Salt in the lungs.
Sun rotting the skin off the bones of the coast.
I followed the echo of a god that never learned how to speak—
only how to demand.
Stone temples sweating heat and guilt.
Roots strangling the names you carved into limestone.
You called it preservation.
You left it to starve.
I bled into the jungle and it didn’t flinch.
Machete breath.
Mosquito psalms.
Every step a negotiation with decay.
History doesn’t whisper here—
it waits.
They built heaven out of stolen time.
Measured eternity in bodies.
Gold dragged from the dark like a confession
that no one planned to keep.
I am not an explorer.
I am an autopsy.
Faith tastes like rust and seawater.
I’ve seen the altars.
I’ve seen what they fed them.
You don’t pray to gods like these—
you survive them.
Trinity followed me through the ruins
like a shadow that learned how to aim.
Their doctrine clean on paper,
feral in practice.
They don’t want truth.
They want permission.
The jungle remembers every scream.
Every blade pressed into the throat of the sun.
The stones are slick with inheritance—
violence passed hand to hand
until it learned how to smile.
I burned the map when it started lying.
Coordinates lead to graves.
Always have.
The past doesn’t want to be found.
It wants to be finished.
If this place is cursed,
good.
Let it spit me out sharpened.
Let the temples collapse inward
like lungs full of ash.
I didn’t come to save history.
I came to stop it from repeating.
Saltwater baptism.
Gunmetal resolve.
No gods rise from Cozumel—
only teeth,
only truth,
only the sound of stone breaking
when belief finally fucking fails.
