jam sticks to my lips as i watch hers
whisper against porcelain,
taking in the amber tea, two lumps.
both her hands hold the cup
(it looks weightless, floating)
perfect poise from wrists to heels,
sitting atop an ottoman like the queen of the angels
or some similarly royal-ethereal thing.
there is just one cup
(her mother wouldn’t lend us any more)
and she passes it to me as if
this were the most normal of tea party customs.
i make extra sure to place my mouth
over the rouge ghost left behind on the rim
and pretend i’m drinking her in
more than i am apple cinnamon.
What if I also used this blog to play around with beginnings and stuff.
Since they come most naturally to me. The first couple of paragraphs, and then y’all could give me feedback and ideas?
The Day of Love has rolled around,
some people sit and brood.
They haven’t got a valentine,
I guess feel they should.
But I don’t really care that I’ve
no one to call my own,
Because I mark the difference here:
I’m single, not alone.
She slipped the engagement ring from her finger. It was easy enough to take it off, she found. Dropping it in the river like she had planned was much harder. She rolled it around in her fingers, watching the diamond sparkle with the dirty streetlamp light. Made it pretty, somehow, even though it cast an ugly yellow hue on the concrete. With a sudden jerk of do-or-don’t, she let the ring fall. It tumbled though the air to shine one last time, like a shooting star, before it was lost to the dark water below.
There. Gone. Didn’t even hear it splash.
Now it was her turn.
Here’s to having the courage to look at myself, really look at myself.
Here’s to having the strength to change the bad habits I hide behind.
Here’s to opening up to you all of myself,
the worst parts of me,
that you may truly know me-
And hoping that you won’t turn from me.
Here’s to having the will to commit, even when I don’t want to,
And here’s to having the wisdom to come back, even when I am ashamed,
when I have let you down, when I want to hide behind the bush, naked.
Here’s to letting myself let go of being what’s expected of me,
Or being what I expect myself to be, and to accept, instead;
To inhabit the reality.
Here’s to giving myself over to you, inside and out, and hoping
that you won’t recede, deem me as failure, and leave.
Here’s to the bravery to trust you to love me.
The thrill of perfect, clean cuts on perfect, clean flesh; of the blood that seeps out, dark as secret waters from a forgotten well; of the panicked rise and fall of breath, fluttering whenever he rakes the flat of a blade across just-visible ribs: it’s a Pandora’s Box of all he’s ever dreamed of, exposed and living and right there, and who needs Heaven, anyway?
Write about a funeral.
Just go for it. Is it chaotic? Happier than it should be? Filled of tension? Lots of outcries by embittered relatives?
Done up from part of an old fanfic, check it. This one’s called Hollow:
Nate remembered the funeral; the entire ordeal seemed tinged with black, and sometimes gray as the light fell in through the high church windows. There were a lot of people there, most of whom he couldn’t remember having much of anything to do with his family before. But they all came, all dressed in black, with large white handkerchiefs they’d dab at their eyes or cover their trembling mouths with. The pastor’s voice was as bleak as the congregation’s attire, and just barely echoed under the vaulted ceiling. It seemed feeble in the cold, somber air. Nate wished he could see the pastor- he was still so small that the hard wooden backs of the pews towered over his head- but he was certain that such a voice must belong to a frail ghost of a man. He’d have to remember to keep an eye out for him. But for now, all he could do was to sit still and listen to the weak voice as it listed the late Mr. Roehll’s accomplishments and memorable impressions on acquaintances. The anecdotes sounded as dead as the man lying in the casket.
After the eulogy, they all tramped out into the wet air to the grave site. Nate was nearly caught under boots and heels several times. He took his place next to his mother, who stared down into the damp earth with something bordering disbelief. There was some idle chatter as they waited for the others to gather around. “He was so young.” “My, what a large grave! But then, he was so tall, remember?” “I just feel sorry for Alicia. She has a little boy, you know.” Nate was glad when a hush fell upon the crowd as a pale, plump man wandered to the front. He held a Bible in his hand. Surely the pastor; and nothing at all how Nate had predicted he’d be. He tallied it in his mind. The man spoke.
“Whom have I in heaven but Thee? And besides Thee, I desire nothing on earth. My flesh and heart may fail, But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”
And the casket was lowered into the earth. Wracking sobs shook Nate’s mother. They both looked on as the first few clumps of dirt scattered over the lacquered top, gradually piling up. Nate knew his mother was sad- crying was what one did when one was sad- and yet he didn’t know how to help, so he stood there and clutched her skirt with one hand as the slick sound of shovels in wet dirt cut through her wails.
All over the research centers, those myriad glossy eyes, always watching, it was unnerving. Not just the way they curved outward, catching every glint of the sun and turning it sickly, reflections filmed over their corneas like soap bubbles- there was the sheer number of them. You couldn’t even turn around in the downtown districts without pairs of them dotting the landscape, like someone had spilled marbles all over the city.
^ A bit of a Zim fic I started quite a while ago. The photoset reminded me of it. Putting this on my blog, because why the hell not.
And I said I wasn’t going to include fanfiction on this blog.
So much for that. I liked this bit, anyway.
(Source: zimages, via psychognats)
I came across this site on my personal blog, and decided to run this blog through it, since it’s exclusively my writing, and not reblogs.
Here are the results: