Light slips through the blinds, slivers of gold illuminating the room. Chains engraved with dates and memories bind him to his bed, eyes open because there are less flattering things to reminisce about when they're closed.

(Remember that one time four years ago?)

Groggy composure contorts into a grimace. He groans, wiping a sluggish hand over his face at an attempt to clean the memory from his conscious. It does nothing more than cover his vision with temporary darkness, and the memory resurfaces, a hot mess of familiar faces and an embarrassing past self.

Long hair and a terrible fashion sense. Graphic tees and camo pants.

He's found a better style.

(Though, anything could be considered better than the graphic-tee-and-camo-pants combination. Even his birthday suit, because at least he loves his body more than he did all those years ago. He likes to think that it shows with how he carries himself. And the fact that he actually has some meat on his bones, now.)

He shifts, thinking that the smaller movements might give him the energy to actually wake up. His weighted blanket covers his waist, but not his chest, and after an eternity of about two minutes (in disassociation time), he realizes that it's fucking freezing, and lifts a (not actually) fifty pound arm to pull the blanket up to cover him in a coccoon of what he wished was an actual person. Or maybe a cat.

(But oh, the voice he's beaten back with a stick starts to mock, you know who you wish was here with you, cuddling and warm in this cold room of yours—)

Another eternity of cringing, flinching away at awkward interactions with her, because who the Hell knows how to act around attractive women? His face burns, but at least the blush warms his body in his room, frigid from winter and a fan left on for gray noise.

The fan. He focuses on it, the noise of the three blades working in perfect mechanical synchrony to pull him back into the lazy river of a thoughtless mind, streams of words that lead to a void that he will never truly recall when he returns from his place in space. An empty canvas painted with invisible ink, and—

And thud goes something outside his bedroom door, and his soul falls back to his bed.

(How poetic.)

The birds sing outside his window, and he lifts his head to watch dust trickle in the sunlight, the occassional shadow of a sparrow greeting him.

South-facing windows were a terrible creation, he thinks absent-mindedly, eyes half-glaring at the sun and its position directly in front of his comfortable bed. Extra pillows piled up in front of the side closest to the window, so when he was completely horizontal, he would (usually) be perfectly hidden from the blinding rays.

Nothing more painful than a south-facing window.

Nothing—

—a quiet puff of laughter, not humorous but awkward, confused; eyes flicker everywhere around the room and you are oblivious, blind because of infatuation, because a confession could never be rejected, not by you—

—alright, maybe there were things.

Guilt grabs and twists his gut into a nauseous concoction, because he was an asshole when he was younger. Being raised by a narcissist does that to someone, but it's not like he isn't an asshole now. It's just different— he's a bitch because he doesn't let people push him around.

He's a bitch because he speaks his mind, and since he's AFAB* (he wished it meant A Fabulous, Arrogant Bastard), people like him aren't supposed to speak their mind. But he does it anyway, even if the repercussions make him add another terrible memory to cringe about late at night when he's trying to sleep.

(Who needs sleep?)

After all, that's what coffee's for.

Coffee. What time is it? The thought repeats, echoesechoesechoes until he finally has the energy to push himself up. Slow, perhaps to delay the inevitable for a few seconds longer. He grabs a sweater, sweatpants, slips them on.

Feels like that's used up all of the energy he has, and he blinks slowly. Moves like a sloth, because don't they move slow to save energy? But he curses at himself, because dumbass, you're not a sloth.

Manages to (finally) get out of bed, finds his phone. Looks at the time.

Then he hauls ass back under the covers, because the inevitable can be delayed for a little while longer.

_

*AFAB = Assigned Female At Birth.

Yes I'm questioning my identity. No I don't care about pronouns, this just always happens when I'm PMS-ing and I felt like writing it out. Yes this is about me.

(tw: sexual assault)

so cute, so handsome

kind regards and chaos wrapped up in a ransom.

i. do as she says, duct tape around your features

that she doesn’t like ’cause you’re a foul fowl creature

ii. peacock, we stop, kneel with our knees locked

she lost, legs crossed, dreams tossed for his cost

iii. he is a pure boy at twenty-three /

but she’s a dirty slut at sweet sixteen

iv. she is a model, a perfect queen

and he got a “lapdance” but not for free.

_

every 73 seconds, an American is sexually assaulted.

every 9 minutes, that victim is a child.

If any of you read my wtw before I left (and then came back because I'm a lonely sucker for writing praise and online friendships) you might have seen I responded to one of their prompts which was to list my quarantine playlist. Fun prompt, it might even still be there if you want. But anyway--what if we multiplied that, hmm?

What if we did that? *snarky smile*

Act i~ Coming of Age Kind of Picturesque/Young, Wild and Free (January 1-March 18, 2020)

i'm so tired by Lauv ft. Troye Sivan- Dear Carly, thanks for turning the beginning of my roaring 20's into a roaring, Great Gatsby style wonderland where every light is purple and every drink is held with pinkies up. We always listened to Lauv and Taylor Swift, especially her lover album. You might've loved Taylor Swft more than me. That's crazy. But we shouted this song the loudest in your car that the people next to us might've heard.

We made so many plans for the year, remember? We were going to go outside of Annapolis to that slam poetry bar and you'd tape it and Mel and I'd be the youngest poets there but we'd get the most applause. You were going to take me to college just to see the big library, and then I'd help you study to get your white coat.

I saw on facebook that you got your white coat and I'm really proud of you. I wish you'd return my calls.

Dear Winter by AJR- Dear Mrs. Lohr, I miss you. I miss the quiet moments in the back of the theater room and painting six foot fiddles. I miss saying my lines really fast so I could just go sit with you and this song. I miss you teaching me art techniques and if I ever see you again I promise I'll let you hug me--I feel bad now that I didn't before, but how could we know, right? Thanks for looking at pictures of my crush and my prom dress and my prom plans with him that he broke my heart before, thanks for not telling my mom all of that, and being there during my existential crises and breakdowns over paint. I'll fix my sculpture someday.

I'll let you hug me if I see you again--I might hug you first. I miss you, Mrs. Lohr. Thanks for being the best teacher in the world.

Before You Go by Lewis Capaldi- Dear Aunt B, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'd rush through my lines in your play to go work paint sets. I'm sorry it probably seemed like I quit theatre midway through the year and the only thing there was my presence. In my little brain I liked to think you were all-seeing. You saw everything, my emotions and how I was growing and changing and I thought by quitting theatre I'd just found myself, that's that. It was just a step.

I was so scared to tell you everything. We're talking again, but you still don't know what feels like anything about who I am.

You are not all-seeing. If you were, you'd have seen me crying in the bathroom the day you left teaching. You never said you were leaving the co-op, but I knew. I just knew. I blamed myself for that and put this song on repeat for hours when I got home.

You're not mad at me. I don't think you ever were. But it's still okay to say sorry, and Aunt B, I'm really really sorry.

Location by Khalid- Dear Sidney, you gave me the best morning of my life on February 10, 2020. I think you always think I'm joking when I say that because you tend to remind me that the whole sneaking out thing got me grounded, but it was only the rest of the week, and besides, it was so worth it. The mist and the popcorn you stole and I hummed this song and talked about having my heart broken and you told me about how you're sure you'll be a pastor's wife and I was fresh off of the flu and five pounds less and everything feels like a fever dream now.

I was talking about it yesterday and my mom didn't even remember at first, it seems so long ago. But it was real. I know, you know. It was real. It was the best, realest morning and I want to be able to live like that again someday.

Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince by Taylor Swift- Dear Seth, our relationship fell apart and I think I learned a lot from you. You were the first relationship that was more than a crush--we weren't quite together but we weren't just open for the taking. We were reserved for each other and it was so comfortable. I miss it still sometimes, I miss the staring and the careful-talk and the screaming and fighting over the fact that you won't read a book--I see now we only wanted the best for each other. I wish you all the best still.

We can finally be friends and talk and not feel sad now. It isn't weird anymore. I'm glad it happened, though. I'm glad it ended slow and painful. I'm glad we're alive, and you can be my first love,

This song got me through it all. Now it just makes me dance--New Year's Day reminds me most, but it's not sad anymore. You never liked sad. I'm not sad, you'd like that. It's nostalgic, we still see each other in the stars at night just like it used to be, but we aren't in love.

The last of the happy ended. Our relationship, and the world.

All the best to you all, stay safe and healthy, okay?

xx- Riley

(October is so long gone now; the leaves are down in my neighborhood and

it is cold cold cold)

   I think I'll apply to Harvard I think I'll keep it a secret

 so then when I don't get in I'm not the failure or the punch line       

       of some long time family joke.

        Hilarious.

I've always been that dopamine snort but now I sit still still still at e-church sermons

that have long stopped being gone to.

She touches my arm and it tenses. I hope my hair grows by next Christmas,

this year's my free pass--don't touch me,     

   I beg.

         God, don't touch.

My show got turned down for something called "When Santa Lost His Ho Ho Ho"

and I wish I could say that I'm lying; I'm not.

And I wish I could say I'll put on my show but I probably won't, I won't let them

  keep it for January it won't even be Christmas anymore and--

Brief. 

    God, I'll keep my letter of thanks and resignation brief brief brief

           so I can shove it in my pocket and keep it for when I need it,

           brief. So brief, so

           deep deep deep, so

I can't help but wonder if God is waiting for me at college. I laugh with my

constant state of fear of the future but maybe She walks the hallowed halls.

Her walls are enthroned in feminist posters and ivy,

and She is just waiting for me to come so we can have tea and talk like old friends.

When you grow up do you want to go to law school? 

You always were so smart.

(November) going bad bad bad

   Put little candies in my lunch and dress like a skater LIKE HELL.

     Learn the Romans loved their structures like they loved their own selves but

   what's toppled over is oh my heavenly hosts I'll have to tell Aunt B--

              if this is a warning sign I'm an idiot for not taking it.

But we haven't spoken in months, she'll just laugh, call me cute and ever-changing.

I'm the angsty teen niece but it isn't bad--I just wonder how much she still knows,

and she posted her old wedding photos on facebook.

Aunt B made a beautiful bride.

And when a Roman structure toppled the marble was hard but the Romans 

          were fine.

     The place was not salvaged, but they rebuilt it on the ground

       and kept it holy.

I'll be the one who made it out--the compass faces North to the Lord of the sun

              She waits for me at college,

     She threw the paintbrushes out the window but I didn't even notice.

                      I was reading again.

(December will shine like the day,

I was promised.)

youth is strewn across the room,

pieces and parts haphazardly thrown around, 

and when she looks for them, it seems she gets older, 

with every passing moment of longing and venturing. 

how was she not to treasure the thing she had beheld? 

and when she's crying over the lost of something dear, 

she calls to God, who turns blind eyes to sinners, 

and she is a sinner now. and now she calls for love 

from the demons below, calling and calling towards 

the fallen angel, and that is her God now. 

he flies upon the wings of Icarus, feathers and wax 

melting into his skin as he glides above the clouds, 

tasting frothy forgiveness against his cold cheeks. 

but that is until his wings give out, because materialistic 

things fall apart, and deep down he knows his wings 

aren't the only things made from materialistic fantasies.

spiraling down he plummets, the earth swallowing him whole,

and even the wings of Icarus cannot save him from his fate, 

as the wax and feathers bleed in vain; of dusty truths and 

hidden beginnings. and he falls, swallowed into nonexistence. 

clinging to the fragmented truth, they withheld the realities, 

calling to Dionysus for that last taste of ecstasy. because who 

would want to die by the hands of Titans, and they know they 

will not survive, and their efforts are in vain, but the taste of 

dripping wine from eternal yearning springs to mind, and 

Dionysus appears. torn apart are they, heart of jaded longings 

buried into the depths of forever ago, and was that taste 

of ecstasy worth it? was it worth dying in nevermore? 

the river Styx covers it, blessing it with the shield of 

eternal suffering, and it is drowned in the Underworld, 

swallowing the griefs of the dead and the lives of the dying, 

it feels the way it burns their esophagus, the way it feels like 

screaming and clawing at the thin layer of being in its throat, 

it tastes the fiery bile of grief and the willingness to throw everything 

away for another day to live, and it sheds tears in solace, 

droplets of grievances dipped into pools of grasping hands, 

and it is eroded away in the depths of the Styx, its being forsaken 

in the hands of eternal suffering and longing for another day. 

and decorate your hands upon the grace of Olympus, dipping 

your fingertips in the dying facade of bliss and dreams come true, 

oh Achilles, it is no wonder you have bestowed upon us the only 

part of you that had not been protected and guarded, for if we 

were to become Gods, we would fall into the depths of madness, 

and forsake ourselves against the mirage of vanity.

the moon was a piece of silver foiled chocolate

-i struck gimel and put the coin between my lips-

and the sky darkened so we could see the eiffel tower,

all lit up with christmas lights and stars.

i woke up between orange and white sheets

and went to stand on the balcony.

the moon was gone, i had eaten it,

the shadowed sun was still there,

muffled by the gauzy clouds' embroidery;

meringue melted on my tongue.

the marble steps at versailles dip in the middle

where people have worn them away for years;

ancient footsteps sink into my own.

i see the lake in the gardens and wonder

whether i could walk on water-

i can. the queen's guests clap at me, faces red from wine,

the queen herself watches through powdered lids;

she never smiles, but her eyes sparkle

like that of a young life cut short.

you know i’m not the one for love poems or things like that, because i think something like that is a little too much for me to ever express using any words. even now, i’m having a little trouble writing this because everything i’m supposed to say, i hope you know already.

but just in case you don’t—

we met when summer leaned into our bodies. i think i fought with a ball of hydrogen to welcome you in, do you remember? i hope you weren’t scared away or taken aback; that’s the effect i tend to have. and i admit, it took me awhile to really stick to you. your writing reminded me of myself; it was a little like a mole that popped up once and disappeared after that. i guess i met you one day but couldn’t find it in myself to follow you until weeks had passed. but watching your words jump off the page, paint the skies with stars, it was all i could do to come crawling back.

(and you probably didn’t know, but i was a little jealous of you. of you and your talent, the gorgeous things you wrote from the get-go. i admired you so much.)

things changed after that. june deflated like a party balloon and all of a sudden, everything was gone. i know it sounds stupid, but i think i was tricked into coming here by the wedding bells. still, i’d never regret it. you came a little bit after me, and i hope that i welcomed you in well enough. “fresh meat” didn’t really stick, not when we were all in the same boat now. we were still lingering at a distance back then, but at least i knew you were close.

(i had always kept an eye on you. even when you didn’t see me, i was always there.)

and you’re right, it was you that reached out first but me that responded first, galloping to our dms. something about a show, a future that wasn’t ours but still lied in our hands. i think that was our introductory phase, when we wrote each other long blocks of text because we yearned to know each other. i yearned to know you, i yearned to talk to you, and i awaited all of your messaged with fervor, waiting for you to finish talking, typing out my responses long after i knew you were asleep. it was amateurish but it was fun. it was so fun.

(and you might know this, but i felt so so alone back then. but suddenly, you were there, and i wasn’t anymore.)

you invited me first, again, and i thought you were amazing for doing what you did. more miles we moved, to a more convenient place where i could see your messages as soon as they were sent. and i was so excited because at the end of the month, i’d finally be able to talk out loud to the people i admired and loved. i looked forward to meeting you, except it came much more quickly. your eyes and your hair. your pictures and your videos. i kept it all here, bouncing my leg when for the first time, i was able to hear your voice. then, you were able to see me. maybe i’m more talkative than you thought, maybe i’m too talkative and you think i’m annoying, but i was so glad to be able to finally inch closer to a picture of you. i worry, but you’re always there. i hope you’re always here.

(and your singing, god, i probably made a fool of myself.)

lastly—the things i was able to share with you that i couldn’t tell anyone else. and i don’t want to make it about myself—even though it’s a little too late to say that—but i know i can’t go around doing whatever i want. i was distraught once, maybe even miserable, but then i was able to tell everything to you. and i don’t know if you hate it or not, but i feel like i can let down my guard when i’m around you. really, i just keep running back to that place where you’re waiting. i can’t say too much, but i’m thankful. i’m so so thankful that you’re here. from back then to now, i’m thankful.

(you can tell me anything, i promise. i’ll stay by your side for as long as it takes.)

it’s your fifteenth year, and i might have to go respecting you again. it’s far too close to mine, but maybe that’s the happiness in it. i know this is just a disorganized ramble, but i love you far too much to be poetic about it. and you probably overthink a lot of things, but simply, i’m always here.

happy birthday.

what if we wore corsets of whalebone and held

oil lamps and charcoal between our fingers, what

if we sang with the birds caught between the window

and the mirror? you’ll take the salt and i’ll take the wax,

full and golden like gods’ blood, but darling, we’re

taming demons tonight.

first, love, you’ll paint me with woad and black

like the leaves of tomes spilled about our feet, but

will you watch the dye seep into my skin like

blood drips from noses to floorboards?

darling, cast away your collar and skirts, this is

women’s work, brutal business.

dress a chignon with rue and violets and string

rosemary and river rock ’round your pale neck;

let the lily’s blood pass from my lips to yours.

i’ll dust your shoulders with lapis, i’ll linger

on the freckles, but love, don’t spill the salt

when you shudder.

candles tickle fingers and laces, but the circle’s

cast and all that’s left to do is dance around

the truth of lust; take the devil in your arms and

waltz because she’s the only gospel you have now;

can you feel the flame above us, darling? whisper

sacrilegious incantations in my heart.

then pray to your paranoia, love, and

ask that we’ll never be found.

colorado says you'll never see the 

mountains at sunset the same way twice.

the days melt like snowflakes, the air so thin

it tears if you're not careful. vegas says to lean into the

headache. the skyline hurts like a broken radio.

a city so green and greedy even the graveyards 

smell like a casino. california says

there's a graveyard for everything in the desert:

airplanes, wind farms, bushes drowned in

sunlight. if you're not careful,

you drive through one end and

leave your body behind. 

suppose i meet death in the park

and she is sitting on a bench and feeding the pigeons. i chew

blue bubble gum on the bus ride home and all the people look like

abstractions. suppose when death put her warm hands on the sleeve

of my jacket and tugged she replaced me with something else. a cardboard

cutout. my parents take scissors when i arrive on the front porch and

slice me in two and i smile. suppose i take off my clothes and all the stars

pour out. i forgot that i went home with the universe last night. i forgot

whether i swallowed fire or whiskey. i go to the drugstore at three in the morning

and buy superglue so i can stick all the stars back on the sky because they've grown

sick of me. and the people still dance like puddles of drunken light, like the

rejects of the heavens. i'm afraid to look the world in the eye because i'm afraid

it might blind me. suppose i meet god in the liquor aisle and she hates me. suppose

i'm looking at my reflection in the cold glass. the voice on the loudspeaker tells me

i've been playing god my whole life. that i don't know how to be mortal. the cashier looks at the stars on my neck and smiles with bloody teeth and blonde hair.

i go home and strip myself of my skin and my body doesn't know where to go anymore.

i'll sit by my windowsill and watch the stars disappear. they remember the way home.

i traverse the maps of my body, stand at the doors to myself. nothing welcomes me back.