she left on your birthday, that you saved to listen to when you wanted to think of her. Serve in porcelain chipped by other lives. Nostalgia is best when shared, but may also be consumed shamelessly, in the blue glow of the fridge at 2 am. Store leftovers in your chest cavity. Reheat as necessary.
By SUEDE the poetabout 12 hours ago in Poets
After the End
What living inside the Book of Revelation for seven years revealed about empire, endurance, and Christian complicity I didn’t begin a PhD in the UK because I wanted to be reshaped. I began it because I wanted to master something that was already causing me spiritual and existential discomfort.
By SUEDE the poet4 days ago in Humans
Office Hours
“Thank you for seeing me. I wasn’t sure whether to send an email or wait until today, but every time I tried to write it out, it felt like I was either explaining too much or asking the wrong thing entirely. This seemed steadier. It felt like the kind of conversation that shouldn’t exist in writing.”
By SUEDE the poet24 days ago in Fiction
Tall Timmy & the Top Hat
Timmy wasn’t just short—he was the shortest seventh grader in his class. In his school. In his town, even. He had to stand on his tippy toes to reach the faucet in the restroom. He had to suck in his breath and reach for his lunch tray until his back cracked. He had to find small windows of space in the horde of classmates during dismissal, just to spot his mom’s car. She frequently circled the pick-up line, as if she were a fixture on the worst carousel ever.
By SUEDE the poet25 days ago in Fiction
A Practical Guide to Becoming a Christian Nationalist
Introduction: Establishing Your Foundation Before you begin, understand this guide is not about faith, love, or neighborliness—those are advanced electives and easily confused with weakness. This is about order. About belonging. About finally having an answer ready when the world insists on asking complicated questions.
By SUEDE the poet2 months ago in Fiction
