Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Makino
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You Are Blind






~

I see through your paper thin personality
The silly games you play
And the silly way you speak.

I see through your false guilt and sorrow
A simple hoax for hungry eyes,
My eyes do not crave to be entertained
They crave to observe, and so they will.

I see through all of your lies.
I see through every piece of you.
Like a flake of dead skin.
I see through your shell
And I observe what lies within.

But you, you do not see through me.

You could not even see the simple fact
I decided to play along to your game.
I decided to mimic your pretty words.
And listen to you,
Like a pretty little fool.

I turned to the very nightmare you yourself had never dreamed of, because you could not dream
You were so concerned with yourself
Your game

You never saw past your own clear barrier.

You are not like me, for you are blind

I see through your paper thin personality.
But do you see through mine?


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Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Makino
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Just like that




“I’m a little fucked up.”

Her words were a sweet sort of bitter, huffed out in single stressed breath. Three crisp seconds stumbled by, a tear void of color dripping down her cheek; a pained chuckle slipped delicately.

A suiting sound for her.

“Well, not just a little.”





Their conversations had been bitter, toxic in the eyes of those who didn’t understand how it was they loved each other, those who had never felt their love; but he understood.

He understood.

He drank her smiles up like they would vanish without a warning, as if she would someday be a dream that he awoke from.

Maybe she was. Maybe.

Just maybe, they were trapped in a fantasy that neither really wanted to leave; because words were bullets and they both were addicted to pulling triggers, falling to their knees in sync with the other because pain was not simply something they could forget. Pain was shared, a mutual link.

Because “I love you”s were spoken out of genuine trust and care, guilt drenching every words so deeply that the other could almost drown within it. Guilt earned, because neither was innocent in the self-deprecating dance they engaged in. But they wouldn’t stop, perhaps couldn’t.

She knew she couldn’t, because little lashes and scratches on her sanity were worth it. She was a whole bundle of bad news, ribbons of cruelty wrapped crudely around insecurity and cold attitudes.
She was a gift many would not dare to open, but he took her with a smile and a laugh.
She would never feel whole, fixed; she didn’t want to. She didn’t need to be fixed, she was broken and she loved it. She was a cracked valuable that could not be repaired, but he made her forget she was broken.

He made her forget the negativity she felt, because he gave her something stronger.

He gave her love.

Maybe it was a little fucked, maybe it was a little twisted and torn at the edges, but she didn’t want perfect.

She didn’t need perfect.

She needed him


She carried out a flawed love with him, and flawed was what she liked.

She valued the scars he left on her heart because they came from him, she valued the bruises of his words because they were not meant. She valued his sweet words, because they were meant for her. She valued his time, because it was limited. It was limited, and he chose to give it to her.

She valued him

Another can speak of what they think love is, what they think it should be; but they were not her, and they had not gone through what she had.

Her life was not a movie for others to spy in.

She had love. Genuine love, and she valued it.

She was a messed up individual, but she embraced it.


Others wore masks of feigned happiness and feigned ignorance. No one is pure in the world, no one is.

She was flawed, as was he. She loved him in a twisted way, and he loved her.

Perhaps their love was inches from toxic, not healthy to an individual spared from their pain.
But to her it was all she would ever accept.

She was happy that way.





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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Makino
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Trust Me





There was an air of charisma
It clung to the curves she so eloquently wore,
His eye could never seem to find satisfaction
He looked at her many times, she knew it
With dislike, distaste, and sometimes a
Curious sense of want.
Why was it he chased still?

Perhaps it was the charisma
That drew so many others in.
Perhaps he had fallen victim,
But perhaps she had too.


Her palms ached for his own within her loneliest hours
When perhaps his own were entwined with a woman worth less than she.
Had he not valued himself
As she had?
She was a treasure,
Perhaps not a good one
But one that was not to be shared.


Her body had been tasted, devoured
Solely by the man
Who was more akin,
In nature,
To a wolf
Than he was to human.

But she too
Was akin to a snake
Venom dripping from words she spoke
Words not meant
And words hidden.


Man and woman differ in more ways than physical
For a man can bring him self to physically touch another woman
When he has one that already craves him
Quite dearly.

However, woman is not pure of heart
Entirely.
She will play with the hearts of unsuspecting victims;
Waiting, without ruining her physical state,
For a wild male she adores to return.
For they always do.


Perhaps distance is a remedy to their sore minds.
But, sore minds that belong not to themselves.
Perhaps they think they have something nice, something new.





But they can own nothing when they own not even themselves.





The woman, cold and shrouded with a strange charisma,
Choked the wolf whom entered her world with veils of bitter dislike.
Biting down at his neck,
Venomous words invading his body.
Perhaps she took his will, his life.
But he took her heart as his own

Clutched tightly,
Stolen wildly,
And forever it would beat.






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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Makino
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Sleepy Thoughts


Happiness is strange.
It is neither a gift nor a talent.
It is not something that someone else can truly give you.
Perhaps a momentary laugh or sense of euphoria;
But, with their departure they take that “happiness”.

There are those who can give themselves joy,
But often with the aid of something else.
Is happiness truly a joyful thing?
Or more so a curse;
A taunt of something we will never truly live out?


There are some who embrace their natural state.
There are some who turn to enjoy dark themes.
There are those who take a strange enjoyment in loneliness,
Feigning their desire for a nicer existence,
Enjoying the attention.

To some the world is black and white,
Bold and definite,
Right and wrong.

To some, the world is a mix of colors,
Complex and incongruent,
Neither just nor immoral.

There are those who cannot even think of what the world is like,
For ignorance is their bliss.


No matter how many different types of flawed humans there are
They all have surely understood happiness.

We all take joy in many different things.
It is like a quick high that fades far too fast.


Is it truly nice to be happy?
Or would you be better off emotionless?
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𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎




” Look at me just like that. Your eyes are so black I can’t help but get lost, darkness has always pulled me but not quite this hard. You can tell, you can sense my intrigue. Chase me like that, like I’m a faltering dream.

You know what I want and somehow you provide. I’ve never had a type and I won’t let our minds collide, but I constantly see myself next to you when I can’t sleep. Your arms seem a little more comfortable and your lips somewhat inviting.. Just kidding, that was bait and you were certainly biting.

I can tell from the way you talk you hate yourself and many others. I can tell deep within that sleepy voice you’ve been hurt and sore. I can tell now, too, that you don’t fear death, and for some reason I can’t help but to admire your strength. You take my bruised hands and listen to my heart race, you caress soft cuts and pinch tiny blue marks scattered on my skin. I know you wish for the same taste.

Please. I want time to end if it means I get to stay. “

I think I may be getting lost within the life of a man who died before he grew up, who stared right at the reaper and told him to go home. I think I may be troubled with a boy who causes harm but always means good, who looks too deeply and too strangely to me.

I think I may have met my match, because when I speak he does not fall victim and when he talks back I see myself. I feel at a loss and confused, unsteady.

This man is picking the locks to secrets I hold, and I fear that someday I will be too tired to push his hands away from tampering. From plucking, from seeing me down to my lowest moments and saddest memories.


-Ophelia (WIP)
Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Makino
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I envy the stars.


They burn so brightly, a pattern against the night;
Beautiful? Sure, beautiful to the eye, but beautiful in nature as well.

So far from us, they are only mere dreams.
We may not reach for them with expectation
to grasp, for they are something untouchable.
Something unobtainable.
Something one cannot own.
Something that could never be tamed,
So that even if you could get close,
They would burn you to a crisp.

We cannot claim a star,
Taint them with our grasp.


I envy the stars,
Purely because I wish to be a speck against the black sky.
Hidden away from the world’s hateful hands,
To only be thought as pretty,
And to be recognized as something that will never truly be owned.

My bruises would fade from my flesh,
Mingle into a fiery gold one would fear clasping,
One would fear challenging.
The tired eyes of mine would witness no lies,
My heart would feel no bitter betrayal,
And my lips would no longer speak troubled words.

When I die, I do not fear what is to come;
For while I know I do not deserve the peace I seek,
The peace I want,
It is alright to dream.

If the Reaper shall watch me,
I shall watch him too.
I shall challenge the cold gaze of death with my own,
Challenge it to take me far away from everything I know,
From the depths of this world,
From the happinesses I have known,
From the pains I have endured,
And to place me into that black sky,
forever.
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Hidden 4 yrs ago 4 yrs ago Post by Makino
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(wip) Ангел
/God’s first lover./

Can you see the color of my rage?
The color of my pain?
You are the artist,
Are you not?


I would rather you find me dull,
Foolish, and stupid,
So you question why you continue to gravitate
Towards me,
My visage,
And my name.

So you wonder why
That silly little girl
Has got her hand in your chest.
/color/Why sharp nails upon an
Unskilled hand
Cut your heartstrings so neatly,
/color/Why pretty lips with such silly words,
Were able to say such calculated lies,
In such a sickly tender voice,
Enough at a time to pinch your mind.

Why sharp blue eyes
Are superficially naïve,
Shifting the look I held
Every time you said my name.

An Angel I was dubbed,
And as a woman I sin.
You will never,
Ever,
/red/Love again.

/ins image./
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(wip)Pygmalion

Could I be everything to you?

Just by breathing?
If I cried,
Would you find me ethereal?

I had yearned once,
To be the only thing.
Everything.

To kiss the hands that hit me,
And be in the arms of he who conjured my tears;
Consoled by lips which uttered more lies to me
than they did words of love.
The apple of glaring eyes,
To which mine only saw.

My dedication,
Would be the world’s stupidity.
The devotion of a fool.

Whose only solace,
Is to now be alone.
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(wip)
Chrysanthemums laid within a vase atop her windowsill. Flowers of death, beautiful and white.

He gave them to her.
The devil, she supposed.
He wore a suit of a man who cut throat in business, and carried with him a stoic expression; secrets filled the smoke that would leave his lips, and his gaze always landed on her with such peculiarity.
A warmth she could not pinpoint.

In the dead of night he visited her, always without fail. Always with a gift.
Prior to the flowers,
It was a box,
A silk dress black as the night laying inside, a note nestled over.
‘To the Angel. God may have made you, but I will take you.’

He was going to kill her,
She supposed.

She sat with her back pressed to the board of her bed, the cross her grandmother gave her laying limp atop her bosom. The clock at her bedside read ‘3:00’, and her eyes shut; it was what he instructed her to do each night.
One second,
Two.
Before the third struck,
There was a palm beneath her chin.

“Open.”

Thick lashes parted, her blue gaze resting on the man holding her face far more tenderly than she thought he would. His usual coat was gone, and the button up white shirt he always wore had sleeves rolled back to his elbows.
She did not remember such a charming appearance.

“I’m taking you away today.”

“I don’t want you to kill me.”
His hold on her jaw lessened, a soft chuckle exiting his lips. She had spoken such calmly, but he was not one to miss the sweet scent of fear filling the room. Brave girl.

“Kill you? Perhaps, some of you.”
The cross over her chest was gathered tightly by his digits, unflinching as it was yanked gently from her neck. The chain was dropped to her bedside table, and suddenly she was lifted from her bed. Pressed to his chest, he smelled like the night.
Smoke, bergamot, fresh spring water, mint—
He smelled like the world, like everything she had not seen. What she assumed the far stretches of clouds in the sky could smell should they have a nose, flying far and far away from her little cabin, away from the village, away from everything she knew; he smelled like what her long-dead excitement for the world had felt. She was so entranced, she had almost forgotten he was speaking to her.

“The part that stares dourly into the wall every morning. The part that crosses fingers and prays. The devout love you hold for a god that has kept you selfishly locked here. But I will not touch that glare you gave me every night when we sat and talked, nor the little bread knife that you thought I didn’t know what under your pillow. And, I will definitely not touch the delicate little fingers that slipped so slowly beneath that pillow like I wouldn’t notice.”

His palm lifted once to turn her face to his shoulder, holding her in place as he moved towards the window. The air of the night felt foreign on her skin, kissing sharply at the nape of her neck.

“Close your eyes. I will give you everything God cannot.”

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Hidden 11 mos ago 11 mos ago Post by Makino
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(I wish you were real)

Sometimes I still miss you,
and wonder if you miss me too.
The bad and the good,
personal dirty cravings for the stability of
anger, hate, harm, catharsis, guilt, love.

Then I remember a time where I wanted so badly to be okay,
*away*,
from you.
To be a person,
not a thing
that floated through existence
on the whim of that which
for maybe a moment
at the flip of a coin
would make me feel like
I was not a worthless girl.
with stories I could not tell you
with a straight face
or a serious tone
the futility of begging to be seen,
while hiding the truth
of each bruise.

You did not believe me,
Why would you?
Even I hated myself,
dissecting the moments of my life
for your judgmental curiosity.
My experience; a lie to which the reality was
unsharable,
even to you,
for your unyielding anger
which levied my person
against me.

against other women who
won’t even let you violate them
in the ways I would,
let alone be the same person afterwards,
to console you, kiss you, be your peace.
I could condense any pain
to nothing at all
to love
for the price of you pride,
so long as you could admit
you needed me too.

but you couldn’t.

and yet

There is no way in which you could have hurt me,
in a way that mattered.

Just as there is no way in which,
I could be loved,
in a way that mattered.

if there was a truth to shine between our lies;

If I am a husk,
a shell of joy;
so be it.

I may not be happy,
but I am determined.
to lose my resolve,
would to be to lose myself.

and you *loved* *me*, didn’t you?

/red.
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(I want)

To walk miles through snow,
untouched tundra,
until my feet are raw and red.

Naked,
with hair that has never been cut
So it may drag too,
Through the cerise paint of sullen steps.

To cloak down my back,
Skin that is distinguished by only blue
and black
and green
red,
whatever color surfacing atop
white.

A woman who
knows herself and
can accept it.
Love it.
Cherish it,
Find it to be
enough.

To not be alone
even when seldom.

forever wandering,
in search,
of a home

which does not exist.
Will never exist.
Has never.
For if she found it,
it would be cast aflame.
For warmth.
As the warmth of survival
is the only one absent of
betrayal.

A knowing and yearning
for something she had owned.
Another’s.

Her humiliation,
a ballad.
With anger that cannot be reached
or subdued
But by death.

An idea,
a promise.
A goal,
her home.
Buried in the snow,

What I want;
Peace.
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(wip)Floating fish

Under the dim moon, he watched her.
As he always did, from shadows to which the light would never dare to pierce.

She never noticed, naked and waist-deep within the calm waves of the small lake; to her, this was another day held together by her ritual. Another night of scrubbing her skin red and raw, removing filth that could not be seen, but only felt. The sins of her birth, perhaps. The sins of her father, of youth and beauty. She felt the intention of every gaze, every passing glance— they sunk into her flesh like disgusting mars of muck and grime that, if left for long enough, would only eat away at every last bit of her comfort within a body she could not escape.
If she could remove her skin for a fresh set untainted by the world, she would. But perhaps in doing so, she would hate to expose her insides to the outside. There were at least some things that were hers alone. Which could evade prying eyes, such as now.

Or so she thought.

Some nights had been tainted by chills of something ominous, lurking patiently, evoking fear within her beating heart. She often wrote the feeling off as a product of living alone. Or, perhaps a symptom of being surrounded by trees. If neither of those, surely it was just the eerie silence of the night that got to her, the threat of the dark lake waiting to swallow her whole if she dared to venture too far. Or perhaps, she expected him. Perhaps she hoped for him to return. So that she could know he was not just a figment of her imagination, so that she could know he existed. That he had been alive. But, she always found herself alone.

He always wondered what she so viscously attempted to cleanse herself from each night— eyes fettered to the fast scrubbing of her hands over willowy limbs. Always glued to the way her dark hair clung to the curve of her back when wet. Cloaking her like an annoying, beautiful veil. Ears expecting the gentle gasps that fled her throat from the cruel, cold kiss of the water.

She was always none the wiser to his presence.

If he could have her within his grasp, he would not be so harsh. He would grip her wrists which were so rough atop her fragile flesh, teach her to be gentle, demand it. He would tip her chin upwards and enjoy the proximity of her expressions as though it were a privilege none other could experience. If he could help it, none other would witness it. His mind throbbed imagining the beating of her heart, the red flush of her cheeks, the surprise on her face. And, more. He imagined more, and more, and more. The scent of her skin, her warmth, her noise. She made many sounds that were foreign to him. Through her cleansing she would sometimes cry, on a bad day, he supposed. Silently, the heavy droplets slipped down her cheeks. One, two. Rarely were there more than three. He hated having to leave during the daytime, missing whatever burdened her so. Her tears alleviated the weight of his actions, though he hadn’t cared much for the immorality of them to begin with. He looked away only to glance upon his hands, dipping them beneath the surface of the water and bearing witness to the thick red blood that dispersed slowly into nothingness.

“That’s the third,” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his palms over one another while recounting the events leading to their staining. "He wasn't one of them, though.."

Very rarely, someone would venture into the woods. Close enough to catch his attention. Even more rarely, curious little wretches would venture too close. Close enough to observe this lake, close enough to smell the fires from the cottage she had moved into. Close enough to speak with her, even. To recognize her. To rap their filthy knuckles atop her door. Perhaps to steal her from this forest, thrust her into the throws of "civilization". To pay "debts". What a joke. He chuckled to himself, noticing the heavy heat of anger flooding his chest. What he found to be even worse was the potential that they wanted to marry her, save her that way. Or perhaps, only act like a husband. For a few moments, whether she agreed or not. Have a couple men act like a husband, for the price her pretty face could fetch. That they would have thought of her the same, minds full of their hands atop-

A splash resounded, his head lifting to focus once more on the woman. She had stumbled, lifting herself with quite a frown. Again he chuckled, the unpleasant warmth dissipating from his chest.

With her, he forgot for a moment. He always forgot. The fragility of life. Of youth. He'd forget the way it felt to grasp a wandering man by the neck, to watch as his face aged years within seconds, until it became a shriveled mess that crumbled to dust, all within his clutch. To decompose by his hand. Life was not leached by his touch, no- life fled from it. Just by a caress of his palm, a tap of his finger. The graze of his step, even. And he loved it.

Never once did he find himself lonely, he loved solitude. He loved silence; the scent of death. Never once had he dreamt of warmth, of coupling. Of woman.

But, she just had to touch him; he had never figured out how she had stepped beyond his senses on that day, recounting how her hand came from behind and startled his cheek. How she could even reach so high was especially beyond him as he swung around, mouth silently agape.

"Excuse me, is your mouth ajar to speak or just to catch stray flies?" She spoke with a straight face as seconds passed, his brows twitching at her words. Clearing his throat, he gathered himself.

"You will poke a stranger, but you fail to introduce yourself? What a rude girl you are."

"I am Irina." She stepped beyond him, to which he did not mind. Perhaps it was a fluke, they had only made contact for a short moment.

"Well, Irina. Don't go around touching random men."

He intended to leave it there, turning away from her just for the uncomfortable flush of heat to overtake his palm as she clung to it. She seemed to be on the brink of asking him something, however, his swift ripping away cut her off. The force of his pull disturbed her balance, and he surprised himself with the thought of catching her while watching her fall flatly onto the hard ground. He intended to leave it there. But he didn't. She lay unconscious from such an unreasonably small fall, how could he leave? He ripped away to not harm her, harming her in the process. How ridiculous. His fingers tapped her cautiously, palms hesitantly lifting her before enveloping her in his arms. Nothing happened, for the first time. The warmth and constant subtle noise of life emanating from her body made him feel strangely ill.

'Repulsive,' he had thought, as he laid her in his bed. 'Disgusting,' he thought, as he covered her with dusty linens. His finger draped beneath her nose to feel the gentle, rhythmic warmth she exhaled. 'Sweet breaths,' his mind murmured, his fingertip dragging down to trace her lip. 'Beautiful.' She looked far too peaceful for a woman beneath the clutch of death. He would leave her that way, yes. He would leave her Peaceful. Peaceful, and alive.

His heavy steps carried him away from her side before his curiosity threatened to explore her more. Why she hadn't withered beneath his touch, he did not know. He would not test finding the answer, either. "See yourself out," he hissed, vanishing deep into the trees. For days he worked without returning, ending lives across nations. Months even, perhaps years. He'd return only when it felt as though her heat would have dissipated entirely from his bed, her scent covered by the dust her presence disturbed. So that he may then cleanse his mind, and return to the comfortable existence she had interrupted. In the thick of winter, he had finished his voyage back.

Not only had she failed to disappear, no. She had made a little home during his absence, and brought with her more life. Large men relentlessly banged on his door, their overwhelming stenches curdling at the back of his throat, causing his nose to scrunch.

"Pay your debts," they would yell. "Pay your debts!"
"I have no debt," she would refute from the windows upstairs, tossing cold buckets of water over the men. "My father's burdens are not my own!"
The men would scream obscenities in return, rushing away to escape the looming danger of wet clothes in this icy tundra. If only they had the foresight to stay away, forever.

They returned, many times. Always escalating their antics. Always met with a clever little instigation from a woman who wished to be left alone, residing within the home of a man who wanted no part in this little game. He remained unseen, assessing his options from the shadows. He had planned to hand her over if the men hadn't been such disgusting brutes. Yes, he would have happily given her to them if they could have been patient men. They left him with no choice. What kind of person shows up in the middle of the night, unannounced? Truthfully, he had followed them long before their 'sudden' arrival.

Yes, he had followed them back to their stinking towns the previous night, after another unsuccessful attempt to gather money, ending with the men covered in welts and bruises from having been pelted with rocks. She said she'd kill them if they came back, words that held no weight as she promptly cried when they vanished. She always cried so silently, always alone. Perhaps he pitied her hopelessness, that which drove her into the woods. Into him. He had listened carefully to their plans, their purpose for her. He followed them as they gathered their tools to break into her home, to bind her. He watched as they gulped ales and bellowed about the ways they would violate her. And he watched as they trekked back into the woods. Just as they watched as he made his presence known.

He didn't recall much after.

Just that he had missed a few. Cowards who ran the second they saw the other condensed to red and gray mush. He felt creative that night, he was too enveloped in the distinct joy that came from hurting them that he mistakenly allowed the others to go. Which brought him back to the present. Nights spent watching her, days spent searching.

Every single face of theirs he remembered. Until they all vanished, how could he dream of touching her? How could he lay his violent hands on something so delicate? How could he long for a warmth he contradicted? He was cold. His body was still, his breaths did not exist. He was not scared of her repulsion, of her rejection. He did not need her or her acceptance. But something felt unpleasant when he thought of her lifeless. When he thought of her cold and still.

"I had always known there was a monster in these woods."
A soft voice thrust his attention upwards. Lost to his thoughts he had found himself scrubbing, too. Scrubbing his hands, noisily perhaps. So noisily he didn't notice as she waded closer, covering herself with her hands. Watching him with a sharp glare.
"I'd have never thought he was the type to watch me bathe."

She found him amusing, enough to forgive his gaze. Enough to allow it to sit atop her skin and sink. His did not feel quite as awful. Perhaps it felt warm.
"Are you catching flies again, or are you perhaps thinking of telling me your name?"

He sighed out a long breath, watching her still with eyes that felt akin to a wolf. Her teasing did not seem to fluster him by any means, nor did it anger him to violence like others.

"My name is Cain."

"Well, Cain. Nice to meet you, again." She reached out swiftly, covering his eyes with her palm. He had flinched at her touch, in a silent way that was hardly discernable. "It is rude to stare at me. Close your eyes so that I may leave, and come back in the morning. I wanted to talk to you." Irina hesitantly removed her hand, checking that his eyes truly were shut. She turned from him, intending to slip out of the lake to go and settle in for the night. He disrupted her in a rather rude way, but she was happy. Happy to see him, happy to know he was real. She hadn't expected to feel a cold tap, jumping rigid before his fingers curled around her thin forearms.

"But," he breathed over her ear, pressing her back neatly to his chest, "I'm not done with you yet."
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Filiality.

From my place of pondering,
I don’t think I can forgive you.
I will never reconcile with myself.
My body. My thoughts. My feelings.

The rotten twist of my intuition
Sinks like a blade within my heart.
I know that something is wrong.
But who can I tell?

Certainly not you,
the pervayers of my pain.
Certainly not you,
the seeds of my insecurities.

You turned me against myself
and blame my frantic mind
on an inherent wrongness that
I have possessed since birth.

My faults which
had been bred by your lies.
Fed by betrayal.

Do you even know that emotion?
Do you even know what it feels like?

I can assure you that you do not.

I can assure you.
You do not
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Hidden 3 mos ago 3 mos ago Post by Makino
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Makino starved

Member Seen 25 days ago

Grief

Do you feel bad
from your place in death
in which those left behind
must grapple with your actions?

How can I blame you.
I don’t know how I can blame you
as my heart twists at your image.
Alone. In your bed, your shower, your car.
But I do.

Because I must live.
I must hold this grief
which ensnares the soul
until it is so angry that
it will bite, rip, destroy, and hate.

How may I continue,
When I have no one to show this to.
No breaks to take as life continues.
Is that how you felt?
How tired were you?
How tired must I be?
Was it of yourself or,
of that around you?

I will not forgive you even in a million years,
when I hate even that, too.
My resentment for you, the dead.

How can I convey to you the way I hate
that which makes me happy.

How much I hate
my smiling face.

How much I hate
my nervous mind.

How much I hate
my blood.

And this body
which I cannot feed.

My grief that
I too will be
Nothing more than what you are.
That I will be the fourth, the fifth, or the sixth.

That I too
cannot escape.
My efforts in vain.

I am afraid.
But who may console me?
Who consoled you?
Death?

I will live.
And when my last breath is drawn,
I will not have picked the time.

Amidst even these emotions,
I hope you three found what you wanted.
I hope that the price of peace was worth it.

And I hope
that you cannot see
our grief.

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