This inkwell holds blood.

Liian Varus does not write emotional poetry. He exhumes it. His words do not soothe—they fester. In collections like VI, Oh, To Be Human, and Good Night, Titan Arum, And Farewell, they do not offer escape. They hand you a mirror, cracked and dusted with time, and make you look. Look at wounds that never healed. Look at the hands that tremble when no one is watching. Look at the quiet horror of another sunrise when you swore the night would be your last.

He writes from the drowning place. From the house where every door leads back to the beginning. From the field where something buried still stirs beneath the dirt. Mental illness does not haunt his work—it owns it. It lingers in the spaces between syllables, in the silence after each line, in the weight of a page turned too slowly. His poetry is a requiem for those who were never meant to be saved, a slow and endless descent into the gaping mouth of madness.

You can leave, if you want. Close the book. Turn on a light. But you will not forget. You will feel it when you wake at 3 AM, when the room is too quiet, when something unseen shifts just beyond the edge of knowing.  His words do not stay on the page. They stay in you.

And they do not leave.