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The Positives of Going Into Shock

i tell the therapist that the first time i went into shock it was when my arm split open to reveal the fat inside. eleven years old and watching blood bubble up and fill the crack in my skin, how all i did was carefully grab a washrag and press down. i tell her i spent an hour watching videos of people play games i didn't care about while blood seeped through my fingers, how i never felt anything. how it was a feeling nice, to go into shock, because you are floating while the world is crumbling around you and how when it broke i was left thrashing in water that was already up to my neck. i was no longer eleven- i was ageless, and time was nothing, and all i did was stick my head in the clouds and breathe. the doctor asked me if it hurt but the stitches hurt more than the cut.

going into shock, i admit during a therapy session, isn't as bad as it sounds. it's actually quite nice.

i couldn't feel a thing. i tell her, i kind of want to feel that again.

the therapist says: it doesn't have to feel bad to be damaging. teeth don't always hurt while cavities are forming. going into shock is not the same thing as being at peace.

she tells me, being numb is not being okay. comfort does not come from being empty. your negatives do not create positives; your health is not a thing that can be faked, but it is something that can be masked. i'm sorry nobody has told you that before.

i am sorry, she says, that you were forced to find the positives in your trauma.

and the water begins to rise. 

#trauma #recovery #therapy #writing #poetry and prose #tw drowning imagery #tw implied self harm #i am Feeling in this Chilli's tonight. cried a little writing this ngl

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inner thigh

i'm sitting in the dining room while she's cooking dinner in the kitchen when i tell her, out of the blue, that there's a mole on my inner thigh. she laughs at the confession and asks me why i'm telling her this.

"i don't know." i respond. "i- i'm not sure." is that the tru-

"there's a mole on my inner thigh." i say, aware of how much i have drunk, aware of how little she has. she giggles and it sounds like wedding bells.

"why are you telling me this?" she asks. i listen to the knife against the cutting board longer than i should.

eventually i shrug. my glass of wine looks so much fuller than it had before. "i dunno," i settle on. "i mean. i'm not gonna have anyone else find it, and i just- i wanted someone to know. it's weird but i just- i just wanted you to know. it scares me to have nobody know. does that make sense?"

she breathes through her nose and shakes her head. hair from her bun falls into her face and for a moment i think she might cut off a finger. "oh, don't be so negative." she tells me. "i'm sure you'll find someone."

it takes a moment for that to sink in. "oh. oh! oh no, i don't actually want anyone- i'm good as is, really."

"don't be silly," she chastises, and her bells have turned to sirens. "you just haven't found the right person."

"ah." i say. "ah."

she's chopping chicken and i'm sitting against the fridge on the floor. "there's a mole on my inner thigh." i tell her. her chopping stops for a second and she gives me a look.

"okay." she tells me. the chopping continues. i take a sip of wine. this isn't-

celery. vodka. moles.

"why are you telling me this?"

i don't know. i do know. will you understand if i tell you?

she starts becoming me. she's chopping carrots when the knife slides and cuts our finger, but the pain doesn't register. suddenly i'm where she was standing, thumb bleeding, knife falling against the cutting board with a dull thump.

"fuck," we both say. i look around and i'm the only one here. i'm always the only one here. "fuck! i've gotta- this has to go right somehow, okay, again, agai-"

she's standing against my kitchen counter trying to dice celery with a vodka bottle sitting net to her when i tell her there's a mole on my left inner thigh. her giggles sound like bubbles and i'm basking in the suds. "why are you telling me this?" she asks.

"because," i hum with my head against the fridge door, its vibrations tingling against my skull. "you're you."

"hell yeah i am." she says, "but why does- why does that relate with your right thigh mole?"

"left thigh."

"of course."

"i- i dunno, like. i mean. you read the shitty poetry, you know? and it's all- it's all 'let me memorize your body babygirl' and it's 'i wanna count all your scars, your fingers, your teeth' like some fucked up body accountant but like, it's supposed to be romantic or whatever, yeah. and people have like, these people who know that sort of shit. lovers or fuck buddies or one night stands. i'm not gonna have that, and like, like, like-"

she tosses celery pieces the size of quarters into the crockpot and takes a swig of vodka. "you're slurring, bud."

i groan and put my glass to the ground. wine sloshes out- she wordlessly hands me a towel. "it's like, if i did have those people it isn't like at my funeral they're gonna say 'he had a mole on his inner left thigh" or anything. they'll just know. it's not something you tell anyone else. there's just- there's this fear, you know, of like. uh, uhm..."

"ah," she says. "you're scared of not being known."

"nah, i know i'll be known. it's more a fear of not being- being intimately known. of, uh, being the one who knows myself better than anyone else."

she hums and hums and i'm not sure when it stops being her and when it starts being the fridge. finally she motions to the carrots and hands me a knife. an offering.

"right thigh?" she asks.

i grin and take the knife. this soup will be rich.

"left," i correct. "inner."

she's standing against my kitchen counter trying to dice celery with a vodka bottle sitting net to her when i tell her there's a mole on my left inner thigh. her giggles sound like bubbles and i'm basking in the suds. she asks me why i'm telling her this.

because, i say. you hear about the poetry with the couples who know every scar, every birth mark, every chipped tooth, and it's all exploration and sex and love. i don't wanna have that, don't wanna be explored like i'm uncharted land, like i'm something that needs to be memorized for fear of getting lost. but i want to be known. does that make sense? i ask. she doesn't answer and i keep going.

it's like, i splutter, it's such a small thing. it's something you don't tell anyone else. when i die they aren't gonna take the stand at my funeral and say "they had a mole on their inner left thigh" but i still want it to be known. i want to- i guess, if we really get down to it, i'm scared of not being known in a very certain way. i know i'll be known but i'm scared of not being known intimately. that everyone will know everyone in these very personal ways but when you think of me i'll just be the one friend. does that make sense? i ask.

it's such a small thing, i say again, but it's so scary, to not want a relationship and to not want sex, because it's not even the act or the relationship itself you're missing out on. it's that you're missing out on what comes with it. it's scary, i think, to know you're the one who really knows yourself. to be the one who knows yourself better than anyone else. i'm a lock and i'm the key, i'm the question and the answer, i'm a spoiler for i show i don't even watch.

and you're you. you're my friend and you're the closest to romance i'll ever get. i love you. i know one day you're going to have a partner and i will never fill that space that they're gonna fill. but it's you. in another life, if i weren't like this, you would be the one. you would have learned about my scars and about my moles without me having to tell you. and i just- i want you to know. i want someone i love to know.

does that make sense? i ask. she gathers pieces of celery the size of quarters and drops them in the crockpot.

"you're slurring," she says, smiling. "what did you just say?"

i take a sip of wine and when i look down at the glass it's nearly empty. she looks at me strangely.

"because," i decide. "you're you."

together we chop some carrots.

#aro ace writing #writeblr #prose #bro i have no fucking idea what this is #don't ask because i legit don't know #i had a Thought and suddenly it turned into this #i know it's a mess and it literally makes no sense but its hurting my brain to think more about legit #i could not make this make sense if i TRIED

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hey friend, your wrote a bunch on my uquiz (thank you!! I love reading these!!), and you wrote about cicadas and stars. I’m astounded that without me mentioning cicadas on that quiz you absolutely NAILED my vibe. I have a tattoo of a cicada surrounded by stars. They remind me of home, and for me they represent not only rebirth but also strength and healing. So thanks for that :) Just wanted to let you know - @badsteeldan

Hey friend! Sorry this took me a while to respond to; I usually avoid my inbox like the plague because it makes me anxious lmao. Thank you so much for the compliment! I’m glad you liked what I wrote, it really means a lot. I’m wishing you the best, hope you got some good responses!

#answers #Nonnie

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every time

the first time you die the last thing you see is god standing off to the side, a sad look on her face as you look down at the blood as it seeps through your shirt. it looks black in the lighting and surprisingly, it burns. without asking she tells you, "there's nothing i can do." you cant speak because your throat is clogged with pennies so she says "the first time is always the hardest. you will become better with time. it will be less painful in the next life." it sounds like she's trying to comfort you but it doesn't help much. gurgling in the place of words fills your desperate ears and then there is nothing.

the second time you die water is pooling into your father’s car and you are trapped in the back seat. the child's lock is on. your mother is praying against the steering wheel and god sits beside her, a hand on her shoulder as their body is turned to look at you. water puddles in faster and faster but they do not get wet. "if it's any closure," they offer, "your death will be a great thing. you will be mourned properly and buried beside your mother. your father will improve roads." it isn't. but you have not learned how to speak yet in this life, so all you do is scream until water fills your lungs.

the third time you die it's much slower than the last. you did not expect it to be so slow. there's blood dripping from your thighs and the bathtub is turning pink like the world's shittiest bath bomb. god sits at the tub's edge, dark skin reflecting off the porcelain. "it hurts," you say, and god nods silently. "i didn't know it would hurt so much." "you have always been one for romance." "i don't regret it." you say. "am i going to regret it?" god shrugs. "some do. some don't. you will have a chance to make it up if that is your concern." your hands shake and you lean your head against the wall, skull thumping at the same time your head pounds. "i didn't believe in you this time. i don’t think i would have grown to either." you look at god but your eyes have begun to glaze over, vision fuzzing. "why are you here if i did not believe?" god does not seem to mind. "you do not believe in fairy tales. but you would have still read them to your children, and wrote stories of them all the same. some things stay real even if we do not believe." you reach out your hand, and neither of you comment on how deathly pale it looks compared to the water. "i'm beginning to regret it." you choke out. god sighs sadly and takes your hand in theirs. "they always wait until the last second." god mutters, more to itself, and you close your eyes.

the fourth time you die god is the only one in the room that doesn't smell of bleach. a doctor types on her laptop. another is changing your bag of morphine. she has made a mistake with the doses. "i don't wanna die," you tell him, muffled beneath your mask. "please, don't let me die. i have children." god nods and leans against the wall. he does not come closer and you don't want him to. "that is true." he relents. "and you have raised them well. they will learn to live without you; they will have your grandchildren." "i want to meet them. please." the doctor looks up from her laptop. she asks something to the other. her chair spins as quickly stands. god shakes his head. "i'm sorry," he says. "i'm sorry." your mask fogs up. you can't move your limbs. the doctors are yelling. it's too late.

the fifth time you die there are gunshots ringing in your ears and your leg has been blown clean off. if you look at it you vomit. acid continues to creep up your throat. your eyes are closed but you can feel god sitting next to you, leaned up against the pile of ground you're using to take cover. "why are you always here?" you ask. "there are billions of people in the world, dozens dying every moment. why are you always here when i die? shouldn't you be somewhere else?" "this is your world," god says simply, "and i am your god. there is nobody else i could be with." and to her credit she stays, rubbing your back as you vomit. this death does not hurt as much as you expected it to. maybe your skin is growing thick.

god stands unnaturally stiff as you cross your legs midair, relishing in the extended time it takes for you to float back down. your spacecraft has left. you are the only one left. "would you like to know why they left?" god asks. "it could be closure." "no," you say. "it would be too much." god nods. you look up at the stars and notice how they seem to twinkle up close. there is not much time left for you and your air tank. "do they have named?" you ask them. "the stars, have you named them?" god takes a moment to respond. "they do not. i created this world for you. to create names for them would have been selfish; they are for you and you alone." "what else did you create?" "i created the world. i created the moon and the earth and the grass, the seeds and the sun. you. i created it all for you to travel in and explore." you snort. "i've hardly explored it all." "that's okay," god replies, "you will have more chances after this." you look at them for a moment, taking in how strange it is to see a person without a suit on the moon. god, you suppose, is not human, no matter how much they may look it. you look back up. "would you name them with me?" there's a pause. it lasts so long your head begins to feel light. finally, they say, "this is an admirable way to die. i do not think there has been anyone to die on the moon yet. you will be the first." "what d-" "I am proud of you," god says, and dust flies when they take a step closer. their feet don't leave marks. "i always have been. i want you to know that." your laughter sounds more breathy than you would like. "where did this come from?" when they don't respond your expression sobers. "i've made many mistakes," you admit. god nods. "i am still proud."  tears prick your eyes and you look down at your hands, covered in thick white material. if you wrote in the dust, it would not dissapear for a long time. you decide against this. "name the stars with me, god." you request. god sits. they point up at stars you are sure you didn't see before. together, you name as many as you can; they do most of the talking. you do not mind. and for the sixth time, you die, god's voice ringing in your ears like church bells with their fingers intertwined in your own.

#afterlife #reincarnation #prose #god #suicide tw #heck yeah baybeeeee #can you tell i have a slight obsession with writing about god and the afterlife #short story #writeblr

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Stardust

She has many names. She is the Goddess of Galaxies, the Painter of Light, the Ruler of an abyss nobody with wits would explore. Sometimes, they change. Usually, they hold the same meaning.

But mostly, she’s the Mother of Stars. They are her children and she cares for them as such, keeping them bright when the sky turns dark.

She is the Mother of Stars, and she would do anything for her children.

- It’s not sudden, but it isn’t exactly slow either. It’s like falling asleep on a quick ride to the store and waking up ten minutes later when the groceries need taken inside. It’s blanking out before coming back. Losing memories but knowing there really wasn’t anything to loose anyway.

She opens her eyes- did she close them?- and everything is insanely bright. Wincing at the light she instantly closes them again, but then it’s insanely dark, and wait, has she ever blinked before? Her eyes instantly fly open again. She can only see when she squints, so she does just that, looking at the ground. To her surprise, there’s a woman sitting beside her… feet?

The woman looks at her expectantly. After a moment of eye contact she raises an eyebrow and holds out a cup. A few beats go by.

“W-what?” The goddess stutters, swallowing. Her throat is so dry. When was the last time she spoke?

The woman with hair short and gray looks mildly concerned. “I asked you if you had some spare change,” she says, gesturing to the sign next to her. Her eyes flicker over the words quickly.

‘Homeless and elderly. Please give what you can.’

Oh. So she’s human. That’s one question answered.

“Spare change…” Curiously, she reaches down into her pockets, because apparently she’s wearing clothes now too. In her hand appears a couple crisp dollar bills. Dropping them into the cup, it must be an awful lot too, because the woman’s eyes light up as she looks up in disbelief. Mind whirling, the goddess rushes to say something before the woman can ask questions. “I need somewhere to stay,” she explains. “I… don’t know this place well. Could you point me somewhere?”

The woman smiles and points down the street to the right. “Go right down there,” she instructs, “and when you reach the end of the sidewalk you turn right. There’s a hotel right down that road. You don’t have to have a reservation either.”

She does her best to give a grateful smile. “Thank you.” The woman shrugs.

“Anytime,” she says. “God bless.”

The goddess(?) pauses for a moment. “Maybe not,” she confirms, slowly. She nods to the woman with a sure look on her face. “But you have mine, at least.”

The woman looks confused, but in an hour it will rain, and not a drop will dare to dampen her clothes. Flowers will speed their growth where she sits and within a week roses will bloom between the cracks and crevices of sidewalk. People will look at her, and they will smile. People will laugh with her, and the clinking of coins against her cup will become background noise.

The Mother of Stars is not to be confused with Persephone or Aphrodite. She would never dare to claim control over the things they have made their own. But she is their cousin and they are all connected in a beautiful sort of way. War will not break out over the use of something as kind as a blessing.

She ends up booking the hotel for a week. The receptionist looks at her curiously when she pays with cash, but there’s an ID for someone who is apparently her in her pocket, so there aren’t many issues. She sleeps for the first time in- well, ever. It’s almost comforting, how dark it is behind her eyelids. It feels like home.

She doesn’t dream. She doesn’t think she wants to, either.

-

The next day it pours like no tomorrow. Buckets of rain splatter around, nobody leaving their houses. She uses this to her advantage.

Stepping out of the hotel doors, she’s immediately drenched head to toe. The rain doesn’t let up and she finds herself walking through a thin layer of water that splashes with every step she takes. She isn’t sure where she’s going exactly, but she doesn’t stop.

“Rain,” she grunts through clacking teeth, “why am I here?”

The rain gets louder, and finally, the splashing against her shoulders begins to sound more like words. ‘You are here for something new,’ it whispers, nearly silent. ‘Something great.’

“And what exactly is that?” She snips. The rain pauses it’s splashing.

‘They told us not to tell you. It said things like these are best left learned than not.’ It continues to pelt down, cold and unforgiving. The human with the soul of a goddess nearly screams.

“Things like what?!” She yells, halting. Evenly, she asks, “Who exactly told you not to tell me?”

‘The ocean,’ the rain says. ‘The universe told it and it told us. We are merely one in the same, you know.’

She breathes in through her nose. “Yes, of course I know. Why couldn’t the universe just tell me this itself? We aren’t exactly strangers.”

The rain does not respond. To her horror, it leaves, light bleeding through the clouds. ‘Sorry. We should not say anything more.’ “Rain!” She cries. “Don’t you dare leave me like this!”

The sky clears and the drops stop falling. Like magic, the flooded water that was up to her toes begins to clear through the street drains.

“Fine,” she spits. “Have it your way.”

-

She spends most of her time walking. It helps her think straight.

She is surprised, however, by how many people she finds sitting on the ground, blankets put down for comfort. There are so many.

Whenever she passes one by her pockets grow heavy with coins. They clang against their cups to make such an ugly sound, but the people behind it give her smiles so big it’s as if she has sounded church bells.

“I have nowhere else to use it,” she assures them. “Keep it. Please.”

Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don’t. She learns to walk the balance between “I can’t take this” and “Thank you” very, very quickly.

-

The old yet young goddess stands at the beach’s shore and looks out along the horizon. Seagulls fly overhead in a ten-foot halo- she’s here she’s here she’s here- but don’t dare land. Daylight settles on her shoulders yet she feels nothing but cold. “Ocean,” she starts, soft. “Can you hear me?”

The ocean does not say anything directly. But the seagulls quiet, one by one leaving the circle and flying in a new direction. They caw as they go- speak speak speak- and at the notion she takes a deep breath in. “Ocean, I come with the request for you to take me back to the sky. I am afraid something horrible has happened and I grow wary of every passing moment in which my stars are left with nobody to care for them. As your ruler I kindly demand you help return me to my rightful place among the galaxies I have painted and the stars I have nurtured. It is what needs to be done.”

Waves shift around her feet. Finally, the ocean speaks. ‘Tell me. Are you aware of what the universe has said? What the universe wants for you?’

She hesitates for a moment. “I…” clearing her throat, she tries her best to stay calm and collected. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

‘Then you know,’ the ocean says, smooth, ‘That we will be helping with no such matters. Apologies, Mother, but we are not ones to go against the rules of the universe. Let alone for someone like yourself- no offense, but you hold no power over us, child.’

Her hands turn to fists at her sides and she breathes in, shaky but deep through her nose. The waves lap at her feet curiously. When she finally opens her eyes the sun is setting and sand is biting at her ankles in angry gusts of wind.

“I am the Goddess of Galaxies,” she says, stern. Her eyes burn as hair flairs wildly around her head. “I am the Caretaker of Stars, the Painter of Skies, the Ruler of the Abyss nothing living dares to explore. And I demand you heed my orders!”

The ocean bubbles, waves growing bigger. In mere moments the water is up to her knees and she can’t see her own feet. She stands her ground. Eventually, the bubbles turn to giggles. “Silly thing,” the ocean laughs, “what a thought. Order around the ocean, you say? We are not one of yours, child. We are something else entirely. In our waves you will not find stars, within our reefs there is nothing quite like those galaxies of yours. We are our own, and we will not be ordered around by something that holds no respect for such things.”

“What’s an ocean to a galaxy?” She cries. “What is a cave to a hole, what is an abyss to yet another? I don’t understand why you won’t just listen to me! I am-”

“I would watch your tone with us.” The ocean cut off. Something shifts in the sand beneath her feet and jabs at the barely-calloused skin. She tries to bite her lip but a yelp escapes anyway, legs tensing. Blood that should not be her’s turns the water darker than before- a less-than-kind warning. “We may be water, that is true. But we are also sand, and our glass is not as comfortable.

The goddess breathes deep, closing her eyes again. She doesn’t open them this time. “I don’t know what to do,” she admits. “I’m… I’m scared, ocean.”

The ocean sighs, pulling back it’s tide till the water is only up to her ankles. ‘You have a purpose here, do you not?’ When she nods, it hums. ‘Figure that out first. I would imagine it’s your first step to getting home, correct?’

The goddess breathes through a choked-up throat. “Right,” she murmurs, trying to catch her breath. “Okay.”

-

She learns their stories. They talk so much when given the chance- she’s sure they aren’t often.

There’s a woman who was recently evicted because she had nothing to pay with. A man who couldn’t afford his dog’s bills. A teenager who was kicked out because they were not accepted as who they are. A couple who’s been recently disowned. They are all people with families or pets or only themself and they are all against the world. She gives them all she can. She gives them coins, she gives them food, she gives them advice- she even gives them hugs. But yet they ask for more.

“What’re you up to?” asks a woman with a crooked smile.

“What’s your name?”

“Where are you from?”

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

She doesn’t know, she doesn’t know, she doesn’t know.

A man has his daughter curled to his chest while he thanks her for her donation. The daughter asks what her favorite animal is and instant she says she likes dogs, the way the dog a block away wagged it’s tail when she gave it a treat still fresh in her mind. The man looks at her like she has two heads.

“She speaks Korean. Her mother always spoke it and it’s all she speaks in now.” He tilts his head and squints his eyes. “Who are you?”

She isn’t sure what to say, except to drop some coins against his blanket and speed-walk back to the hotel. She does dream that night. It isn’t pleasant. It’s questions without answers and accusations and ‘Who are you, who are you, who are you’ till she wakes up in a cold sweat, breathing shaky.

From across the room she looks at herself in the mirror. Her hair is curly and wild around her head, skin lighter than usual. “Who am I?” She asks. The mirror doesn’t respond.

-

When the moon is full and the sky is dark, she asks, “Who am I?”

The lightning bugs land one by one on her fingers, glowing bright enough that she would have otherwise mistaken them for stars. ‘You are the Mother of Stars,’ they buzz. ‘You are the creator of galaxies, the painter of all that is light, the ruler of an abyss nobody has yet to explore.’

The woman once goddess now person chuckles bitterly. “Am I?” she questions. “What is a mother when all her children have long since been buried? A creator after their work has been lost throughout history? An explorer when their land has been taken over by those much stronger?” With anger mixing with adrenaline, she runs a hand through her hair. “What is a goddess when given a form so dreadfully human?”

The lightning bugs dim, but she doesn’t care. “So I ask you again. Who am I?”

The moon sets as the run rises. The lightning bugs leave.

-

There’s a woman crying on the street corner. Multiple trash bags filled to the brim surround her and something about her seems off. When the goddess wearing a human’s skin approaches her offering a tissue, everything spills over without her having to ask.

“I couldn’t stay with him anymore,” she sobs, nearly choking on her own tears. “He wasn’t a good man. But- but the homeless shelter won’t take me. There aren’t enough rooms. So I just… I don’t know what to do anymore.” Her blood turns cold. Grass yellows beneath her feet. “They won’t take you why?”

The woman ends up leading her to the shelter. A man comes out with a bitter smile and a shrug. He gives them both a bottle of water, handing another tissue to the woman while avoiding Mother’s gaze.

“We just don’t have enough room,” he says, much too casual for her tastes. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“Then make more room.”

“We can’t just make more room!”

“Why not?” She knows why, though. Because her pockets have turned heavy and there’s the telltale sign of paper scraping against paper ringing in her ears. Before he can answer she reaches in and pulls the stack out, handing it to him a bit too roughly to seem kind. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Is that enough?” The man’s eyes snap up from the wad in his hands. His mouth is slightly open and his eyes seem glazed over.

Stumbling over his words, he says, “I… yes, it’s definitely a great start at the very least.” Surprised giggles tumble out of his mouth as he runs a hand through his hair. “I…” He looks at her then, eyes filled with questions and excitement. “Who are you?”

A beat passes. She breathes through her nose, before smiling and holding out a hand. He takes it quickly.

“I go by Mother.”

-

Eventually, she speaks to the universe itself. She sits on a hill with grass as soft as silk and hugs her knees to her chest. Neither speak for a long, long time.

To the surprise of all those who watch, the Mother of Stars begins to cry. The wind howls around her as she wipes away tears. “Did I do something wrong?” she asks, scared and alone. “Have I…. have I failed, universe?” And the universe cries. “No,” it whispers. “You have done wonderfully. This is no punishment, Mother. There is simply more for you to do now.” The wind helps her to her feet and the grass grows taller to hold her hand. “Your purpose is more vast than you know. Your stars have flourished and continue to shine. Now it is time to help what has since grown.”

The young yet old goddess sniffs, smiling. “I will never be able to understand your riddles,” she mutters. The universe laughs.

“I am sure you will understand in due time. Maybe it is simply the human in you.”

Suddenly, stars begin to shoot across the sky, bright and quick. They speak in unison, over and over. ‘Mother, we miss you. Mother, we hear you. Mother, we watch you. Mother, we love you.’. From her hilltop she watches as lights turn on and windows open. Children point and adults smile. It is not often that the universe cries.

“My children,” she breathes, raising a hand to the sky. If she focuses long enough she can feel them thread through her fingers. “My children.”

-

She leaves the hotel. The staff say they’re sad to see her go, but don’t seem all too bothered after they find tips of large sums scattered around her room. They name it, “The Room of Luck” in her honor. She finds it funny.

-

Construction begins quickly. With a bit of luck and a few blessings, the new homeless shelter is up and running within a month. It’s brand new and feels like a home. The woman cries when she shows her her bed. Familiar faces fill the halls and she wishes the best to those who never arrive. She hopes they’re okay.

-

“You’re no longer in a hurry to return,” the universe muses one night. “Why?”

The half-goddess shrugs. “This is important, is it not?” She asks, sure. She grows more hesitant after a moment. “They… the stars will be okay, will they not?” The universe smiles. “We are patient,” it says, simply.

-

A boy named Adam lives at the shelter and tells her about the stars every time they meet. He’s determined to stump her on his trivia. One day,  he says, “We’re all made of stardust. Did you know what?”

She freezes for a moment. “What?”

He grins. “Stardust! All humans, we’re made of stardust.” He leans over the dinner table and gets right in her face. “Did I get you?”

It takes a few beats. But soon, she’s smiling, slow and sweet. Her eyes are misty. “Yeah,” she says, soft. “Of course you are.” She laughs a bit and ruffles his hair. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner.”

-

She has many names. She is the woman who founded the homeless shelter downtown, the girl with skin as dark as night who grants blessings to those who she likes. She’s the witch and she’s the angel and she’s something else entirely, they say.

But mostly, she’s the Mother of Stars. They are her children and she cares for them as such, keeping them bright when the sky turns dark.

She is the Mother of Stars. “And you,” she says, grinning, “are made of stardust.”

#prose #short story #writblr #stars #goddesses #this was posted on reedsy for a prompt! check them out :D #this was fun to write. i like making people ~angry~

[pitter-pattering-ink]

They call us “Angels”

1.

She has no name but is known by all in her village. She is the woman who weaves baskets faster than anyone else. She is the the one who knows exactly when to pick berries to get the perfect ripeness. She is the mother of a boy who refuses to paint with the other children because the texture of paint against his hands doesn’t feel right. She is the creator of the first paintbrush.

She is my first human, my first assignment as a protector. I guard her from all I can and hope I do well. When she grows ill I hold her hand while she begins to nod off. Her son is in the other room- she did not want him to see her like this. I will look after him too.

In her sleep, she smiles, lacing her fingers through my own. To have a body is still foreign to me, but I manage to squeeze back. She should not be able to feel this. I don’t let go.

-

Our task is simple. Protect the humans. Let them grow. Do whatever we can as to not stall their progress.

And goodness, do they make progress.

2.

He is the first to learn how the scraping of flint and steal can cause sparks to fly. I watch as he grows- he’s a curious one, this one. Many times I lead animals away from where he sits, always too distracted to notice. He has many names, for the grunts and murmurs  of vocal chords are still adjusting, and sound is something they are still trying to find the boundaries of. “Ma” seems to be his favorite. When he figures out how to turn sparks to fire I put myself between him and the flames to keep him from being burnt. They don’t leave marks in the same way they would him.

Everything is fast after that. Suddenly things can be cooked. Meat is much more edible than before. Suddenly water is safe to drink without the risk of disease. Suddenly warmth can be found in places other than the curves of another person. He hands it to everyone he knows and they take it with clumsy footing, no doubt leaving singed earth along their path. We will worry about it later; they learn quicker than anything we have seen in a long, long time.

-

They won’t stop growing. There are so many- we are in the millions but it is only a matter of time before they surpass even that. There are many other species that grow at similar paces. But none of them take so much time to mature. None of them have so much to learn- none of them have all that and more.

We were not built to worry. We do, however, wonder.

3.

They tell stories. Nothing has ever done this before.

Then again, I imagine nothing has ever been this lonely either.

I am assigned a boy named Jack. He is born on a ship, the moistness of wood replacing the soft of grass while the world moves beneath him. When night falls and the waves grow rocky everyone gathers in the middle of the deck, taking turns weaving tales under the stars. They discover religion. They discover us.

We have a name, now. Angels. We have never had a name before- nature never referred to us with anything close to that. It feels foreign against my tongue, yet it’s surprisingly fitting. We grow into our new labels.

Jack slips and nearly falls off deck, but I am there to keep him steady. His mother thanks me for my efforts. Calls it a blessing from the gods. I am no god, but I appreciate the sentiment. She tells him, “Be more careful next time. These waves will only grow more rough.”. She tells him, “The sea is no kind beast. She will balance us above the dangers below but she is not to be held responsible for anything- or anyone- who sinks further.”. She tells him, a bit teary up, “I may be the captain of this ship, but not even I could save you from waters like this.”

He learns how to stay standing when the wood beneath his feet refuses to still. We listen to stories together.

The children’s favorites are the ones told by his mother. She leans against a cane and speaks of adventures she has had, run ins with other pirates, loves she has cherished and betrayals she is still bitter from. Most of them, I’m sure, aren’t half true. Jack does not seem to mind.

Eventually she grows too old to run the ship. He takes her place, leaning against her- his- cane and telling tall tails of danger, run ins he has had with other men his age. Men who he had a fondness for and those expected better of. Most of them, I know, aren’t true in the slightest. The children do not seem to mind and the crew are not the type to ruin a good story.

He dies in his thirties after a particularly rough storm. As careful as he was, nature does not hold back or those who are weary. I keep the pressure off his lungs for as long as I can. I try to make every gulp of water taste sweet and calming. It takes everything in me to make his death peaceful.

But some people are simply not ready. He trashes till he can’t. Panic only clears when his vision darkens.

His body is never found. The crew mourn him like they mourned his mother. They keep the cane in their honor.

-

They won’t stop dying. They pass from the tiniest things, always so quick, always before we can do anything to help. Sometimes we can’t, even given the time. Sickness is everywhere now. People are dying in the streets. We can’t do anything to heal them. The best we can do is prolong the inevitable- that, however, is much too painful a death to seem like a blessing.

They call it the plague. They call it a punishment from god. Our names go from ‘angels’ to ‘demons’ very, very quickly.

We are only able to bless things that already exist. You cannot eat a cake when you have no ingredients. The doctors don’t know how to fix this- they are not yet advanced enough to deal with something this big. We can only sit and watch, horrified, as those we have been sworn to protect die by our feet. I am assigned more people than I can count. Their names become a blur. By the time it’s all over, humanity has changed. They have lost so many. We have lost so many.

For a while, each miracle leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

4.

The most stressful assignments, although also very amusing, are the ones who need to be protected from themselves.

His name has been passed down from generation to generation, yet he much prefers to go by Eric. I help him breathe through his corsets and let time pass faster when he’s forced into a face full of make-up. On the few occasions he steals pants from his brother’s room I make sure his footsteps are quiet, because such things are life or death in times like these.

His family is rich and he is tired. They throw parties of plenty, and I hold his tongue when he’s pressured into dancing with the other men there. He steps on their toes and I laugh. Eric is all too ready to rebel in ways that girls his age get disowned for. I let the small things through, smiling at his internal dialog, filled with sass and curses and things that would make his father turn purple. Nothing too big. Never what he really yearns for.

A boy lets go of his hand and gives a terse smile, excusing himself to the food table. We watch him limp away. Eric grins.

He dies young. With a tongue that sharp, it was to be expected. He is caught kissing a woman with undamaged shoes while they both are wearing pants. It was the only time I let him. Witches, they call them. I do my best to save them both, but it’s useless. Heels are not meant for running.

They are buried in unmarked graves. It’s the only blessing I can give.

-

They recover their numbers quickly. It seems no matter what, they always bounce back in a relatively short amount of time.  It’s amazing. It’s terrifying. We get assigned more than one person at a time.

5.

My first household is a family of three. It’s a mother, a daughter, and a child that’s somewhere in-between. Mostly I look over the children- their mother works from home and is much less prone to mistakes than them. And goodness, are they reckless. Their names are Rose and Julian. Rose is a night owl and I have to make sure on more than one occasion that she doesn’t spill mugs of hot coffee on herself. It’s a brutal task, especially when she refuses to sleep when she should. I urge her to drink colder drinks. She refuses.

She is stubbed toes and dropped papers, noise when it should be quiet. She is clumsy. A long, long time ago, this would have been a dangerous trait to have. But things have changed. This world was built by people like her. She will be okay.

Julian is young but they are not stupid. They know more about the ways of the body than any human I have watched over before, bookshelves filled to the brim with pages upon pages filled with the morbid details of what makes humans blood flesh and bone. They flap their hands when they’re frustrated and chew on whatever they can get their hands on. This world was not made for them. I hope it will be rebuilt by the time they’re old enough to live in it.

They are experiments gone wrong and the urge to learn more, even when it becomes less than safe. I bless their hands to stay uncut while experimenting on a dead frog, holding knives that are much too sharp for someone their age. I don’t stop their mom from waking up to scold them. I do make sure they get to keep the frog.

I grow more connected to these children than anyone else I have ever looked after. Jack would have liked them- he would have told them so many stories. I’m with them while they take their driver’s test, pressing their feet down with just enough pressure on the gas petal for smooth sailing. Rose refuses alcohol for the first time and I am there to make sure she doesn’t give into peer pressure. Julian studies for a medical degree, studies how to make this world better for people like them. They don’t need much help on their tests, but I’m still there to lead their pencil on particularly hard questions.

They move out but they stay connected. I watch them bring new people into their lives, watch as their create families of their own. Over the years they change, sometimes for better and sometimes for worse. But they are always kind. They are always Rose and Julian.

I’m not as foolish to say I forget how they died. However I don’t like to think about it, so that’s as close to forgetting as I’ll get.

They were good.

I was not built to miss people. Yet they still linger.

-

Our task was simple. Protect the humans. Let them grow. Do whatever we could do as to not stall their progress.

There were many we could not save, and even those that we did were still doomed to the same end. Fate has it’s limits- you can only bend it so much. We were already testing it’s patience by simply existing. And that was fine. Death is normal, death is natural.

But these humans- these humans are different. They create and they are kind to a fault and there is nothing else like that. We did not expect to learn from them. We did not expect for this to hurt.

We did not expect to care.

5.

There’s a woman who lives to be 94. She is one of the lucky few to make it so far. She has grandchildren of plenty and their parents are happy. We all call her Nana. I watched over them for generations, the longest I have for any family before. In her last moments she prays. She tells me I did a good job.

Her grandson dies at age seventeen because I am busy helping his brother clean up glass. I do not pray- such things are better left to those who have faith. But I do hope she forgives me.

13.

I try my best to keep them safe. But this family, this family is not meant to last. There is always something wrong, always something broken, always something that needs to be blessed. It wears me out in ways I have not experienced for centuries. I can’t- I can’t help them all.

In the end there is only one left. She cannot bear to be alone.

No miracle can help someone who does not want to be helped.

21.

The sweetest boy I’ve ever protected is in a family full of rotten people. He is the best thing in that house. I give blessing after blessing, miracle after miracle, and he lives to be happy. He finds a husband and a wife- I bless them too. When he dies it’s a shock even to me. The world seems to dim. I protect his spouses and everyone else he cared about. It’s the first time I come dangerously close to grieving. He would not have liked that.

56.

While the family sleeps, their cat nuzzles into the couch and gives me a slow blink. I always end up sitting with it for the next hour. I cannot touch it, but it seems to appreciate my presence anyway. I miracle it mice to catch.

73.

They are sisters- there is nobody left but them. How reckless they are, spray cans routinely clanging against the cement while they take off from the police. They laugh while they run, and it would be sweet if it weren’t so dangerous. They get caught, once, because I feel they need to know just how serious this is.

The cop lets them off with a warning but also makes the one with darker skin lay on the floor while the other stands.

I do not let them get caught again.

When they pass I make sure their graffiti stays up, soon surrounded by many similar pieces by people like themselves. My next assigned family passes it on the way to the subway and I have to pause for a moment. I come very close to smiling. It would have made them happy.

?

We love them,

?

We grieve them,

?

We miss them.

-

We are angels. We are guardians of humans, protectors of families. We are the small miracles, the big blessings, and we play a balancing act with death just for them. Because they are growing and they are evolving. Because they love in ways we did not know were possible and they love us in ways that can only be described as ‘human’.

They have taught us so much. They have taught us to feel.

There is nothing we would not do for them. Challenging fate is just one of our many favors.

We are angels, and they are human. They are learning and so are we. Because of them we know love. We would not trade them for the world.

-

Our task is simple. Protect the humans. Let them grow. Do whatever we can as to not tall their progress.

And my goodness, do they grow.

But to our shock, so do we.

-

#writing #angels #guardian angels #queer writing #lgbt writing #a mix of poetry and prose tbh #trans and gay characters #yeet #this was inspired by a post by what-even-is-thiss! check them out! #i really liked this concept #just #angels loving humans #:) #humans are weird #humans are... dare i say it.... cute

[pitter-pattering-ink]

Draft 16

Ever so often, there are these moments, where I cannot write out my thoughts. 

I'll think out poems and explanations and details but never be able to put them to paper, never be able to actually write them down. Instead they repeat in my mind 

over and over and over like a broken record. The doctor, the one who only exists in the midst of my writing, asks, "Why not write it all out? Maybe it'll make you feel better." But god, these demons have been shoved to the back of my closet for so long. It feels wrong, somehow, to polish them up for a poem I'll never reread. It'll make it more real, I think. Give enough time for the emotions to come back. Besides, I can't start without pausing every couple letters. I start crying much too easily. "Say them aloud, then," he says, always so helpful. "Tell someone." This, too, is not possible. I think of all the things I want to say and I find myself unable to leave out details. Details that haunt my memories and trace my every action. I imagine my mother asking me, "Did it hurt?" And I can't help but go on and on about the initial shock of it all, how it didn't feel real till my fingers were wet. The dad who cares, the one in my mind, asks, "Were you scared?" And I can't see myself leaving out the details of a will. The flashes of a video, the watching of the time, standing on wobbly knees and treading down stairs. I know things- things I wouldn't wish on anyone else. Grotesque things, traumatic things, things I'm sure would make others wince. So I rephrase and rewrite questions in my mind, letting myself play the part of both interviewer and interviewee, and the thoughts get a little less reckless. There are times where the numbness of my arm throbs, and I can't wear long sleeves without checking to see if I'm not bleeding every five seconds. Memories that feel distant but chaotic dance beneath my eyelids and seep into my vision as I grow distracted with what I'm doing. But I push on. This is my burden to bare- nobody else's. I'm holding a double-edged sword. Twirling the handle against my hands, trying to breath as it sticks out of my stomach. I pull, and there's a bit of relief, but I know that if I take it all the way out I will not be able to stop the gushing. It's only me here, and I don't think I'll be able to patch myself up again. So I smile, So I wince, So I watch as those around me grow used to the sword, and everything. is. fine. It has to be- bleeding out is not an experience I want to have. Not again. And it's so stupid, you see, because every so often someone'll bring it up. Casually. Playfully. Not at all in the ways my mind keeps replaying. It's the "You're scared of knives? You see the irony there, right?" The "Have you eaten today?" The "Hey, should I be scared of getting stitches?" Because everyone else has grown numb. They've grown used to this, used to me, used to the scars I think about all too often. It's a strange feeling, to have your mind still reel from things nobody else is shocked over. And when they are, it's your job to comfort them, till they grow as numb as the others. It's not their fault. Never has it been anyone's fault but mine. But it's strange. I wince from this sword and feel the blood begin it's weekly choking of my throat, but stare in surprise at those who laugh when I excuse myself to clean up. This is normal, and it's not. In my mind the doctor is quiet and I am crying, I am pleading, I am spilling. I try to shorten it and it comes out something like this; "I made a mistake when I was ten. We went to the hospital, I got stitches, and the next day everything was normal. But I haven't felt normal for a long time." It's kind of funny. Even that, I think, is too much. Because I've been staring at those words for the past minute, writing and rewriting them, trying to get it clean and polished for my screen. I don't think I'm doing a very good job. See, I just rewrote it. Just censored myself again. "Made a mistake"- Like I fell out of a tree, or broke a crown, or failed a test. Am I really being that vague? I guess so. I guess it is still in my best intentions to calm whoever I'm telling. To wait for it to numb. Strange, how habits shine through when you try to evade them. It is what it is. It's fine. I'll be fine. It's just a little hard to explain. A little hard to put into words. A little hard to see on a document. A little hard to balance repression and remembering. It'll be fine. I just need to get my words in a line.

Ever so often, there are these moments,

#tw trauma #tw self harm #tw gore #kinda #i dunno #it's not graphic but yeah #seriosuly tho please dont read if youre triggered by that sorta stuff #its all about that #everythings kind of #meshed #youll get it if you read lol #or not #im not sure #vent

[pitter-pattering-ink]

What it means to be human

lately i have been thinking hard and long about what it means to be human. to share a title with the people around me and be confidant in that. surely our form can not be the end of it- with something as complex as a human, as infinite as a mind, how can it end at something as simple as a body, a corpse, a solid? maybe to be human is just that- maybe it is to have a mind as remarkable as the thought of life itself and to think things that are as complex as the laws of the universe, yet to have our existence ceased because of something as inexplicable as death. to draw designs in the sand so intricate and unique and smile as the waves wash it away. maybe we are but leaves on a tree, colorful and changing, destined to be blown away by the wind.

they tell me to be human is to love, is to believe, is to question. and maybe that is. to be human is to have a creativity that goes beyond the laws of man and a sense of kindness that goes against the wits of woman. it is to have a heart as soft as berries and a soul as tough as wood. the juices of my soul run down my chin and leave a sticky trail that will quickly solidify into something red-hot and only meant to be described as determination. maybe i am human in my questioning, in my need for a definition i am sure to never be satisfied by. because what is more human than to see a puzzle and create your own pieces? to see a question and bubble in your own answer? we see the line and pull out an eraser- a wall is presented on a path we're told we cannot take but we come bearing hammers. it is something beautiful and something i am sure to have taken for granted much too often.

we build ourselves a home, a life, a future, and we cannot bare to live it alone. maybe that is what makes us human- the grasping and crippling urge to be with those of our kind, to have others like us share the ground we walk on and to have it called not 'mine' but 'ours'. we are social and we are desperate, with grabbing hands and the overwhelming need to cast an exploration on each other's bodies in ways that can only be described as intimate.

it's the little things, we say, and it truly is. it is the freckles on her nose and the way he makes his coffee and their heart as it beats in tandem with the breathing of the earth. we are the little things that grew into something that will never shrink. we were the ignorant that chose to walk the line of kindness and naivety. the children that grew but never forgot, the animals who evolved but never let go, the souls who yearned for more but brought some of it along on the journey. we see the innocence of those who have yet to walk along the path we choose and we say, "cherish that.". the hands of those who struggle to toddle reach for our own and we marvel at the difference, slowing our pace and helping them along. 

maybe that, truly, is what it means to be human. to have innocence wash away and watch as the tide brings in something new and explosive in it's potential. to handle something with care and to gently set it down, watching as it walks the tightrope of happiness and knowledge. to offer advice to those who will probably not listen, for some things are better learned than taught. we are human in our knowledge and we are human in our struggles.

i have found that to be human is a million different things and a thousand different moments. humanity is a label we have been assigned and we search for our own definitions. i watch the people around me and i wonder what conclusion they have come to- if they, like me, have put more thought into this than they should. we are flesh and we are thought and we are feeling. we are a million concepts and a thousand seeds and the world continues to bloom beneath our feet in colors that stain the back of our eyelids. this garden of definition is not a responsibility we take lightly, nurturing the buds beneath fingers that are calloused and delicate. if we are lucky, they will grow into something more infinite than the minds we currently hold. maybe that, too, is what it is to be human. to grow and plant seeds in the minds for the generations to come, the ones we will not be alive to follow. i am not sure, but maybe they will be. that is all that matters.

#poetry #my writing #what it means to be human #i liked the original so i rewrote it! #not sure how i feel about the end tho lmao #anyways im good with it

[pitter-pattering-ink]

Puddles of Galaxies and Rivers of Stars

Your bare feet patter against puddles of stars and splash among galaxies. The thought of looking down makes you feel nauseous, knowing all you will see is a sea of space and nothing solid. This is death. There is nothing, and there is everything. There is too little and too much. It is the before and the after. You are not sure if your twisting stomach is from anxiety or curiosity.

You've theorized about death before. Some people think there is a heaven and a hell. Others think there is nothing. You were probably somewhere in the middle. One thing you did not account for, however, is that it would be wet.

Beside you there is a woman you have never seen before. Her hair is choppy against her neck and she wears a jean jacket that looks much too big for her. Her skin is dark. When she turns to you her eyes are glowing a bright white and her smile is all teeth with little sincerity.

"Come," she says, "Walk with me."

You are none the wiser.

The pooling of a thousand different universes is cool against your legs. You ask, "Who are you?"

The woman hums a tune nobody knows. "I am Creation," she decides. "and I am the parent of life. I craft souls from my hands and balance stars between my fingers. I am the feeling after finishing a long project and the determination to do more. Artists draw my many forms and set them to be framed in museums of plenty. I am in the earth beneath your feet, the flowers in your hair, the sun that kisses your skin. I am the face of all those who walk my path of life and more."

You blink. Her hair is long now, and her skin is lighter than before. She's wearing a dress. It's ripped at the sleeves.

A pause that is anything but silent fills the space between you. Creation gives you a look and frowns. "It is only polite for me to ask who you are, is it not?"

The world is up to your knees now. If you put your hands by your sides, you're sure your fingertips would leave ripples in the infinite. "I'm not sure," you say, and you are honest. "I don't think I have been myself in a long time."

Creation is thoughtful for a moment. "I see." she says, finally. "Would you like to find out?"

Blink. His hair is shaved and he is tall. Camouflage somewhere it cannot blend into.

"What?"

He stops walking and turns to you. You cannot see anything lower than your own waist. Creation holds out his arm and gives you a smile most would consider charming. It seems empty, to you.

"Do you trust me?"

You do not. But your body of moving on it's own accord, and suddenly, you find yourself taking his outstretched hand. His grip is tighter than you would prefer. Somehow, his eyes shine brighter.

"Good choice," he mutters, and it sounds dangerously close to a joke. He takes a deep breath- was he always breathing?- and he pulls you down hard enough that you're sure your arm is dislocated, but it doesn't hurt, why doesn't it hurt, has anything hurt since you di-

you are underwater. his hand is gone. or is it? you aren't sure where the warmth is coming from anymore. you try to breathe and find yourself choking on galaxies that swirl in your mouth, a feeling so foreign that it makes your stomach flip-flop. you are surrounded by unfathomable realities, infinite timelines. and yet you feel so big among them.

And just as suddenly, you are breaking the surface.

Your chest shakes and you are desperately pushing hair from your face. Someone pats your back as you cough up things you cannot comprehend. You blink away the excess. A face stares back, looking almost sheepish.

"Sorry," they say, sounding almost sheepish with their hair half-shaved half-short, "It was rude to not give you a proper warning."

It is bright now, you realize. The empty space surrounding you is now a shining white, making it look more empty than before. Their eyes are as dark as the galaxies swirling in your stomach.

"Who are you?"

They grin in a way that reminds you of a child. "I am Destruction," they proclaim, bold, "I am the rage you feel as you tear apart the things you were once proud of. I am the fire as it burns through a forest. I am in the eyes of people who hold names we do not speak of, people who have done things we cannot comprehend, people who have and never will be an ounce of light illuminating their name. I am the dark and I am the gray and nothing less."

He is small, half your height. The world shifts so that he does not drown. Shouldering off a leather jacket that pools at his feet, he hands it to you and smiles. "And you," he continues, "are cold."

He's right. The clacking of your teeth is enough to make you wince. You take the jacket.

"Thank you."

"No need," he says, waving a hand. His eyebrows raise as he looks you up and down. After a moment, he holds out his hand, familiar and threatening. "Give my your name."

It's not a question.

They are your height now. Chubby with eyes that are more squinted than before. Your jacket does not change.

"What?" You ask, stumbling a few steps back. "Is this a trick of the fae?"

They laugh and smile in a way that is not meant to give you comfort. "Surely, my friend, you know better than to question those who crafted the worlds you lay upon." It's quiet for a moment in the loudest way possible. Hesitantly, you give them your name.

They hum a tune only you know. Their eyes are darker than before.

"Lay with me," they say. They are lean and slouched.

You are no fool.

You float with Destruction, hands intertwined and the rippling of the world pulling you in a thousand different directions. You aren't sure how long it has been before they start speaking.

"You're.... young," they start. It sounds like a lie. It feels like the truth. "You are young and you are determined. To do what, I'm not sure. Only you know- I suppose the creator can only know so much about what grows beneath their hands. You are a daughter, a son, a child. A brother, a sister, a sibling. Somewhere between the lines of all three. You are loved in the most quiet way and in the loudest screams. You  yourself love in a very similar way, I imagine.

"I see you in the hands of all those I have made. You are engraved in the palms of all those around you and the swirl of your fingertip is indented on the bodies of all those you touch. I find you under the dotted i's of an assignment written long ago, in the brush strokes an art project forgotten, between the lyrics of a song sung by those who want to taste your spirit. You are everywhere, and you are nowhere. You are memorized and you are forgotten. You are love and you are hate.

"You are everything," she finishes, braids floating around her head like the sun.

"And nothing?"

"No," she whispers, and it sounds like a promise. Her hand grips yours harder. "Never nothing. Not you."

Her jacket is comfortingly warm as you pick at the sleeve. She hums and sighs.

"I could not let you leave without knowing who you are." She says, and it sounds almost sad. "It would have been cruel of me."

You swallow. "Where will I go?" You ask, and though you have been warned against it you do not feel afraid. Not of Deconstruction. Not of Creation. "Will it hurt?"

"I don't know," she says, and you are no longer floating. You are standing hand in hand, seeming to be dangerously close to the end. "There may be nothing. There may be something so raw you cannot comprehend it. But now is not the time for questions- instead you will find the answer, for this is only the beginning."

"It feels like the end," you say, blinking back tears.

A face that was once yours blinks back. "I know," they say, and though it is strange, the light gray of their eyes is almost fitting. They hold out a hand, a mirror of yourself.

"Do you trust me?"

You do. But you are no fool.

You take a hand that is no longer yours. They smile at you, almost comforting,

and pull-

#my writing #afterlife #what happens when we die #idk dude but this was fun to write lmao #prose #writeblr

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so beautiful omg

#answers #:D

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im speechless

#answers #<3

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The Immediate Danger of Not Knowing What Danger Is

The doctor asks, 

"Are you an immediate danger to yourself?"

And see, that's a tough one, though I don't suppose it seems like one to others. Because I have been living with this internal sickness, this pain in my chest that has been watercolor-bleeding out into my heart, for so, so long, and I'm not sure what is seen as dangerous and not anymore. 

The first and only time I was caught, when my skeletons fell from my closet, they only fell because I needed a ride to the hospital. And when we got home it was so terribly quiet that I was so sure that the rattling of my bones would no longer be mistaken for the air-conditioner's murmurs, or the sobs behind my closed first would click as not being the whistles in the wind- so sure that that I felt the urge to fall into myself with the relief of a thousand pounds of dirt being lifted from my grave. But my mother simply looked at my closet, saw the spillage, and helped me stack them back in. Nice and neat, like her mother used to teach her. I was not seen as a danger to myself then- let alone an immediate one. So how can I stand here before this doctor, tapping lyrics to songs that stay in my head into the wood of this chair, and tell him that I am somehow more dangerous to myself than I was back then, not yet a teenager and experiencing for the first time what it looks like to see skin peel back and reveal the fat underneath? How do I stand before this doctor, the man who I am paying to ask me questions I have been asked a hundred times before by different faces and different voices, and tell him, 

"Yes. I am in danger, I am dying, and I'm not sure the promise of tomorrow is satisfying my curious urge to die. Please, help me."

Because I have been there. I've lived through nights where my chest felt like a black hole, sucking all the hopes and dreams I had been taught to have by people who were too uncomfortable to see me without, and I've lived through days where my heart felt less like a heart and more like a water balloon about to burst, about to drench my soul and all who dared come close enough, and every time, I had thought, 

"This is it. I can't go on anymore."

Except I did. Again and again and again, I did. I got through the nights that felt impossible and landed myself here, sitting in the office of a man who promises to help, and trying to distinguish what the meaning of danger is. Am I in danger? Maybe. Maybe not. It's a tricky one, you see, because when you become used to the swirling smoke of lightning and rain that your brain is pelting, you can no longer tell when the storm is bad. It all becomes muddy. The black mixes with the white and becomes shade after shade of gray that I can not distinguish, a meshed rainbow of emotions that I have stared at for so long I've become colorblind. I do not remember what it means to be alright. The opposite is much the same. So I ask the doctor, 

"What does that mean?" 

because a question is often times easier than an answer. The doctor tilts his head.

"Well, do you want to die?"

What does it mean to want? My mental health is a scale of one to ten, as my friend once said, and I seem to be permanently stuck on seven. But seven feels so high, and I have felt this way for so long, so I tell myself I'm more of a three. A voice in the back of my head whispers, 

"It's foolish to climb up a latter when you ignore where it ends."

I block it out. I've never feared death. In fact, I've craved it since I was young. So when does craving become want? When does an apathy for dying become the want to die? I had a dream, once, that I smoked a cigarette, something I have been warned against by nearly everyone in my family. The burning in the back of my throat, the fire flickering in my stomach, were all so clear and so tempting that when I woke up I had a craving to smoke. I have never acted on it. Can you be addicted to something you have never tried, but crave? Am I an addict? Suicidal ideation. The fluctuating passive want to die. Like not being hungry, but eating anyways. My relationship with suicide is a shrug and a nod at the same time. When you know enough victims, you become numb to the thought of becoming one. Tempted, even. It's not a hard pit to fall in. My grandma makes me promise never to do what I have done behind locked doors again. As if I have not lied before, as if a broken promise is against my morals to the point of refusal, as if I can control my own emotions. It's not her asking me not to do it again. Not really. It's her wanting to be comforted. It's her not wanting to worry. It's her wanting to live her life in peace. I wanted to be comforted once. I don't think it's my place to ask anymore. So I promised. And we never talked about it again. If I am to deny myself from feeling what I feel like my grandmother asks, then how does this doctor, the one who is humming to the beat of the ticking clock, expect me to know when I am in danger? I want to tell the doctor, 

"I don't know. But the other night I was cutting meat for dinner, and the butchers knife glinted against the light in a way that made me pause. For a good five minutes, I stood there, looking from the knife to my arm, the one that is still numb to the touch, and thinking. Thinking about things I can't repeat and things I don't have the words for. Thinking about promises I've made and how far away the nearest hospital is. I ended up throwing out the meat and making mac and cheese instead, and I've worn long sleeves ever sense. The knife is at the bottom of a drawer I never use. What does that mean? What does this say about me? Is this what danger feels like? Is danger in my drawer? A man who jumped from the golden gate bridge said he regretted it as soon as he jumped. Was I about to loose my footing? Doctor, I ask, where were my alarm bells? The red flags, the fire, the flashing of my life before my eyes? The adrenaline, the sweat, the fear? Where were they, doctor? Do I need to repair my defenses? Did I have any to begin with?"

But this is only the first session. And there are ten minutes left on the clock. If that, if this, is danger, then I don't think it would be wise to bring it up now. Not so soon. So I shrug, and I joke,

And I say, "I'm in school- I think we all want to die, sometimes."

The doctor blinks. He does not say anything for a long while, and my tapping has quickened to match the beating of my heart, But slowly, the doctor nods, and cracks a smile I'm sure he has given out to a million before me. Cold and comforting, like my hands against a cup of milk. It isn't pleasant. So the doctor sends me away, and when I get into my car, my hands hover above the steering wheel. I'm suddenly acutely aware that I am shaking. How long have they been doing that? Is this my fire alarm? I force my hands down on the hard leather and they sweat beneath my palms. Cold. Clammy. My eyes are burning. Is this a warning? I look at the street and think. My house is five minutes away. Traffic hour is over. Why am I so anxious? Something in the back of my mind whispers through a choked-up throat,

"If a car comes our way, we aren't going to move."

I bite my lip. Is this my red flag? Maybe. But home is so close. And I am so tired, so the red looks more like brown. More like gray. More like a checkered flag at the start of a race. I have driven this car a million times, and gotten through a dozen times more days like these. This has happened before. And I've been fine. So why would I not be this time? Is there a danger in not knowing what danger is? In not knowing what immediate implies? Are these my signs of danger? I don't know.

I start the car.

#tw self harm #tw questionable mental health #tw neglect #depression #addiction #my writing #my poetry #? #poetic #ig???? #vent #self harm #mental health

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Moulding The Clay of My Future

I built a future with a friend and a whole lot of laughter.  

I handed her the clay of my life and she shaped it beneath her hands into something close to our idea of perfect.  

“Here’s the plan,” she said, tracing her fingertips along the grooves of her creation.  

“We get into high-school and pass with relatively good grades. We run to Michigan and leave everything behind so we can smoke it up and get high in a nice little apartment we’ll share. You study to become a teacher and I’ll have babies for people who can’t have babies themselves. Your siblings can come visit and I’ll fight over the phone with my parents. Cookies and cream ice cream will be essential to our fridge.”

“Even though it’ll make you shit for days?”

“It’ll be perfect.” She set our creation on the cooling rack and looked at me for input. I shrugged and smiled.  

“Can we get a cat?”

All she did was grin and add her final touches. “It’s a plan, then.”

“It’s a plan.”

And it was. But plans change. And over the years I came to the conclusion that keeping a plan,

a hope,

a promise,

a future,

with a dead girl was not the best for my mental health.  

So I bought some new clay,  

put our once-perfect plan in the corner,  

and came up with something new.  

I built a future with a girl and a tension that broke at least once a week and got easier to deal with the longer we continued our cycle. She took the clay into her hands and almost hesitantly massaged it in her palms.

“Here’s our plan,” she said, smooth.  

“You become a teacher. I become a therapist. We live past twenty-five and you get more friends. You get happy and leave all of whatever is left behind. We’re okay. We’ll be alright and maybe we’ll hang out at the same collage. I’ll get honor roles and you’ll probably fail again to be honest.”

We were quiet for a moment.  

And I thought of her toxic words, her hurtful names she called me in the dark. I thought of every time she told me I was going to hell and all the times she played the victim so I could not mourn. I thought of how loving she could be, and just how fun she was when the tension softened.  

For a quiet moment, I wondered if I even wanted this.  

Stop, something screamed. Not again.

So instead I gave her a weary smile and nodded. “It’s a plan, then?”

And she shrugged. “It’s a plan.”

But plans change.  

And toxic friends turn to poison much too quickly behind closed doors.  

So I sit here,

alone in my clay-room,  

and I look around at all my creations.  

Futures that fell through and pots that have long since been smashed, clay that refuses to dry no matter how long I wait, hopes and dreams that will never reach reality.  

I look at the still-wrapped clay that sits in front of me.  

Gray and unused.  

I don’t even know where to start. I built a future with a dead girl and a girl who’s words leaked poison. I have built futures around others so much that I’m not sure of what exactly I want to make on my own.  

My fingers flex beneath my crossed arms and I am reminded, painfully, of just how much the texture of clay and dust makes me spiral into a meltdown.

If I touch this clay, I think to myself, I will not be able to finish before I scream.  

The clock ticks.  

Time passes.  

Something gritty rises in my throat and my heart beats faster. Determination curles in my stomach as I stand.  

I give the clay one last look-over. It stares back threateningly.  

It’s time to find some gloves.

#writing #poetry #? #metaphors #prose #???? #toxic friends #tw death #sensory issues #my writing

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Home

My mom told me, a long time ago,  

that home is where you feel most loved.  

If that is true, then my home was in her lap while she ran her hand through freshly-cut hair and we watched movies just to make fun of them.  

Home was laying in my mom’s bed and laughing at stupid people making videos online and eating fast-food.

In the back of a bus after a writing competition and a panic attack, home was in our seat and tattooed between eat of her fingers, slotted oh so carefully into mine. Her words of love were our doormat and the earbud she shared with me was our foundation.  

Last night the power went out, and my sister held my hand while I took her downstairs to see our brother. We all held onto each other while I stumbled into the kitchen to grab a flashlight and call our parents, both still at work. We raided the desert cabinet and told silly stories to lighten the mood. The neighbors sat outside to fell less alone and we watched them through the window. Home was on the middle-section of our couch, wedged between two sleeping siblings and smiling at a frantic step-father who was only just able to get home two hours later.  

I am reminded of home when I have worn a hat for too long and ruffle my own hair to even it out again. It’s between frames of animated movies and in each bite of Dairy Queen’s grilled cheese. Home whispers sweet nothings into my ear every time I share an earbud and wraps it’s arms around me whenever I take my seat on the bus. It ghosts around my room when I find the courage to turn the lights off before bed and it hugs me when I wedge myself into the corner of a couch.  

Home is a never-leaving thought in the back of my mind the presses against my skull when I am feeling lonely. It’s a thousand moments that are strung together in a line of clumsily-taken photographs. Home is in the fingertips of a thousand people I know and a million that I don’t.  

Home is a million memories that hold my hand when it all becomes too much.

I will never forget.

#home #hope #my writing #third person #writing

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Unsent (love) Letters To an Old Best Friend

To my old best friend, I hope you are well.

I remember when we were young and bold in our passion,

running through fields of freedom and picking flowers of love to trade with each other over the fire.

I remember looking into your eyes and seeing us as pirates,

as the princess and her frog,

as the president and vice,

as partners in crime.

It never mattered where our roads would lead us on our journey through life.

As long as we were together, the world would tremble beneath our feet and beat in tandem with our breathing.

Old best friend,

I think of us and what we once were and I have the bravery to take on the world.

Memories surface of what we were and what we could have been and I can’t help but feel as though there is something more waiting for me. For us.

But my confidence is worn, my love.

It is faded and dusty and I am acutely aware of just how old I am without you.

How we had not been too young, not really, but my youth came back to me every time you laughed and promised me a life beyond a town that was not prepared to nurture our bountiful spirits.

And how when you left, my age seeped back into my life and tinted everything gray.

To the one who I once shared half a heart necklace with,

I look you in the eyes and I do not see adventure. Not anymore.

I see a galaxy of memories and moments stuck in time.

A universe filled with pain and laughter and love.

I see a past that I will never be able to forget,

And a future I have no chances of grasping.

I see what once was and what will never be,

A cut-knot in a spool of yarn I had been working on untangling.

For the person I am sure to have spent a future with in a different life,

I hope that you have someone who can see what I once did in your eyes,

And I hope that whatever you see in mine,

it is enough for you to wish the same.

In spite of what the one who I used to share an earbud with on slow lunch periods may think,

I am sorry.

I am sorry for how I treated you in moments of cowardice and I am sorry for the words that would have been better said than not.

I am sorry for the small and the big,

the hurtful and the annoying,

the chapters in our book that were awkward to write and even more so to reread.

I am not and never will be sorry for how our story ended,

But I am sorry for the ugly in between our pages of beauty that would have been better left in the rough drafts.

I know you cannot say the same.

But I am sorry.

To be read by the one who I once proposed to with a cherry-flavored ring pop,

I find myself being so incredibly bored without you.

You were a wildfire,

toxic and deconstruction towards everything in your path.

And now I will have to settle for a garden.

It is not a bad trade. Far from it, really.

But sometimes I’ll look down at the lighter in my hand and have the sudden urge to set everything aflame just to be able to feel some sort of high like I once did with you.

I now take my hits in fits of laughter and talks of dreams.

It’s different for sure. But I’ll manage. I hope that you have a garden of your own and that the ground on which you stand on flourishes with every step you take.

I am learning to see the beauty in the petal of a rose instead of the deconstruction of flames, an I hope you can do the same.

Addressed to the person who held my hand like I was the only thing keeping you from floating away,

I see you in the smallest things now.

My sister and I were shuffling through our playlist and a song came on from the soundtrack of a movie that you were absolutely obsessed with,

the movie that started many a conversation between us,

and I had to ask her to turn it off before my emotions twisted more tangled in my chest.

When I slip on my shoes I think of the hours I spent over my kitchen sink,

scrubbing away ink that you had written on the edges,

quotes that used to make me smile and now make me feel things I can’t describe.

I see your reflection in the acrylic of my keychain,

I hear your voice in the music of the games I play,

and I feel your touch against the fur of my stuffed animals.

You will stay with me till the end of time,

in mind and in heart,

and I can’t find it in me to object.

I wonder where you find me.

In truth, old friend who once held my world in your hands,

You were not as great as I am making you out to be.

You said things that I have declared myself unable to repeat,

told me lies and left wounds in my back that I have had to hide with blood-stained bandages that you would not apply,

and all in all, you were not the angel that I like to write you as.

Sometimes I cannot sleep, left thinking of the things you have called me,

and I am still picking out the strings of manipulation from my clothing that you left behind.

From what I have found on the sweaters of back-handed truths you gave me,

I have a feeling I’ll have to begin sewing my own clothes.

But this is not about you.

This is about me.

And maybe, if I hold off the bad that you brought,

if I choose to ignore the seeds of hate you planted in the garden of my future,

then my healing will be easier.

You were not fair, old best friend.

But I’ve found little that is,

so it would be simply hypocritical to call you out on it.

So to the one who left me with a hundred things that are shoved to the back of my closet for when I have healed,

I wish you the best.

I hope the person who takes the place I once filled makes you happy.

I hope they make you smile with your teeth,

I hope they say things that make you ponder in the middle of the night, smiling,

and I hope that overall, they make you happy.

Do not worry about me, old best friend.

For I will be sitting here in my corner gluing pieces of my life that you shattered back together,

and hopefully, it will be made into something more beautiful than before,

even if you are missing.

I know you have made it clear that you do not care,

but if you do,

I hope this eases your anxiety.

Because above all else,

I choose to find peace within myself.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to forgive you for all you have done and all the ‘sorries’ you left unwritten. I’m more so against the thought of forgetting.

But I forgive myself. And maybe that’s all I need right now.

I hope you can too.

#old friendships #broken hearts #moving on #healing #poetry #my writing

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You took my uquiz. Probably you've taken a lot of uquizzes. This was the nightmare one, maybe you remember it. And you left an Essay that read like poetry in the free text answer, and maybe you do that a lot too I don't know but it was Powerful and it meant a lot. I read all of them, I always have, and yours was the one that I needed to hear. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. ~ @disasterdrow

Anytime my dude :D , I wish you the best. Feel free to drop in anytime

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Dissociating at three in the morning while music that makes you emotional blared through only one of your earbuds. Watercolor street lights reflecting against city roads. Jumping through puddles of leftover car oil just to see the rainbows splash. The urge to smoke just to feel the burning in your lungs. The dark shifting in ways that should scare you but you just keep watching. The feeling of hair being cut between scissor blades, falling by your feet. These are the vibes I grant you good sir

Bro that's so Fucking accurate...I feel like I just took a uquiz

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