pls tell us about your wizard ocs
Huh, ocs? I dont know what you're talking about 😇 /j
Ok but really, it's sort of embarrassing to me 😔 uh..
Only the one is a wizard
Their first name is Mulberry, and they hate their last name. I think they'd call themselves some stupid edgy nickname they think sounds awesome but I can't think of one that fits. Maybe Darkhorse. Can you fucking imagine? Jesus christ, Mulberry.
Anyway they're short, insecure, emotionally constipated, touch starved, stubborn, can't do math, they're working on being powerful enough to kill god, and all they fucking want is a cowboy hat and some cool facial hair. (they wanna be a cowboy, baby) They read a lot of books and if they mispronounce a word it's totally on purpose guys, dont worry! They're a picky eater and they like eating the blandest food imaginable (they're one of those "I hate sauces" mfers). Coffee is too much for them but they like earl grey tea with no milk or sugar in the morning. They hardly sleep >:(
Imagine a manlet in a dark maroon (they insist on calling it maroon) cloak and dark, understated clothes sitting alone and eating a small plate of unseasoned fries with a glass of lukewarm water. This is Mulberry, and they're probably thinking of different+more creative ways of hurting people.
One time they tried to impress their crush by smoking weed with him but they coughed so hard they threw up and then started crying out of embarrassment but dont tell them I told you that 😔
There I wrote more than I was going to 🤭 igxiyxoyxo aaaaaaa
Also thank you for asking it means a lot to me aaaaa ok bye
[there’s a loneliness in me, something too intangible to name.]
something freshly hollowed out, a snowhill
scooped clean by the 9 year old on the corner, she
is building a snow fort for her and her husky,
perfectly blue-eyed and calm, like the
sky, or an older sister’s older cat.
something tenderly empty; a box of chocolates achingly
devoured in the blankets of 3am and savoured, wishing it was
lips on lips and canines on a tendon. red tossed
across the room like an afterthought. a decision already made.
he’s shivering something small, looking up at you with
pupils dilated, a wounded animal, a felled tree.
can’t you see the storm, can’t you smell the rain? 14 miles
out from sea, from home, from an embrace by
arms that slot perfectly around the
lock and chain and arteries looping around his heart.
hot rain, smog, the marine layer. it’s all something the same.
[it’s not, he cries out. it’s not. one is home. one is you. one is
midnight and early mornings and counting the
constellations on your cheeks.
one is the bathroom alone, one is the bird in the street, one
is the water he spilled when he met her. in-
comparable, inconsolable, inexplicable.
poisoned and raw. the redwoods are singing again.]
[because sometimes it’s the weather and
sometimes it’s hitting your head in the shower.
sometimes it’s a hotel room and sometimes it’s the car and sometimes it’s
both, 5 months ago, in the wind. sometimes
i write. sometimes i cry. sometimes i bake some fucking thing and
pretend it’s childbirth, or healing, or
forgetting your name in my mouth.]
i wake up and i pull my teeth out one by one and i
give them to the girl in the snow and she
puts them in a chocolate box and she
gives them to the crying boy, before
they sail out, in the great green sea.
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