Coerced

Just kids playing with their hands

Cover your eyes and count to ten. 

The others will find you, here --

peeking through their fingers,

splinters between branches cold in the night --

you not knowing how to say

with your lips without talking --

her.

Cover your eyes and count to ten. 

No one look, the gravy cup shot glass takes you,

you move with the grace of almost, 

with the skinny shy beat of inebriation, hesitant. 

They are still waiting, children

preying on your decision:

which tender cheek. 

Meaningless, not quite drunkenly driven

they cover their eyes, you count to ten, 
you find her and press, kiss,

wisps of hair obstructing. 

Moment quick and quiet, unannounced.
Soft rosy liquor-scented breaths. 

Afterwards, the lions creep, smiling; 

she, too, reaches for her drink; 
secrets spill from glasses and yet
the world does not move an inch,
the kiss melting ice floating in your glass.

Blind Devotion.

Hidden in afterthought -- that's all we are.

I must learn to make peace with your hands. 

Knees Bent

Crossing the Line.

You learn a lot about a person from drawing them, I have found.

His eyes are wide-set, single-lid, light. Eyebrows parallel mostly, a bit more shading under the lower lids, there where he stays out at night. His face doesn't hold so many shadows but the light source is questionable. There are lines around his mouth when he smiles -- bone structure; I like the skin that stretches over it and the creases they fold into.

His neck is shaded darker, lines here and here and here. Here, rumples in his shirt; he is slouched forward slightly. Set his shoulders a fair width, not too far, wrinkles where his arms bend, where his sleeves are rolled, darker where his muscles hollow. Trace the pockets by the forearms, crumpled forward the way he is leaning, buttons dark against minimal lighting. The four lines on the lap of his pants.

We have barely spoken but I see him smiling with just his top row of teeth; details I cannot copy. For all my trying, he will never be whole here. Here, leather-bound and hollow-mouthed. Here, charcoal on a yellowing page.

Doors

made some time ago

If we can’t run away from our problems, this country will collapse under the weight of all its monsters. So let me keep running.

Door ajar.

I want to wring myself dry of you. 
I want to stand at the edge of your window sill and see the world again.
I want to hang myself from rooftops until I am no longer afraid. 
I bound your wrists and stitched you shut but
when I left the room, I left it open -

I despise the mornings of your shoulders I cannot wake to.
I wish I could kiss our disjointed bridges, the soft hinges
of your knees, the loud crack of your knuckles in the dark,
a bad habit, a self-portrait.

Your life spills from me in tones I don't understand,
a language that isn't mine; the tongue of two people.
I pray for absolution,
In faith I will be consoled to be without you again.

As of late

It's been awhile now, hasn't it. Here's one just to end the drought. 

Destroy thyself,

How then,
the singular vague commandment twisting like bracken vines
two birds with one stone, maybe three, a flock
by the end of the world, I will have you
on your side crazily rocking the rocking of a hundred geological chairs
ash and boulder -- where did i go wrong

How then,
slices of restrain, the cuts and scratches clawing deteriorate
drive this horrible rental off the side of my pristine path-paved mountain
made entirely of powder, press them against your cheeks as
there
the blood will stain the ballgowns gathered at the foot of my rocktower

How then,
in my voicelessness, refusing to tremble before you, high and mighty
suffocating drowning in years lost to being closet-kept
unwilling, don't don't don't don't don't all the lives i cannot have
the answer kept gut-deep, bones rattling, with all the things I have been forced to swallow.

what good does light if not in the darkness.

Un Settled

I can feel the ocean from the sand on your skin.

Retrodevelopment

Teensy little update.

This isn't really a writing thing, it's just kind of fyi

Red.

Highway signs

I am not the end.

I should be studying

I remember writing down how annoyed I was
by our monday-wednesday morning ritual, how
cyclic, everyday a replay of the one before,
after awhile, awhile of anything, you want more
i wanted more, else. 

It's half a year later and now I live in a darkness 
of you, in the back of your closet with your grandfather's things, 
pressed into your old biology notes, wedged
between the numbers in your algebra book (somewhere
on the shelf or other). 

Where you should be, instead is a pale space, torn
out nails bloody on the floor; how I loved
cutting you open, peeling back the skin, all 
your excuses for hiding. Your sacred flesh glowing 
soft lights, rosy, spring mornings, gentle
fur on purring things. 

But you belong to them now. 

I can't remember not having you for everyday;
you were glory-sprinkled sunshine glinting off screens
on one-something afternoons, pointing out strangers and
smiling all of a sudden at something long-since forgotten 
or else quietly acknowledged, information imparted
through days spent together
you were a scent across rooms, invading lungs and 
shirt surfaces and my moldable memory, so all my thoughts
of you are water-scented. 
you were navy blue fluorescent. 

You were mine, 
secrets included, intended, (especially); 
you were the whispers I never passed on, 
the gasps I kept gasping for days, 
given in faith, guarded in fidelity. 

(what i would give to have us waste our mornings
                                      looking for each other again)

...

I lie to you
by saying nothing

clarity is overrated and vagueness is undervalued
and nobody wants the truth
the truth

the truth is somewhere on the skin of my teeth, behind a layer of lips, pressed between two sides of the story. the truth is between your fingers when you hold my hand, in the back of your mind, in love with someone else. the truth is hiding in the last two centimeters of my smile and in the creases of your eyes when you laugh at me

for saying that i think too much, just let go.

and then i lie to you again.

To Visit

I want to see the world from the top of things, 
like the Empire State Building, or a radio signal tower in Las Vegas, or the back of a wind turbine up North some place. I want to face the sunset from a different degree, my angles going obtuse the slightest bit; closer to falling but loving the view. And maybe I'll like the look of tiny black umbrellas walking in hurried huddled masses in every direction; or empty streets with no people screaming for justice or freedom or water or love; or the stifling cold on exposed cheeks and the fog that so quickly creeps. 

I want to see the world atop a million balconies;
I want to sit pretty on a black metal garden chair, its curls rusting on the backrest, and watch a hundred separate lives all unwind like clockwork. People becoming and unbecoming next to each other, giving and taking in their shoebox spaces, never noticing the rats next door love just as much if not more. I want to sip coffee that tastes like shit at six in the morning as I stand on the fire escape and watch my neighbors drag themselves into the world, heavy with duty and last-night's-sleep. 

And then finally,
I want to see the world from underneath you. You're breathing the push and pull of the moon, and I can feel the ocean against me. A slow strangle to keep you there. 

Overdue.

She's trying to be more... honest. They say it takes a lot of digging and a lot of courage and a lot of vulnerability. And she's trying.

dare you to move

we lie
here
spent and conquered
but never in defeat, instead
in a state of perpetual rest;
kinetic

sleepy, how
we remain, under skies
unmoving and
standing still 
under shade or feather
the chance to go
deciding
not
(yet) or ever. 

inertia
will come when it 
so pleases, so
until you
force me, 
push pull negate me,
we will be
static
orbiting around
stability
we pick off
of clouds
and passing
weeks.

Shoulder blades: A collection of shallowings.

Your greetings are psychological conditioning
(you're worth it, i don't mind, good morning)
The lies are relative, what matters is that I believe them.

tense.

She will come and tell you what she thinks, but you will stand your ground. You will tell her who you are and who you will be and she will fight you on it. She will say no, no you are not who you think you are. You are much much more, she will say.

She holds you, and you don't know how she does (she's such a tiny little thing), but she does and you can't move. She pulls herself to you -- you're still frozen -- she holds you tightly, so much so it's almost painful, because you can almost feel all the pieces of herself she's trying to get back.

You will be too flustered. How dare she tell you who you are. But she had seen you sleeping and seen you seething and had stayed through it, singing you into a tomorrow that thought better things. Nevertheless, you remain insistent. You can't, you won't, she should mind her own business! It really doesn't matter anyhow.

She slumps her shoulders and you can almost feel the disappointment she carries. You can almost see it in the curve of her back and in the way her fingers are slipping carefully around yours.

Her voice began to sound the way you feel after a long day. She composed herself the best she could, and before leaving, she gave you the most ceremonious last glance you've ever received, one so good you could only dream of giving it. It was like a flash of color, first yellows and reds, and then faded pastels, a dirty white. A dusty canvas.

You were a bit too harsh maybe. Too strong. But she shouldn't have said anything! Never mind that she had your best interests at heart, she was wrong. Did you really shout at her, her of all people. Were you really so cruel.

How could she turn you into a monster. 

Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem by Bob Hicok

My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers

of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what’s happening,

it’s what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different

theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I’ve never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,

your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb

but couldn’t hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother’s belly
she had to scream out.

Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,

in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.

Thank you, Tracey, for introducing me to this and consequently ruining my life. I am grateful (and in mourning). 

I don't mean anything.

I lie because I have nothing to say.

I lie because boredom stings like singing and sunlight and stardom. 

I lie because I don't like what I see in the mirror

I. D. K.

I don't know. 

Friendly, adj.:

She's covered in sunlight bruises. A part of him thinks she might burst into a thousand different colors. She melts into beige and yellow on his shoulder when she rests her head. He talks to everyone else, paying them his attention in fragments. He shovels his foot into some pebbles on the ground and brushes his arm by her arm with all intention. She doesn't notice.

They're friends. She puts her hand on his hand. Everyone is here -- everyone can see. Maybe it's just one of those things; like her hand just fell there and maybe she didn't want to move it. Her fingers curl around the edges of his palm and there are no gasps. He slides his hand away and she almost sees it coming. Crest-fallen, she keeps smiling a muted orange skimming the corners of her lips.

After a little bit, she excuses herself to go to the restroom. He stands up a few beats after she does and walks in the same direction. She knows, she can feel him trailing behind her so she slows. He jogs forward. He asks if they can maybe talk sometime and she shrugs. He bumps his arm into her shoulder and a little shock jolts him. She doesn't notice.

The sky is a pale gray; it's going to rain. The wind gets cooler as the afternoon settles into dusk -- she's still sitting somewhere covered in sunlight bruises. She could be fifty or five hundred feet away. The thought of her is a flicker in his subconscious, the irritating flash of a camera in the dark. He thinks of other things, all the while keeping the thought of her in post-its and pretending not to notice. 

***

On a different night, she's dusted in moonlight and he can't stop thinking about it. Streetlight suits her. She fumbles with her fingers before lacing her arm in his, clutching it. He walks an inch of a step closer and holds his arm at a good ninety degrees to keep her comfortable. She knows she's welcome and she takes it. She pushes him playfully and he pushes her gently, knowing he could knock her to the ground if he wanted. But he didn't want to.

They talk, they joke, she's letting her guard down (not that she had one). From this angle he sees the dimming light in her eyes and it's a little troubling. More than that, her hands are heavy. More than that, she's falling. She trips over her own feet and he catches her before it happens. He holds her up. She apologizes. 'Sorry for being a bit weak today', she slurs. He nods an 'it's okay' before going back to walking under exit signs and street lights, liking the way her hands are holding him with necessity.

***

It's seven in the morning. She's sitting alone wrapped in a sweater and obvious want for something to lie on. He sits next to her and is happy and says hi and brushes her hair back. She laughs and shakes him off and nudges his shoulder with her head. She nuzzles into him, moaning for sleep. Her smell lulls him into familiarity; her skin doesn't make him tremble. But her lips might.

He takes her hand and plays with it, two hands to play with one of hers. She's comfortable on the bones of his shoulders, eyes closed and dreaming of better beds. He traces "Please?" on her palm and sighs. This time she notices. She smiles. Ten minutes go by without event. Friends start arriving and conversation bursts to life. She's leaning against a brick wall instead of the sleeve of his shirt. When the bell rings, she stands and looks up at him and whispers, 

                            "Maybe." 





Should I continue this? :/ Actually answer me. :)) 

25: Resolve.

i don't feel the pain i once did 

there lives an old box where i shot it sure dead 

with you gone, there's nothing to lift

there's nothing to carry, to patch up, to thread

23: Temporarily Untitled

I'm only doing the ones I think I can actually do at this point. :)) Wow am I lagging behind. 

20: Catching Up

i.

she curls to fit into his lines, and his curves, and the bouquet of scents that envelopes him. she could smell the salt of the sea dusting his skin, his fingers smelt like coffee and newspaper ink. under his nails, she could taste her future.

19: For A Friend

personal ads. 

18: 4/19/13

Night embraces us, all of us, and loves us in its darkness

The pool lights aren't bright enough and I can't tell who is who 

and you're just another person I haven't seen in far too long

Your shoulders feel the same though we've spent months 

and months and months apart.
I have not seen you in so long but all the
natural fluidity that was once our friendship
is still as rapturing as before and maybe.
There is no end to all our plays and pauses
and you and I are just circling each other in
complete and total admiration, locked in a state of
permanence and marriage and coming alive by the water,
coming alive under street lights, coming alive in the dead of night. 

17: Hello

sometimes almost is better than already/ sometimes almost
is good for you/ sometimes almost loves you more than
always

12: To you, finally.

My entire blog is just a bunch of day 12's collected over time. This is just making it official, I guess. 

7: Engulfed.

Lots of blue in this. :))

6: Goodbye.

I skipped day 5 because who needs that kind of stress. :)) 

I kept writing things that never got to you --
and they piled up behind the gym memberships
and seminar notifications
I complained to put it off,
maybe I would forget altogether.

4: Frank Exchange of Views

You spoke too softly the first time we met

        It was like seeing your cells before seeing your skin

You were so many fragments of so many wholes

        Now I see your all pieces in the way you become and they break me

You pushed my world off the edge of the universe

I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with myself                          

You were so composed, I wondered what would tear you down

                Now I see that was something you could do yourself            

2: The Penniless Sitar Player

lies lies lies lies lies

1: carry me home

(first line from I Carry Your Heart by E.E. Cummings)

Smother Me

Four years ago, this song was something sweet. Four years ago, this was ice skating in the summer and remembering the school year that came before. It was looking forward and wanting someone, wanting them and not being able to admit it to yourself. It was a request and a command. It was a mist and a wind and the waters that stirred beneath it.

This was something you played when you thought of him and something he played when he thought of you -- the piano was delicate, like the strings that held you together.

It was one of the many songs he monopolized. Now you can't listen to any of them without being overcome by an all-consuming wave of nostalgia. You never ached for him but he was a good thought, a good thought that did not resonate, just relapsed. 

You replay the idea of him over and over in your head, fumble with it awkwardly before putting it down and setting it aside, hiding it on a high up shelf hoping next time, you won't be able to reach it. 

+++

A few weeks ago, this song was something stinging. Now, someone else's face comes to mind. The thought of him makes your blood electric -- it's stronger than something built four years ago. It pushes and pushes and demands to be felt. 

The piano is persuasive. It moves and it promises, it begs and it wishes. It's no longer something you want to preserve, it's something you want to achieve. A future you know you want, a future with a boy who is surely good and right (though possibly not for you). 

Your breathing changes when he's around. You smile more. You make no sense. You're losing him and you know this and though you try to be at peace, but it nudges you in your sleep. It nudges you into dreaming -- where is he going, where has he gone.

You touch the idea of him carefully and it sends shivers through you. You keep it close to your heart so you never forget what it was like: the few moments you had with him. It hurts like the concrete pavement that's going to kill you (don't look away); but it's not falling, just flying in reverse. His memory holds you up, away into the earth.

ashes

his music made sleeping feel like water at the edge of a glass table -- the tension that kept him intact was just as fragile as the pressures that kept him asleep. his crumpled clothes reeked of sweat and cigarettes and the glorious smell of woman. soaked in the unblinking suspension of belief in dreaming, he let himself float.

Uno.

I have written about this so many times, mostly because I was in this hormone-induced stage of teenage agony and I had to let it out somehow, but now that I’m well over it, I think it’s time I tried writing a version that doesn’t contain as much emotion as comedy and sarcasm. Wish me luck. :D

Dos.

I haven’t told this one in awhile, just because it happened in the fifth grade and people usually just ask about high school. I stand by my testament to fifth grade being the most drama-filled year of my schooling life (but I’ve got a few more years of college ahead of me so I mean, we’ll see). *edited*

i think my cat has eyebrows.
seriously.

Theory.

Do you like the idea of being an idea. No past, no future, just an idea that expands and contracts to a person’s liking, existing completely in theory, and therefore perfect. You would be untouchable, on a pedestal, wanted and needed and never had. You’d be a standard, a greatness of sorts and admired. And maybe even when the person’s gone and moved on to something else, you will always haunt them. And you’ll be a ghost, a ghost of something that could’ve been magnificent.

But then, you know, you’ll probably ache as they ache (if not more). Because then you will be restrained and held back, and always bound to be without. You have to hold yourself above wanting because wanting would make you concrete and human and possible, and that would defeat the purpose. As much as you would destroy, you would also sort of be destroyed by your restlessness.

You will want to want. And be dismantled by something vivid. And had as much as craved, and satisfy as much as deprive. But then you’d be achievable, something to attain. Not painted and carved and sculpted and made immortal in art and memories and endless regret.

and shine.

I want to dance with you in the morning
when loosely we spin and stumble and start

When nothing looks as living
as slow breaths and waking hearts

When work and play are nothing 
and night is cradled close and sung to sleep

When we can barely clutch our coffees
and company's all we can manage to keep

I want the morning to belong to us
hung-over from the beauty of slumber
reveling in the light of beginning
dwelling in the constant effect of after

P (A U B)

He is so monotonous. He is a character profile for something that trembles in the light of Greatness. He is probably more than I know; though what I do know, I value in all its usualness.

And then there's you, beautiful complicated thrashing you. Radical and unwilling and impressionable to the subtle and disarming. You are more than you know; and you so often wish, as I do, that you could see that.

He is so impressive, but then so are you. You both keep your secrets close enough to touch, then make sure that close is never close enough. Why do you hide, why do you tease.

You're a vague figure on a white background in matte reds and navy blues, throwing your stories in a canvas bag to-go, for leaving, for later. He's black and white and dripping with saturation and dyed in contrast, pulling his pictures out, parading his life a minute at a time.

But inside me, your secrets are piling up, and his are leaving in quarters.

I wish I could write you out in better colors. I wish I could pull out the patterns and stitch together a you and a him and an entire web of people whose eccentricities make things easy. But unraveling you is so much more fun.

Though tiresome, and sometimes painful.

As reality always is.

Belated Happy Birthday.

I wish you could see yourself from behind my lenses. 

I don't care how confused you are. I don't care how lost or found or wandering you think you are. You are right here, right now, and so am I. Jesus, the lighting is perfect. I love how it cuts you up and slaps you back together. It makes you look like, well, unordinary. And you aren't, but it makes you look the part.  

I love the way you feel -- all the ways you mold yourself to fit your idea of beauty. In all your trying, you've managed to produce something conducive to holding and leaning and walking next to and wanting. And I like how your emotions are bottled and fluid and sometimes, when they spill over and I'm there to wipe them off the table, I get to see glimpses of what you're really like. God, you make me smile. 

I hate how even when you do nothing, you are unordinary. I hate it. I hate you. Because it isn't fair for me, and it's not good, and I don't want to have to deal with you. But I do anyway. Could you please ruffle your hair more, thanks. 

I don't know, I guess I just wish you would see that you are interesting and lovely and created for greatness -- I mean, I guess everyone is, but I think you could really do something. You matter so much to such a vast class of people. And to me.

I know there is nothing to chase after or create or revive or anything. I know that there is nothing; and that's okay. It just hurts sometimes even though I really wish it didn't. I know it's my fault. I'm sorry; but at the same time I guess, I don't mind, because the pain of having you is better than the pain of not.

This is just to say, um, I wish I got you something.

Happy Birthday.

he said, she said.

Promise.

i.
to stay, to stay, to stay,
lilacs and lavanders and faerie dust
she flitted and floated and was
no one's to keep
and no one's to hold
and safe in her sleep

day after day after day
seafoams and forests and faded light greens
he scampered and scoured and
crept in the streets
sprawled on his back
labored and lean


ii.
i was perfectly fine trapped in my cocoon, never waking for anything or anyone and being just and being alright -- nothing to worry about -- and the walls smelled like flowers and the days would run from me. the clock collected dust behind a table, still unused.

he smelled like salt and felt like callouses and woodwork, but his eyes were gripping and his smile was something else and there was a sadness about him i couldn't quite put a finger on.

he painted my life different shades and i let him keep me up at night. i lost my sleep and didn't mind.


iii.
i was perfectly fine dying alone, resigned to letting be and letting go. dirty and missing and not exactly alone. just enough to keep asking why, for what, how much longer. the sidewalk reeked of piss and rust and drug deals and fist fights and the hours would weigh down on me and my brain could barely keep up. the stolen watches under my coat, a constant reminder of all the time i was losing.

she smelled like meadows if meadows could kiss. she felt like feathers and silk and elegance and beyondness, beyond me. but she stepped forward and let me speak and when she looked at me, she bore a sadness i couldn't shake. in her smile, she hid the sun.

she held me in her arms and in her whispers. in the soundness of her sleep, she saved me.

daydreamers

you're one of those people who come and contribute and corrode, all well-meaning and good intentions. 

to whom it may concern

the easiest by far

diamonds

are a girl's best friend.

so what are you still doing here?

drifters

you gone
is too cold
to imagine

This has nothing to do with actual prompt but oh well. 

That's Okay.

Why can't we be those people. People who turn into magnets. I want your polarity.

Again, I wrote this last night but wasn't able to post it. 

Recess.

Spiraling, spiraling, spiraling. Oh, there's the end. There we go.

Sorry for not posting yesterday. I was sent to bed before the internet could cooperate with me. Here we are, though. I made this last night, promise. 

i refuse because

everyone loves you, 
you slut 

day 21: sunset

Of Darkness

You have absolutely no idea how exhausted I am. Completely rid of all will to write or y'know, live and function in general, due to crying about Les Mis and being sick (thank you to all my blockmates who accidentally gave me the flu -- now we suffer as one). So this is going to be horrid. 

Swim.

Yellow and orange and palm trees and midnight.

Appearances

I remember you in so many different ways. I could never write them down. 
So I'll send them to you in pieces.

I Never Forgot

I missed my halfway mark because I was busy studying for a math test (I will surely fail). No regrets about the whole studying thing, but I hate counting techniques with a ferocity now. So there's that. 

I am hoping, like fervently fervently hoping and praying, that the people who read this know that it's meant to be fiction. It's meant to be. 

8

true story. 

Wind.

I was sort of under the impression that the further along I got, the easier this would become. But no, it's just getting more and more tedious. And the prompts are great and all (they really aren't) but I cannot come up with enough things. I mean, you'd think I'd have something good for yerterday's denial and I didn't. Today's word is wind. 

Oh, I am so looking forward to this.

curious and curiouser

This one is a  love story sort of. Did it  on my phone  again so it is  very safe to  assume that  all typing involved was  frustrating. Thank you for  not hating  me. 

Not a Love Story.

It was recently pointed out to me that I write about relationships a lot. And I do. So for a refresher before the probable love story of tomorrow, I'm going to try writing something else and this is for, well, you know who you are. I hope you're happy. 

Once there was a boy who lived with his mother in a house on a hill and everyday, he would come down from the hill to take the bus into town to buy food and clothes and other various items that they couldn't find on their isolated hill. 

One day, this boy fell in love with a bathroom sink in a men's washroom in a grocery in town and so he vowed to love the sink (well this is turning into a love story now too, isn't it). He promised that he would come down to visit everyday. 

Then, war broke out. And their house on a hill became a safe haven because, fortunately enough, the enemy didn't know how to climb hills. They were vicious and incredibly passionate about their, um, killing, but they weren't very good with climbing hills. The trouble was that the boy missed that sink in the men's washroom in that grocery so he asked his mother if maybe he could go down the hill one last time, take that bus into town (which was miraculously still on its normal route), and say goodbye. 

And his mother said yes, because she was the kind of lonely old widow who had just stopped caring for the well being of her only son when she lost her husband and realized that she was just very immensely old. 

So the boy went into town on his unharmed bus and slid into the grocery only to find that the sink he so loved had been destroyed by vandals and was covered in blood spatter. 

It was then that he realized his true calling in life: to leave town and join the theater. See, they lived in a very small town and the arts weren't very much appreciated there so he went back to his house on a hill with his decrepit old mother and told her what he was to do. And he left, pirouetted right out the door.

What happened next was a very long string of events that led to him joining the army instead, but being picked on because he was too strong and masculine for his age. And also, he liked pudding. And none of the other boys in the army liked pudding so they made fun of him. In turn, he laughed whenever one of the boys died. And it made him happy to see them blow up -- those who mocked his love for pudding.

Somehow, his mother became ill with pregnancy and so the army sent him home to take care of his miraculously pregnant mother and his soon-to-be brother. The enemy had left but pretty much everyone had died in the town.

Before he could enter the house, he turned into a tree. And he stayed blocking the way for the rest of his life.

The end. 

typhoon hurricane solar flare you

This didn't kill me like it usually does. Goodie. Hope ya'll like it. I mean, the title sucks but don't let that stop you! 

Act II

If we stay, we settle, and what happens then. Do we implode. I hope we slide away from ourselves, piece by metal piece, bolts unscrewing and then allowing us to fall apart. 

Sorry for this. I really wish I had more time to type this down. If I had more time, it would be prettier. It really would. But editing isn't a luxury I can afford right now so just, bear with me. Just get me through this month and I'll be editing more and posting less. Huzzah. 

definitely

Eh. 

You are the expanse.

This is a reaction paper.

Drown next to me.

Just edited. Now finished. I hope people are able to see the prompt word somewhere in there. Just a hope. The title is a song by AAR.

Cream and Powder Blue.

I have a Fil paper I didn't even start until a few hours ago. I am exhausted. But I didn't forget. I have a feeling this blog is going to kill me this January.

Melt

After the disaster that was yesterday, I want to say that this is me redeeming myself. But then I'd be lying. The read more for today is a bunch of cuils. And the prompt word. 

you fall
you gather
you melt

and i have no choice
but to watch
in horror
as i lose you
over
and over
and over
again

insomniac

I almost forgot. But here it is. Even if it sucks and I did it on my phone.

Let's play this out.

I'm going to try to do a 30-day writing challenge because it's in my New Year's Resolutions and I probably won't be accomplishing anything on that list; but if I can cross the write more! out, then yay me.

Disclaimer: this is supposed to be sort of a drabble writing challenge, but I'm probably not going to go strictly prose