Tag: prose

What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, but what kills me grants me the opportunity to befriend the forgotten eldritch monsters of the underworld and learn their witchcraft.

one day, you will have to explain. you will have to look at them and mumble an apology to calm the hurt that makes their voice tremble, because who are you to not believe their feelings? how can you scoff after the word love leaves their mouth? and you’ll stand there looking at your feet the sky the trees anything but their face, and you’ll have to find a way of saying that you don’t take them for a liar but that your disbelief of love settling against your skin takes them for one. 

Calling someone a flower name because they’re pretty: boooring.

Calling someone a flower name because they absorb deadly star rays to expand in size and expel a substance that would likely be lethal to most alien life forms: photosyNTHEXCITING.

We’re too young to worry this much, they say. We’re too young to ask for that much change, they hiss. When else will we worry, we scream, and how else will we bring change, if we can’t be sure to grow old enough to be allowed worries and anger and actions by them?

If magic was only alive for one month a year, that month would be September. It’s a time beyond what I understand, but I let myself get lost in it every year – because nothing says home like autumn’s gentle whisper of “welcome back”.

And here you are, twenty-one, twenty-three, twenty-sixsevennine, a two before your age and a zero in your mind. Grown, they say, but growing you are. Adult, they warn you, act like it, but you just learned how to become a catastrophe and now you don’t know whether you’re a bonfire, the roar of a hurricane or the sobbing of the sea at night. You’re so painfully young and the world thinks you old over the fear nesting where feathers were supposed to sprout by now. It hurts, love. I know it does. Everything’s so large and ancient and full of years,  or it’s younger and glinting with more ferocity already than you think you could ever be. And you feel like your era has passed, mouth purple from biting into the air that is all breath and no answers, but listen. There’s no path. There’s no siren when you stop to reach for the petals of a flower you’ve been looking for since you were a child. There’s no punishment for a pen in your shy fingers and paper that was crafted just to hear your words. There are so many lovers waiting for you, lovers made of flesh and bones or ink or music.  There are entire continents of dust waiting to be left in your wake, and it doesn’t care what you’re coming for. It just knows that one day, one day, it gets to rise around your steps. You’re so lonely that it tears you apart, and you’re so painfully young and afraid but love, you are only just growing. 
The stars are lovely tonight, don’t you think?
You’ll make it. There’s enough time to come.

Reasons why I do anything in life:

– need to do this or I’ll die

– I’m good at this so watch me be fantastic

– I want to be good at this so look at me becoming obsessed with it

– sounds interesting, let’s fucking do it

And my personal favorite:

– someone told me that I couldn’t do it