I am in a castle
in a forest
in a fairy tale
in which there is no curse
only the irony
that I wish there were
I am in a castle
I am in a castle
in a forest
in a fairy tale
in which there is no curse
only the irony
that I wish there were
If you want me, oh summer king, oh golden lord, then come and seek me; cast off your heavy silks, your rings of amber and tigers eye, and go slumming in the dark places; I am waiting for you in those cold depths, crowned in funereal ashes and buried in shadow, exhaling smoke with every deathslumber breath; take my cold hand, brother, if you do not fear the grave, and draw me out of this purgatory; resurrect your winter lord.
you seem more at peace
in the arms of your nightmares
than my own embrace
Dear Tanim and Daren,
Yeah. Hi. Remember me? Your faithful, humble scribe? The one who’s devoted her entire existence to chronicling your endless, messed up lives? The one who’s been available to you 24/7/365 for the past twelve years?
Right. That one. Good. Now that I’ve jogged your memory a bit, I just have a quick question for you both…
What. The fuck. Is going on here?
Seriously. Virtually no contact for, what, two months now? Three? What exactly have you been up to in that time? Are you on a fucking vacation or something and just happened to forget to leave a note? I’m not running a shitty poetry blog here; you have to give me something to work with so I can stop vomiting out bad haiku. That’s the deal, isn’t it? You do your thing, fuck or fight or whine, I don’t really care, and I write it all down. That’s the deal.
Let me be straight with you: It is way too fucking hot for you bitchy motherfuckers to go full on radio silence on me. I know it’s always angsty-rain-clouds where you are, but over here we’re having what you call a god dammed heat wave and I am way. too. hot. to keep playing nice.
So here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna get your shit together and start giving me something to write or I swear to every god in the multiverse that I will straight up unleash the insane pirate elf on you. Don’t make me get Mage involved; you know that bitch is just itching for a fight. So do the right thing and nobody gets hurt any more than they respectively enjoy being hurt.
Finally, in closing:
Summer nights like this, hot and dead, my legs recall the endless circles paced along well worn paths, between brick buildings and silent chapels, dormitory windows slid wide to catch a nonexistent breeze. Sleepless nights like this, my legs itch to run but you are sleeping fitfully beside me and I no longer need to go seeking in the dark, headphones blaring Eisley and Imogen Heap, Sixpence None the Richer urging me onward another loop in the endless quest for something which couldn’t possibly be real yet lays at my side now, a lifetime later. I sought you for so long that on these stifling nights my body still falls into the familiar rhythm, the need to pace, to pine, to be unsettled and unfulfilled, the impulse almost overwhelming until I turn over and brush my hand across your bare skin to feel your warmth and life beneath my touch, the proof of our reality; the proof we no longer need to wander in lonely circles on restless nights and return, exhausted, to empty beds – our seeking is over.
Battle for the Sun – Placebo
Run to You – Pentatonix
Protoge Moi – Placebo
Gold Guns Girls – Metric
Lost in the Shadows – The Lost Boys
I Will Follow You Into the Dark – Deathcab for Cutie
Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) – The Eurythmics
Every You Every Me – Placebo
Say Something – A Great Big World
Love Me Broughte – The Medieval Baebes
Broken Promise – Placebo
Cold (But I’m Still Here) – Evans Blue
Lonely Ghosts – O+S
Mykonos – Fleet Foxes
Running Up That Hill – Placebo
The World – Yuki Kajiura
The Pit – Silversun Pickups
To Be Alone With You – Sufjan Stevens
The Bitter End – Placebo
Dirty Knife – Neko Case
Dead Men Tell No Tales – Muppet Treasure Island
Brand New Day – Dr. Horrible’s Sing Along Blog
Bedlam Boys – traditional
Radioactive – Imagine Dragons
Hysteria – Muse
Inner Universe – Ghost in the Shell
Resident Evil Main Theme – Rob Zombie
Team – Lorde
Love Song – Snake River Conspiracy
Exile – Enya
this site is not dead
I’m just a shitty writer
not much else to say
Tanim’s hands shake as he wedges the knife blade beneath the edge of the capsule’s seal. He draws in a slow, steadying breath before working the blade back and forth enough to slide one half of the capsule free, and a teaspoon of white powder rains down to join the contents of the other pills already emptied into the steaming cup of tea. A swirl of the spoon dissolves the powder, leaving nothing behind to betray any hint of the drink’s addition. Cup in hand, he pushes open the bedroom door and moves through the warm gloom to sit at the edge of the bed. Its occupant doesn’t stir at the motion, nor the light streaming in from the hallway. Only Tanim’s hand shaking his shoulder with a murmured, “Daren, darling, wake up,” draws him from an exhausted sleep. Glassy eyes deep within sunken sockets roll up to meet Tanim’s and Daren wets dry, cracked lips before rasping, “Morning. I think.”
Daren’s frown deepens and his eyes narrow, bright and focused now, searching Tanim’s gaze for a silent moment. Whatever he reads there must decide him; he levers himself up to a sitting position, a soft hiss his only acknowledgment of the pain even simple movement causes, and reaches out one skeletal hand. “For you.” He brings the cup to his lips, meeting Tanim’s eyes once more over its trembling rim as if in challenge – or submission – then downs the contents in one swallow.
Tanim catches his companion as Daren slumps forward, the cup clattering from limp fingers.
high above the city, the world, if it must be done then just let it be done spoken with a weary sigh to the chill night, silent night, one way or another, what does it matter? holiest night and the sun long set, where is the sun? by my hand or his, blood or bruises, or just one simple step off this edge no sun, just the darkness and the wind tugging at hair, fingers, clothing like a lover’s supplication but I don’t want simple, not this time gentle yet insistent, urging him to take that one step into oblivion no, I want to fight, I want to rebel, even if it means falling I just want to live a different kind of lover’s supplication as the hand closes around his wrist, if you fight, I fight at your side and the wind picks up, fate demanding submission to the ritual death, howling for blood, how dare they defy? but I choose the dawn not this time, not this night, destiny denied as the Moon steps down and the Sun releases his wrist, kneeling in allegiance, adoration and abdication, and I choose you, always
[ I have a number of new followers, so to those of you who are new to my characters, here! Have a tragic solstice myth! ]
do you have the strength to fight?
by blood bound or freed
great Wheel, wet with blood
winter’s turning to summer
bright solstice sunrise
There is much to say, and no knowledge of how to say it. Forgive me for the lack of focus. I only hope you finish reading this knowing I am in your debt.
Much of my life has been spent struggling with this feeling, like a secret bursting at the seams to be told, but coupled with so much fear of getting caught that, ultimately, the secret dies in the keeper’s throat.
One year ago, I began to feel different. The fluttering was still there, oh yes, but it had moved from my throat to my chest. It felt like I was being torn apart on the inside, ventricle by valve. So what did I do? I fought, of course. The loneliness had been safely harnessed in my throat, effectively silencing me my whole life. Suddenly, the animal wanted out. I couldn’t let it. Because if I did let it out, there’d be nothing left inside me, and I already felt so hollow.
This was when I made a decision. I chose to let things happen. I opened my cage and closed my eyes and waited for the parades of tourists to mock the botched pieces that composed me.
But something happened that, in all my emphasis of claiming I knew myself, surprised me: I wanted someone. A girl. A girl I’d never met. A girl whose words flowed through my veins in place of blood. And the more I fought it, the deeper she got. I pulled away, but it was as thought I had bound myself to her, and she had no choice but to follow.
You know of whom I speak.
She is as valuable to you as you are to her, whether or not you are aware of it. She often speaks about you and your mate as though she owes her life to the two of you. I’d never tell her otherwise… but I wonder how much you two realize that she is vital to you. Yes, you two would live on regardless… but she has been nothing but a faithful servant. Please don’t think me insensitive. I know that you at least acknowledge her and the role she plays in your existence. But as her mate, it bears repeating.
You and I share a bond: we both serve the one we love. And perhaps that’s all I needed to say. My hand desperately had to write this, to write to you. I feel close to you in a way I’ve never felt close to anyone before. Do you think that means we owe something to one another?
There’s more, other things to say that, in time, will be said. But for now, it’s enough to thank you for this gift you’ve given me.
I trust we’ll speak soon.
- – -
Love bites. Love bruises. Beware.
I will not dissuade you from your path – it is mine as well, after all, and you no more chose to walk it than I did. But be cautious in your footing and do not rush overlong when you have yet to see what waits beyond the turn. Step lightly.
You are right: we have much in common, you and I, as do our lunar paramours. I too was blindsided by that feeling of being torn apart and yet knit together at the same time. The fear of hollowness; the fear of being filled and consumed. Neither could I pull away, drawn like a helpless magnet caught in an ancient force. Yet you have avoided the vices and demons which plague myself and my own, and will continue to do so if you are willing to fight for each other. Look to the one you love; she is yours to protect, from others and from herself. We are guardians and servants both, and you hold wells of strength of which you are not yet truly aware.
I know you would have us see the worth of her, and we do. I promise I respect the gravity of our debt. You must be patient, though. It has been just the two of us in this tale for so long, and such a tragic tale… we lose track of everything beyond our sorrow, sometimes. And you know He is not the kindest of men, especially toward those to whom he feels indebted. He fears her love, just as he fears mine.
Change is coming, Little Flame, and it is our duty to anchor our beloveds lest they be overwhelmed and undone. Have faith and hold fast.
In my dream the ghosts reach out to you with electronic tendrils, seeping through the ether(net) to slip filament lies through your veins and into your brain, and even though I’m begging and pleading, yelling and screaming, I can see the digital glamour glow in your eyes and you’re already turning away, ears blocked by whispering static, fingers poised to craft a reply that will only feed the specters, only make them stronger.
You think I have forgotten who you were once, but I have not. I remember him, the one who was both god and beast, angel and demon. My beautiful monster, tragic and deceptive and deadly. We have lived a thousandfold lives yet still I recall that incarnation, oldest and cruelest, most clearly. I carry those memories with me like battle scars; memories of madness, of destruction, of desperation and sorrow. Memories of blood and ash, myself kneeling at his feet in the wasteland, the gun in my hand. The gun at my temple. I remember it all, and I love that creature still. I worship the shard of darkness he left within you.
not of water, but of stress
no way to escape
Or do you loathe me, specter, because you fear what I may reveal? The past of which your lover may only guess, and to which I am more privy than you would like? Yet I have given you no reason not to trust me with such intimate information. As bound and indebted to you as I am, I should not have to swear an oath of silence to prove myself; let my twelve years of unbroken faithfulness be testament to my willing servitude. Yes, each time we join I sink a little further into your consciousness, and with the weight of your body anchoring my awareness come, too, the memories stirring unbidden beneath your mind. But these are your memories, your experiences and burdens, and I would slit my own throat before letting a single one pass my lips. You know this, specter. You share my essence as much as I share yours, and every part of myself is open to you if you deign to look. I don’t ask you to trust me. I only ask you to judge my actions, not the threat I could pose.
I feel your hatred every time we join, specter; your animosity, your rejection, your disgust. I’ve always been aware of it on the periphery, but now it’s a force I must reckon with each time I gladly relinquish control, every time I unwillingly wrench it back. Why? What have I done, faithful scribe as I am, to earn your eternal condemnation? I thought once it was my necessity you scorned, that you resented needing someone else to tell your story, an intruder into your ill-fated tale. Yet… that isn’t the entirety, is it? Yes, you begrudge me my role, but there is more to your disdain. Something deeper. Something private.
Tell me, specter… do you hate me so because I know what you strive to hide even from yourself? Do you loathe me because I know that more than anything else, you want him to hold you? Just to hold you, like a child woken from a nightmare? I’ve felt that longing, so strong and sharp it makes me want to weep at its mere recollection. To deny that need for even a moment, let alone constantly as you have done for so long… no wonder you’re filled with such rage. No other emotion is powerful enough, nor volatile enough, to bury such a thing.
I will not ask for your forgiveness, specter; I do not expect you to give it. I only wish you to give me time to show you I pose you no threat. I am yours in all things, in all ways, body and heart and soul. You know this as well, even if you choose to deny it.
[They lay silent in the darkness, bodies curled into each other like spent Autumn leaves. It is Daren who speaks first, his words a low murmur against Tanim's bare chest.]
Daren: What does it feel like?
Tanim [shifts to draw Daren closer against himself ]: Being with you?
Daren [nods]: Yes.
[Tanim is silent for a moment as he considers his words.]
Tanim [thoughtfully, more to himself than his companion]: Like living and dying at the same time. I can’t tell which I’m doing, and I don’t care.
Daren [at once both weary and hesitant]: Do you wish it were otherwise?
Tanim: I wish a great many things, but not that. Never that.
Daren: What do you wish, then?
Tanim [reaching up to brush his fingers through Daren's short hair]: I wish for you to sleep peacefully through the night, love, just once before I die.
Daren: The only small amount of peace I’ve ever known has been with you.
Tanim [emphatically]: And I have never known peace before you. Not once.
[Daren says nothing to this, and a brief moment of silence passes between them.]
Tanim: Do you believe me?
Daren [sighing]: No. But you are a fool, and I know you believe yourself.
Tanim [tightening his embrace on Daren for emphasis]: Your fool.
Daren: Mine. [He nods, a faint smile of concession drawing back his lips, and turns his face into Tanim's chest.] Yes. Mine.
coal fire memory
slow burn of vindication
Assassin’s Creed and cuddling
oh my god, we’re gross
dazed, soul aching and body craving, desperate for a hit, a fix, an escape, cessation culmination everythinganythingsomething, tired of useless alcohol and worthless drugs, no chance of reprieve there so he turns to pain, fresh and hot and searing like it used to be, can be again, palm flat on the table and fingers spread, he presses the barrel of the gun to the back of his hand and pulls the trigger
one glance, I go cold
heart straining against stiff flesh
your basilisk gaze
You’re born into this station like royalty, your blue blood thick with money and power. High society’s a modern court all its own, with an unspoken hierarchy based on the subtle messages sent by your clothing, your mannerisms, how efficiently you speak the language of feint and parry. This is the privileged world into which I was born, heir of a financial dynasty whose value was determined at conception by ancestry and last name. Like any good prince I began my training for the boardroom throne early and took my lessons to heart; I was nothing if not the dutiful son, proper in all ways, a model courtier. And while blood cannot truly bind, and names may be cast off like an ill-fit suit, even a renegade of high society cannot escape its influence completely. Years have passed since I led the stifling, affluent life of capitalist royalty, yet not a day goes by that I don’t move subconsciously to slip back into the role I abandoned. More than the ingrained habits or nagging memories, it’s the sense of judgment, of being watched and weighed, which seems impossible to shake. I live in fear some member of that court might spot me one day and know, by the way I act or look, that I too am one of them; fear that someday I will be dragged back to take my unwilling place beneath the detested crown.
Sometimes I dream I am trying to talk him down from the ledge. He stands facing the drop, body stiff against the wind, toes hanging over the edge of the roof. I can’t see his face but I imagine his eyes are open, staring out over the sleeping city with neither interest nor fear. I want to grasp his wrist and pull him back yet some instinct urges caution (to protect him? or myself?). Instead I bridge the space with my voice, begging him to stay, promising I can help if he’ll just give me a chance. He never answers me, though, nor acknowledges my presence. He doesn’t even move until inevitably I falter and fall silent, at a loss for more persuasive words, and even then it’s just the barest scrape of his heel moving over the ledge as if he might step out onto the air itself. He won’t, though, dream or no. He always falls, just as I always wake with the need to cry out a name I do not know; the newspapers never revealed the man’s identity. I am left haunted by the ghost of some stranger’s suicide, unable to shake the guilty suspicion that I could have helped him, had I come sooner into his life than the last few seconds of his plunge to the pavement.