#so uh. prose.

[im-an-anthusiast]

The Taste of Blood

The metallic taste of blood lingered in her mouth, even as she spat it out. Her lungs were on fire, and her legs were numb. Houses, painted orange by the streetlamps, blurred past her. Breathy and gasping pants tore from her lips, and tears spilt from her eyes. She couldn't hear anything but her own deafening heartbeat and the sound of booted feet hitting the cobblestone pavement – hers. But also someone else's. How the Hell did this happen?

The cold wind bit at Vic's face - its freezing, sharp teeth pierced her skin, and its tight, frigid grip enveloped her entire body. She warmed herself up, drawing the little heat in the air towards her as Magic surged in her veins – and immediately, she felt a hungry gaze impale her. She sped up into a brisk walk, and before long, she found herself abandoning the groceries she had been carrying and started running down the dark, cobbled streets – the familiarity of them, once comfortable, now only made her heart hammer against her chest harder. Vic nervously chewed her lip – not realising she drew blood – knowing she had a long way to go.

She was suddenly wrenched back into the moment by the sudden adrenaline of feeling a hot breath on her neck. She spun around immediately, using the momentum of her whole body to lean into a swing. The hit connected, though not as she expected. The figure had caught her by the wrist – perhaps unaware of the Magic flowing into her arm, causing steam to erupt from the figure's grasp. With a hiss, the smell of burnt flesh filled the air.

Unphased, the figure launched forward, trying to grab her with its non-burnt hand. She ducked, twisting her arm out of the figure’s grip before channelling Magic again. Vic outstretched her arm, even as she quickly backed up. Streetlamps flickered, as did the lights in the few houses with them still on. Electricity arced down her arm, forming intricate webs between her fingers. Then she clenched her fist – causing lines of lightning to shoot into the figure from everywhere around it, be it streetlamps, powerlines, or otherwise. The figure – a pincushion full of lightning bolts – spasmed and sank to its knees.

Vic turned around and started sprinting as fast as she could. She didn’t look back – not even when she once again heard footsteps behind her. As the buildings passing by stretched higher towards the sky and the streets narrowed, she whipped into an alley – delighting in the whoosh of wind as her pursuer barrelled past the sharp turn. Knowing she didn’t buy herself much time, she stopped to catch her breath for but a second before breaking into a dead sprint down the dark, all-too-narrow-alley – straight towards the dead end. She channelled Magic as she ran, gathering air below her feet before leaping. With a downward flourish of her arms and a flick of her wrists, she expelled the channelled Magic – causing a surge of air to propel and carry her further upward. Her outstretched arms – reaching for the edge of the roof – found no purchase as she had felt a tight grasp settle over her ankle, dragging her down forcefully. Vic slammed against the damp stone with her chest, all the air in her lungs dissipating. Her heart sank. And teeth sank into her.

The metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth, even as he greedily gulped it down. Albion's fingers sank into the flesh of the Magus – relishing as it buzzed with remnant Magic. She wasn’t all that powerful and didn’t seem to have a Signature – she tasted bland. Alas, it will have to do. As the woman’s Magic coursed through him, Albion felt the burnt flesh of his hand start to heal, and he smiled to himself. His toothy grin was not at all ruined by the blood dripping down his teeth.

#so uh. prose. #This is sort of what I may or may not want to start a book with #that I am planning to (hopefully) (relatively un-soon) write #hope you like it :3 #either way OC reveal??? Albion??? #my flesh eating son #writing #prose #aspiring writer #a book someday perhaps #my oc character #wait oc character? original character character? #eh anyway #signed; fa

[gale-force-storm]

He refuses to fall for the first person to show him kindness. He may be feeling sorry for himself, but that's a bridge too far.

Even if they are beautiful. And kind to everyone, not just him. And brave. And clever. And strong. And they love animals, and reading. And they have a wry sense of humour that he adores.

He won't. He can't. Besides all else, this is decidedly not the time. A bomb in his chest and a worm in his head and a weight on his shoulders and a shame in his stomach and a shattered heart he's still trying to gather the pieces of. Desperately clinging to the cloak of his past, wrapping himself in his former confidence, pretending it hasn't been worn threadbare with time in isolation and eaten ragged by the moths of doubt and fear and past mistakes.

He fell from grace so far so fast, but he cannot beg affection off the first hand to offer him help up, even if it is the first time he's touched another person in months. Even if that hand did send a sudden warmth through him and feel so right in his own he could almost cry from it.

...This is getting out of hand.

He can just be friendly with them, surely. How does one make friends, again? Shared interests? He mostly just has the one, so he'll share what he can. They pick it up quickly, and the warm magic that surrounds them is a balm on his soul. Right up until they imagine kissing him, and his heart skips a beat. It can't be. It can't be. They can't want him back. It's not possible. And how, after it all, after everything, is he meant to resist the overwhelming temptation of being wanted?

They don't let up, either. Lingering glances. Warm smiles. All but propositioning him at the tiefling party. If there is a single positive thing to be said about his year of orb-imposed abstinence, it's that the willpower he had to build up and the practice denying himself were the only things that enabled him to decline their advances.

Well, that and the risk of blowing up the both of them, along with everyone else in or near the camp.

The warm smiles and lingering gazes and casual touches still continue, though.

This is fine. He's fine. He can't remember the last time he felt like this, someone cared for him like this, and he can't do a damn thing about it, but he's fine. Everything is fine. As fine as it can be, anyways, given everything else about the situation.

He supposes he should probably be more upset about Mystra's orders. At this point, though, it's hard to feel like it's anything besides a way out. A relief that he can be good for something. One more miserable experience, and then he's done with it, and all their problems are solved. There are worse things.

Except.

They're so angry about it. Everyone is, but them especially. Arguing with both him and Elminster the entire time, insisting there's another option. That they'll find or make one. Whatever they have to do to keep him around.

Gods help him, but he does want to stay with them. Stay for them.

He sleeps that night, and awakens with a jolt, a groan, and a realization. He's glad that prestidigitation exists to clean himself up without leaving his tent and risking the others' notice. His body had, apparently, caught up with certain implications before his brain. Though from what snippets of his dream he remembers, maybe it was only his waking mind that had been lagging behind.

He wants them, and he can finally have them. Can give them as much of himself as he's able, in the time he has left.

He had refused, at first, the idea of falling for the first person to show him kindness. And he hasn't. He's fallen for someone who is so much more that that. And he will not, cannot, die without letting them know. If he has to leave them, and he fears he will, then he will not leave them feeling unappreciated, or uncherished, or unloved. Not when he can finally embrace the full depth and breadth of what he feels for them. Has felt for them for what can't have been more than a tenday or two, but feels like a lifetime and a moment all at once.

He will not leave without showing them the full scope of his admiration and appreciation and sheer joy at their presence. The full scope of how impossibly deeply he already loves them. Not while he has any say in it.

#bg3 #bg3 fanfic #gale dekarios #gale x tav #gale of waterdeep #my writing #is this prose or poetry? idk! is it long and rambling? absolutely. #did i write it in a weird fervor at 1 am last night? you bet i did! #i'm trying to get in the practice of actually sharing the stuff i make again so uh. here it is! #angst #pining #i can't seem to stop writing angst about this man

[elekinetic]

if you're interested, i just posted my first (prose) fic called please say im young enough on ao3.

Will is gay. Robin knows. Or, Robin and Will go on a supply run. Set in post-season 4 apocalyptic Hawkins. (2.1k, coming out, pre-byler & rovickie.) if you'd like to read it here, the pages are attached below the cut <3

#byler #will byers #mike wheeler #robin buckley #rovickie #stobin #uh #what else #um #byler fic #ok ik its barely a byler fic but its will's mental health which is about byler so. ok moving on #stranger things #st (e.v.) #ella's writing prose #my desire for u to go read/comment on ao3 vs my desire for u to read it in this font: fight!

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

I’m sorry I just gotta say after your most recent post, I find that your head canons and personal stories for ocs and whatnot are top notch. Especially due to your wording. Love your stuff man your creativity always makes me smile /gen (I really do get a smile when you post, my friends always ask me why giggle and flap my hands when I visit tumblr!)

[P:S] your way of writing reminds me of Clown’s social media posts. If I were to find a couple words to describe it I’d go with “Whimsy”, and “daffy”!

AUGH!!!!

#Thank You! that means a lot! #very glad to hear that i can inspire that kind of joy <3 #and that i can Entertain! #rambles from the bog #Whimsy and Daffy im- #ill take it! #i do indeed lack sense! #but yeah ive heard that similarity thing a couple times... #i think its the occasional Punctuation perhaps! #but yeah no in all honesty i dont get much... actual interaction with people #so my vocab inventory is. uh. Skewed. a little Strange i sometimes fear! #and i forget a lot of words that i Know so then i have to come up with a suitable replacement on the fly lmao #the only dialogue i reliably recieve on a daily basis is reading and watching tv! lots of it is Not Modern! #or the prose is just purple enough to make my brain go 'ahhh i see we gotta go floral w it' yk yk #which concerns me seeing as i may be Socializing soon... ive forgotten how to talk like a normal person <3 #ANYWAY IM RAMBLING THANK YOU AGAIN!!!! i will be coming back to reread this ask!

[whumpcloud]

Delicate - Bad Pet

this applies to all pieces but i'll say it for this one in particular since it's heavy + plot important - if you can't read this for whatever reason but still want to know what happens, shoot me an ask/dm and i'll summarise it

content: attempted noncon (nothing actually happens but the intent is there), major character death, murder by stabbing, (institutionalised) pet whump, creepy/intimate whumper, dehumanisation, self-blame/degradation, self-inflicted drugging, referenced intoxication (alcohol and drugs)

Darling knows he's a bad Pet. He's the worst Pet in the world. He's a broken, stupid, worthless Pet but he's scared.

He's hidden the knife in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Master never uses it - he keeps all his medications in the top drawer, so only Darling goes in there anyway. It's an old knife that was buried in the back of the cutlery drawer, so Master hasn't noticed that it's missing.

Darling shouldn't need to do this. He doesn't need to do this! He's supposed to be good, that's the only thing that's expected of him, being good and perfect and obedient. But he can't be obedient about this. He knows he can't.

But Master is so, so insistent. This is his only option to stay safe. He won't hurt Master. It's just a threat, it's just a message because Darling can't bring himself to voice how much he hates it.

Master is being sweet about it. He's finally sat Darling on the bed, said that today's going to be the day, while he's awake and sound of mind instead of every other time he tried this, when he was drunk or high on new medication or half-asleep. Darling isn't sure if he'd prefer just being held down and used, but he knows he really doesn't like this.

"Shh, Darling," Master murmurs, gently pressing Darling back into the mattress. "It's all okay, love. I just want you to relax."

"M-Master, please," Darling begs, trying to twist away. "You didn't train me for this…"

"I know, I know," Master says, and Darling wishes that he wasn't trying to be reassuring, that he'd just be violent in the way that Darling knows he can be and take what Darling knows he wants. "I'm going to, I'll take you back and I'll get you all trained, but I want to do this properly now, love, I want this to be special the first time 'round. Just us, just us at home."

"No!" Darling cries, before he can think about it.

"You don't use that word, love, not like that," Master says, and somehow his voice becomes more terrifying, even though it's softer. "Don't make me remind you."

"I-I'm sorry, Master, I- I just want this to stop-- to end, to end!" That's two words now that Darling has used that he isn't allowed to. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"

"Shh, shh." Master gently presses a kiss to Darling's forehead, and it's somehow the worst thing he's ever done. "You're not used to this, it's okay. I won't punish you for it this time. I want this to be nice, okay?"

It isn't nice, it will never be nice. There's a horrible feeling curling in Darling's gut.

"Please, Master," Darling says, disguising the panic in his voice. Fine! He'll change strategies. "C-Can you drug me? Please?"

"There's no need for that, love," Master says. "I want you awake. You'll enjoy this, I know you will. All you have to do is relax."

"P-Please," Darling whines. "I- I'm scared. I'm scared I won't be good, a-and I want to be good, Master, I want you to be happy…"

Master sighs, but brushes Darling's hair out of his face and nods. "Alright. Just wait here."

Darling bolts upright and gasps as soon as Master leaves the room. He's seen Intimates, when he was in training, the way they're made to be so desperate they'd do anything and all he can think is I don't want to want this.

The knife is so solid in his hands, unlike the world around him, and he grasps it desperately as Master opens the door.

Master stares at him. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Don't touch me," Darling whimpers.

Master takes a deep breath, and laughs softly. "Darling… come on."

"I- I mean it!" Darling thrusts the knife forward, as if to emphasise the threat. "Don't touch me!"

"Darling," Master says, so softly that Darling's hands shake. "Put the knife down, love."

Darling shakes his head, and he swallows back tears. It feels like there's ice coating his skin.

Master's face twists for a moment, but then it lands on a gentle half-smile. "Sweet thing…"

Master steps forward, and Darling steps back, hitting the bed with the back of his knees and falling so that he ends up sitting on the mattress.

"What did you think was going to happen, huh?" Master asks, and he's getting closer but Darling has no method of backing away. "Come on. Put the knife down, love, and we can talk about this."

"I don't want to talk!" Darling shouts, but his elbows curl inwards. "I don't want this, please!"

"And you think that matters… why, exactly?" Master has that cruel edge to his smile now, even though his voice hasn't sharpened a bit. "You're just a Pet, love. You're my Pet. I think you're forgetting that."

"I'm not, I'm not forgetting, please." Darling's resolve almost crumbles, but he keeps his hands on the knife. "You didn't train me for this, M-Master, please, I don't want this because you never made me want this!"

"I said I would train you, love," Master says, and he's close enough now to wrap his hand around Darling's wrist. "But that doesn't matter, does it? You want what I want, regardless of what it is, because you're a good boy. Aren't you?"

Darling's lip trembles. He wants to be good, he wants to be good so badly. Why is he threatening his Master like this? He softens a little as Master's other hand reaches into his hair.

"Drop the knife," Master says gently, and leans in close, breath on Darling's cheek. "Drop the knife, and then you can take the little pill and relax, okay? Doesn't that sound nice, love?"

Nice.

It isn't conscious - or at least, Darling doesn't think about it before he does it. He doesn't say anything, and neither does Master. Master lets out a choked gasp, and stumbles backwards.

Darling doesn't think he's ever seen Master truly scared.

Darling is still holding the knife, had held it so tightly that it stayed with him when Master moved back, and now all Master can do his clutch his bleeding stomach with wide eyes. Shouldn't Darling feel something?

He feels horror, but only at the fact that stabbing Master felt like nothing at all.

Minutes. It takes only minutes for Master to drop to the floor and let a last agonised breath leave him. Darling just stares. He knew where he was stabbing, whether he meant to or not. Part of his training. Master's blood-soaked hand slips from his stomach to the floor.

Darling isn't so covered in blood, at least. A little splashed on his hands when it happened, but that isn't suspicious at all. He shouldn't be thinking about how suspicious it is. He should be calling someone. He slides off the bed, kneels on the floor, and shakes Master a little bit. Nothing. He gently closes Master's eyes.

He shoves a horrible feeling down. Feelings are no use to him. What's going to happen if people find out what he did? Darling doesn't know what happens to Pets like him, but he can't imagine that it's anything good.

What if they put him down? Fear numbs the ends of his fingers. He doesn't want to die. But a Masterless Pet isn't any use to anyone.

Bad Pets lie. And he's already a bad Pet, and Master isn't around to punish him for it, so he might as well lie. Darling chokes at the thought, his only reaction. No-one would ever know the truth if he didn't tell it. Who would actually believe that a Pet had killed their Master? He could tell them anything he wanted and they'd believe him, because he's the only witness they have.

Darling sinks the knife back into the wound. Nothing at all. Broken and worthless and stupid and violent, like he used to be. He pulls antiseptic wipes from the nightstand's drawer and wipes down the handle of the knife. Emotionless and practical, like he was trained to be, so he can hold onto some idea that the training made him a good Pet, because maybe he can be a good Pet for whoever buys him next, because maybe they'll even look at his information and training and not ask more of him.

Darling pulls the pill from Master's pocket. His tongue curls around it before he swallows. He doesn't remember anything, he was drugged, he's just a Pet. He fishes for Master's phone, and calls emergency services, slurs his words so that they'll think he was drugged earlier, and drops the phone a little distance away.

Blood pools underneath him. He curls up on the floor, buries his face in his Master's hair, and begs for forgiveness.

taglist: @whumpsday @roblingoblin285 @whumpycries @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @clairelsonao3 @dislexiher @whumpingwithclara-alt

#polly's prose #delicate #peter (darling) #westley santana #whump #whump writing #pet whump #YEAH THIS ONE IS A LOT. SO UH. HAVE FUN. OR DON'T. #i am skirting the line of my own comfort very slightly tbh afsfd. but it being about this is important to me.

[tiredfoxtf]

Amongst the absurdity of everything and the silence of nothingness there's a dream yet to be dreamed.

What does it looks like? Do you know?

Life started slow and it started growing, rapidly expanding and then it blew up with all the colours and sounds. Until there was nothing again.

Can you see them? Can you show it to them?

In the see of possibilities there's are actions yet to be taken and words to be said, songs to be sung and a little dream. Yet to be dreamed.

What does it looks like? Do you know?

Can you find it? Can you find the little dream and a dreamer?

Do you know what the dream feels like?

Is it feels pain, betrayal, gunpowder and regret? Is it unity, tranquility, love and wheat? Do you know?

Make that dream come true. For you are not the dreamer and wide awake. Make the dream of the dreamer come true with your watchful eyes and shaky rules.

The dreamer awaits you, watcher. Take a peak in the dream that yet to be dreamed.

#> tired shitpost #this is a uh some kind of poem in prose? I don't know #this kinda happens sometimes to me #also i am not being subtle at all here so yeah #traffic life #shenanigans

[soldier-poet-king]

Not quite halfway thru TCGF vol 2 and tbh I have no idea wtf is going on. We are riding vibes here with the expectation that we're gonna find out hc and xl tragic backstories eventually??? But the plot??? Idk man I'm just vibin

#idk if its a translation or genre thing #i didnt find mdzs this confusing #but also bc the prose is uh. not good. im basically skimmin a lot of the action #which is unfair!!! i know its probably not this choppy in the original #alas my dumb ass needs the English version #anyway xie lian is baby is me. and hua cheng is just. sir i am im love. ur evil but also not #what is ur deal why are you so obsessed with xie lian. #what is xie lians whole deal. like. i read ONE spoiler and i regret it ;-;

[meduseld]

+

#anyway just submitted a Thing to a Real Publication with my Real Name and shit #so uh #good vibes appreaciated!!!!!!!! #this would be my first published non fiction non prose joint so #pray for me

[grocerystoretrip]

Hey You, Sir, Should Be Coming Out in INKSOUNDS

#uh it’s one of my favorite poems to have ever written + it was published in october but i feel weird actually sharing it it feels so #personal idk. i’ll be back in like three hours & i’ll add tws & an id & such! #id in alt text for now #poets on tumblr #writers on tumblr #poetry #spilled ink #words #contemporary poetry #spilled prose #twc poetry #poeticstories #writeblr #poetblr #poem #poetryportal #writeblrcafe #nosebleedclub

[trickstersaint]

sun-spots // april 24 2023

#prompt today was fear but uh. i wanted to talk about me and the sun and getting older again #i'll say it once more!!! so in love with poems about things getting better. #poems about life #escapril 2023 #escapril #napowrimo #poetry #poets and poetry #poetsandwriters #poets on tumblr #poetry and prose #original poetry

[seriemorder]

pisses me off that these books are not well-written and i think its supposed to be a stylistic choice (the protagonist is supposed to be ignorant in all aspects that are not pertinent to its job and i think this allows to show for that) but honestly it just makes it unreadable. there was this beautiful and poignant quote that drives me mad because its grmaatically all over the place. like theres no compromise between bringing a point home and making the experience worthwhile for the reader. these things won awards. im going insane.

#there is also another quote which is good georetically #except its so ugly to read that it just doesnt bring the point home. #aaaaaah #mmmhm shouldve maybe read them in italian idek if theres a translation #but im sure theyd have made the prose flow a little bit better. uh.

[thoodleoo]

i-stems more like i-don't-want-to-do-these-stems

#okay they really are NOT that bad #but i just had a bad experience #wherein i DID NOT learn what they were (cambridge latin course veteran) #and DID NOT get a review of them in college (went straight into 3rd-year courses) #and then when i took prose comp i was thoroughly embarrassed when asked a question about them. which i did not know #and uh. let's just say a lot of my self-worth was based on my academics at that point. so. #anyway! that's the thoodleoo i-stem backstory!

[desertforged]

"What are you doing here?"

He glared at the projection of his second mother, Kotake, in the reflection of the waterfall he was using to wash. Nothing like washing his hair, clothed only in his underclothes, and seeing one of his mothers glaring through the rippling water to give him a start.

"Come home," was the all but ordered answer from Kotake. "Koume is furious with you, more so than I. You have never dared to venture so far, and to destroy the seal? You are lucky she has not stormed Hyrule to find you, Ganondorf!"

"Let her." Ganon - not Ta'ariq- challenged his mother, a low growl in his throat."I have made my decision to leave and take Hyrule my way. Not as the Calamity. I refuse to hide in the desert, and its Labyrinth, I will have Hyrule as my home."

Kotake laughed, a dissonant sound like the crackling of icicles snapping from their hold. "Foolish child, you plan to go to the King? To the Princess? You walk towards your fate willingly. Hyrule will never be home - your name is synonymous with destruction, they will never allow Ganondorf a place among them again."

Ganon growled louder, eyes flashing a bold blood red. "I will not let you manipulate me! You fed me poison for twenty years! I have tasted its antidote!"

"Yes, the green-clad stain upon Hyrule." Kotake's voice is steady, an uninterested look on her face. "He will be handled when we come to bring you home."

Fists curled at his side, the sickly red and black malice flame whisping between his fingers. "You touch him, mother, I will show you a whole other Calamity."

A wicked curl graced Kotake's lips. "Oh, we need not touch him to handle him. He will be dealt with by something much more personal."

In seconds, Kotake's laughter rang out and Ganon summoned a ball of malice-laced flame, throwing it into the reflection of his mother's face. Her visage disappeared, but her cracked-glass laughter echoed for a moment as Ganondorf heaved with heavy, angry breaths. Never in his life had such rage come over him as when his mother threatened the man he loved.

As he glared at the water, his eyes reflected back at him, still glowing red. His left hand, fingers clenched so tightly his nails drew blood, burned on the back.

He looked down at his hand. A gold Triforce seared itself in his flesh - the top triangle burning red.

He was running out of time.

#prose ; #uh so yeah this decided it needed to be written #ft. kotake

[cheeto-flavoured-pasta]

It’s the little things. Well, in your eyes, they’re the little things, but to me, they mean so much. You came out to your parents, even though you say it wasn’t that hard and they were cool about it anyway. You went to therapy — begrudgingly, because you haven’t had a good experience with it in the past, but you powered through the struggle nonetheless, even if it’s just another boring Friday for you. You figured out how to paraphrase that explanation on your math homework, or passed that test, or did something, anything. And my heart rings out with four echoing words: I’m proud of you.

So, so proud of you. 

And maybe you wouldn’t get why. Maybe I just love the feeling of celebrating someone else. Maybe I just get excited too easily. Maybe I care too much. Maybe it’s annoying. Maybe I’m not used to hearing that praise from a friend, so I try shower it as much as I can on others because I know it hurts when you’re deprived of something like that. When you’re deprived of companionship. When you’re alone. When you haven’t had a single friend in years up until now and you’ve struggled for so long to open up to anyone else. 

Have I done anything special? Maybe. I don’t know. Probably not. You probably wouldn’t think I have. And maybe I’d think the same thing. Is there anything about me that I can be proud of? Is there anything you even like about me? Do I even matter? You have so many friends. Am I just another one to you, unlike how you’re everything to me? 

Maybe, at the end of the day, after all the banter and vulgar teasing and energetic moments, when I say “I’m proud of you” I don’t just mean that I’m proud of you. Maybe I’m also saying that I love you. And I know those three words are always associated with significant others, because society likes to prioritize the romantic over the platonic when both are valuable; blah blah blah; you’ve heard me rant about this before. But why can’t I reclaim it anyway? Why can’t I tell my friends that I love them?

But even if it was normalized, maybe it’ll still be weird to you anyway. Maybe you’d brush it off, much like you do now. Maybe you’d cringe. Maybe you’d laugh. Maybe you’d never say it back. 

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll still sit in the corner, wondering the same thing over and over.  

Are you proud of me like I am of you?

Do you love me like I love you?

#okay so first things first #This is very different from my usual writing posts but I wanted to try something new #And I’ve been kinda writing shit like this more recently #I guess you could call it like a “prose poem” or something #I wrote this one like 20 minutes ago just to channel out some really bad feelings #I’m not sure if those emotions are entirely gone but this is a good way to process my mental state and make art at the same time #So expect this to come up more often on here #idk what to tag this as #Uh #spilled ink #prose #prose poetry #writeblr #writers of tumblr #do those tags make sense? #I hope so

[kirkwallguy]

i want to like pillars of eternity so bad because it's fun but it's just so painfully overwritten.

#started deadfire and am remembering why im so meh on the first #i actually think the overworked prose-y bits so many modern crpgs have are hindering the writing a LOT #let the dialogue speak for itself! it's good! i dont need to know this guy is surly and brutish and assessing me i can #get that from the dialogue! #if it was giving me NEW information or was uh. pleasing to read. then thatd be another story. #but 😬😬

[gods-chariots]

Tap to download.

I remember letters, voice messages, pictures, and videos.

We existed nowhere whole, but between the lines of poems, lyrics, and conversations,

in a plane of code and pixels where I didn't have touch to remember you by.

We hid each other there.

Segments parallel to each other’s lines, rushing, electrocuting. 

I used to hope just not to lose you, but toward the end hoped to keep you somewhere with a pulse, inside my chest, so when you sent me your voice, you spoke from within me.

I am reminded of how similar I am to the machine that bridged, limited us.

I had signed up to become it, become preordained for confinement,

and it was my soul that became desperate

to disrobe my flesh and bone and reveal the metals, glass, and wires that puncture the heart pumping pleas to exist differently, someplace else.

There, under the tree breaking the pavement, scribbled with the aging marks of slides and flips.

In the field of the fenced airport. Along palm trees. Outside your window,

where we would gift each other cities, skies, trips.

Why did I pretend I felt nothing for the picture 

of the scatter of toys and strollers around your feet,

your gentle company, long kinks of hair stark against the pin-straights of your baby brothers?

How could I keep in my throat the erupting ache to be there? To show you, really try to show you how much I wished we could be next to each other? Why didn't I? Why couldn't I? Why couldn’t I break the language of grit and grudge and guilt and find a way to reach into you through clicks, keys, scrapped files of pictures with slow shutter speeds, under that palm tree, make you look me in the eye and feel my palm?

Why was I a machine then, but when temper was lost, and you were dead to me,

and I was remembering other people by what I could not remember you by,

and when you found out, you wished to hurt me, and you intended to inflict pain on me,

why was I real? Why am I human when I miss you, hate you, when I want you gone?

Why did I care about being real only when we hurt each other for it? When I condemned you for showing what I couldn’t? When you spat at me for it? I did not know what any of it meant, and I still do not.

Why do I care about being a real girl for you now only when you have found someone there? Your true heart beats for them, and while I prayed to soothe you in the muscles of mine, I only hear myself from a silent ringer. I am a bar in a panel and bubbles of text and dropped calls.

I miss stitching what I remember. I remember tender offerings of comfort from across the world that I am glad never have been fulfilled,

for if I smelled you on your corpse bride jacket and saw your fingerprint on the ruby pendant, I would die.

Images, letters—they were enough. They were too much and too little. I feel like you would have loved to take care of me in images and letters. Look at me in tilts and pans. Find me in code and clouds. Love me in ones and zeros. You said you love me when I told you how you miss home when you I can't remember which was only something you would have said I can't remember from learning your brightness,

that harsh gratitude that translated far more profound than a wild, extrinsic, real life end. What I remember is how much I bled for you and how much guilt I harbored. I remember clearly all the violent wishes and bouts of painful anger.

We were always relieved to be okay and crawl and grip the phones that called and rung, no matter how unresolved, how futile. I thought it wasn't. For a couple of days. I could've done it. I could've become more. I felt it. I love you.

I remember us saying not to say it, but it always came back, so let us have had it.

Let us have had the privilege to have loved within the confines of screens,

through rushes of wired bolts of lightning, survived by millions of deleted letters, voice messages, pictures, and videos. I lie headless there where it all is. Thank you for knowing we are alive.

#poetry #prose #writing #letter #uh #e-dating is bullshit #none of it makes sense #none of it is real #so why is the pain real #why does it hurt #i don't usually write like this #but this is very personal #it's weird but i want to share it #i love you #thank you