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[bostonpoetryslam]

Isn’t it funny? How the cold numbs everything          but grief. If we could light up the room with pain,                       we’d be such a          glorious fire.

Ada Limón, “Lashed To The Helm, All Stiff And Stark,” from Bright Dead Things  (via weltenwellen)

[06mp]

an aesthetics post please. 😌

leather notebooks and ticking watches. thick jumpers in winter, cups of hot coffee. words lingering too long. half burnt cigarettes; sirens at 2am. cold like steel. the sound of muffled music from another floor. her hand in his, his jacket across her shoulders. her scent on his pillows. abandoned. a glance out the window - the skyline ablaze. love like a gunshot to the chest. the feeling when walking the streets alone in neon lights ( i can’t walk away from this ). rumbling thunder, the humid summer. something beautiful but annihilating.  

                      ——home. 

[luthienne]

Keep busy with survival. Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go.

May Sarton, from Journal of a Solitude (via weltenwellen)

[nightcallrp]

MEME: NIGHTCALL STARTER/ONESHOT SENTENCES—

“I’ll stop if you tell me what I wanna know.” “You’re in a good mood today.” “You said you’d die for me. Now prove it.” “Personally, I’m glad they’re dead.” “I don’t want your money. I just want your pain.” “Run on me again, and I’ll break the other one.” “That pill was stronger than I thought.” “Go on, then. Pull the trigger.” “No one’s coming for you.” “I’m calling the police.” “Time to move on.” “Admit it.” “Should I pray?” “Time never stands still.” “How long have you been listening?” “I don’t have anywhere else to go.” “Got anything to eat?” “No kids.” “I’ll take care of this—you can go back.” “Don’t pull any funny business with me.” “Shit happens.” “Pretending to be senile won’t help you here.” “I want to see you beg.”

[ncseunghyun-blog]

“Time never stands still.”

Maybe once Seunghyun would have looked right at him when he said it, would have done so when he had talked at all. But it had also been once that he’d been so fixated with details—a single, delicate eyelash on the curve of a cheek, the finite number of scars on knuckles, paper creases made uneven—each one ingrained, traced over with the fine touch of memory. 

Instead, he’s out here, eyes on a horizon devoid of color, as dark waves roll in and out over the shoreline. They’re alone and with them is the sound of the world that they’ve known and will always know, right here on the very edge. It’s been said how a life cycle begins and ends in the water—perhaps it’s the one and only thing Seunghyun believes in. His father’s ashes sunken onto the riverbed, a mother’s body buried by the ocean view, and now him: in the back of his mind’s eye, he sees an apparition of the boy he was, made of soft skin and even softer bones, running, running, running as though he had something to get away from. 

That same boy once had held sand by the fistful, never letting not a single grain fall between the spaces of his fingers. Funny how everything had felt so compliant, prone to his touch. Now he doesn’t even think to look at the ground. 

Through the deafening noise of the sea, he manages to pick out the metallic click of a lighter, followed by an inhale, a breath seeped out. His gaze averts from the sea, turns to watch the billow of smoke rise from the ‘o’ of Taewook’s mouth. The familiarity doesn’t strike him, how vividly he recalls the motions; in fact it nearly underwhelms him. 

It’s in this way that he’s inevitably overgrown. Too worn out, too tired to think about how history can or cannot repeat itself, how he can put himself into places he can no longer fit in.

“In a place like this? No doubt there’d be a few differences, if not some.” 

How the waves were darker, so dark that it could’ve been mistaken to be part of the night sky had it not been for the rippled reflection of the moon. The sand white, white against it all, warm in his clenched grip. The echoes both quiet and loud, full of muted sighs and the most tangled of heartstrings becoming undone and alive. 

“Yeah.” The look on Taewook’s face is something Seunghyun hadn’t seen until now, the resignation palpable, strange in its newness. It feels as though it shouldn’t be there at all. 

“You’re right." 

They remain still, letting the silence fall slow, lapse into the broadening space between where they stood. The last time they were here it they’d been both sixteen, and it’d began with the sharing of a cigarette. But that was back then, and what had started and had already come to an end is never worth pulling back to the surface. 

So it stays between his lips, the tiny flecks of ashes from the end left falling, falling, falling until the last of the flame flickers out. 

[1601k]

▬ night sky with exit wounds.

[1601k]

ncminseo:

she places the coffee in the cup holder - and how lonely it looks. singular. odd. no longer accompanied by his coffee. but what a foolish thought it was; it’s been this way for a long time now. 

she’s suddenly reminded of how many things she had forgotten - like the exact shade of his eyes, the way his arms felt around her, the way her name sounded in his mouth. she desperately grasped onto those memories but they slipped through her fingers like water. and now she tries not to obsess over this moment and each little detail, but god… the sound of his voice could tear her apart. 

he nearly runs a red light, but she doesn’t need to look at him to see the tightness in his expression. her gaze is steadily fixed on the scenery outside, watching the cars blur past her - from silvers to reds to blues. she says nothing in reply, slowly processing his words. there’s only the sound of their breathing and the steady hum of the engine. 

she knows the truth; she feels it in her gut like an age old instinct impossible to ignore. why else would he be at yuripa and being introduced to her as one of the executors? there were no other logical explanations and the rage comes slowly after the hurt. 

( to think she had thought it was her fault he had left! )

“and this is a place to be? being business partners with the yuripa?” she replies, words sharp. she still doesn’t dare to say his name - it’s dead and almost foreign on her tongue; it’s the bullet in her heart, the knife in her throat. “they call you the mad dog. i imagine you’re more than just a business partner.” 

she’s tense, arms crossed over her chest, still avoiding his initial question. “have you forgotten that our team leader died because of them?” and she remembers her last phone call with taewook - and her breath trembles in her chest. “i suppose i shouldn’t be surprised, but why can’t you just tell me now?” he hasn’t lied entirely, but that was neither comforting nor distressing. the next words come out quieter, vowels softer. “i don’t want half truths from you.” 

oblivion is bliss and at times painfully so. her brutal honesty reopens old wounds all too effortlessly, all rough edges with no corners cut. the worst part of this is his inability to fault her for it — for chipping away at the boundaries he’s long held up in defence, a lone battle fought for the sake of restoring and maintaining equilibrium in all aspects.

evasion no longer works in his favour, what with the past forcefully shoved down his throat and essentially rendering everything he’s believed in moot. there are words crushed in his chest, silence in place of the initial fluttering as a perpetual state of dread. the familiar alias realises his fear and if there's anything he remembers her by, it's the persistence she holds till she gets to the very end. it escalates into a game of truth or dare, the latter enveloped in a thin layer of ice, fragility waiting to be destroyed. honesty is no longer a mere option for him — through ( the wreckage ) is his only way out.

“it’s profitable, s’long as i don’t concern myself with what other funny businesses that they have going on.” truth.

“how––” he begins, but the question dies in his mouth –– how else could she have known. brows pulled taut, exasperation and concern brew a lethal concoction that fills his system with inexplicable anger. he wants to hear it from her. “who is they?”

“park minseo.” it’s gritted teeth and a tone with underlying fury and bitterness –– not the way he’s imagined her name will first taste after all these years. yet this is what she does, always, driving him right out of all his comfort zones and coming face-to-face with every god fucking damn fear he’s managed to abstain from; shedding light on the dustiest of corners, and there is nothing more aggravating than his acceptance of it.

“you think i could?” vagueness is all he can afford at this moment, price of the truth skyrocketing with her involvement. ultimately, his intentions are still about his own concerns: anything, anything to keep her from finding out what he’s capable of and what stains the hands that have once held her heart. “his death was unfortunate,” grip tight around the steering wheel, he switches to the last lane and steps on the accelerator, “but it is what it is. dwelling changes none of that.”

the softened tone has a breath hitched at the back of his throat, lips rolled into a thin line briefly. “he protected his team, that was his price to pay.” a slight tremble twitches at his fingers, knuckles paling while he narrates the story as though he’s an outsider. this is a guilt that has its claws around his insides, twisting and cawing when it pleases, one he’s long learnt to live with. he parts his lips around an inhale, “learning the truth now won’t do you any good. there are more important things at stake, and the significance of these truths doesn’t even come close.”

[melisica]

You think you deserve that pain but you don’t.

Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005)

[mangafascination]

[iddaniella-deactivated20230111]

&&. fangirls

[1601k]

ncdoyeon:

          doyeon has a very extensive knowledge on the love fans can have for their idols, and to have any type of merchandise ruined can be extremely devastating — especially if it was at the fault of someone else. but she also knows very well of the love fans can have for their idols, and the apologetic look settling on her features paired with the guilty ton of bricks weighing down on her shoulders is enough evidence to prove that she knows there’s the possibility this encounter won’t go too well. particularly if he happens to be an ugly sasaeng or problematic fan. 

❛ i’m so sorry !! ❜ she repeats herself as if it’ll help the situation and miraculously soften the harsh look on the other’s face. of course, her three word apology doesn’t do anything but probably irritate the other more than he already is. her own light stick is clutched tightly in her hand, glowing purple in strong support of girl group gfriend. nobody –not even the other fans standing so closely around the two– take notice of what’s going on other than the idols performing onstage. the snapped light stick lying on the ground is no longer glowing.

❛ i didn’t mean to break your light stick, sir. i didn’t even see it on the ground — eunha unnie is just too cute to take your eyes off of, am i right ?? ❜ she tries to save herself by bringing the idol into the conversation, hoping that eunha’s adorable face will put the other at ease at least a tiny bit. who can be angry at a concert like this when you have so much to be happy about ?? the event is just getting started and there are still so many songs to be performed, plus a lot of fan service in store for everyone. ❛ you can have this fan, if you want. it has umji’s face on it !! ❜ the teen holds out said fan after fishing it out of her backpack. truce ??

the light ( unintentional ) shove from his other side doesn’t go unnoticed, but with a more pressing issue at hand, he files it in the back of his mind for later. oh, he understands the dynamics of how a concert works, how effortless it is to lose one’s head in the midst of screams and chaos and the stunning presence of these idols. it isn’t the understanding that he lacks, but rather forgiveness.

“ listen, ” he begins, though the mention of eunha and the prompt screams in the direction of the stage divide his attention briefly. “that was one of their original designs back in 2016 and in mint condition, a sorry doesn’t bring it back to life.” a breath drawn, he doesn’t bear to glance down at what remnants of his precious lay beneath the girl’s foot, brows knitted and tone one of incredulity.

“ don’t bring eunha into this –– ” despite his words, he finds his gaze focused on the backpack she’s currently rummaging through, curious ( though he’s unlikely to admit such ) as to what she has in mind. a compensation of sorts, perhaps?

the values of fan merchandise vary for individuals, heavily dependent on the type of attachment one holds towards an inanimate object, and the meanings one attaches to it. that’s the beauty of it, though unfortunately it is also his downfall. he reaches for said fan with a hand, albeit seemingly unwillingly ( before she changes her mind ), examining it idly. truce? nuh-uh, not yet. “ your phone, ” nonchalantly gestures with his free hand held in front of her.

[meyrum-deactivated20260306]

[1601k]

meyrum:

친구 2

[florizels]

How they’d loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood. We were ruinous together, she thinks. But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin?

Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin (via florizels)

[ncseunghyun-blog]

the middle of the world

[1601k]

ncseunghyun:

There’s no denying the covered grounds: the empty streets they’d roam by night, young and unconcerned and livid with the world that’s all theirs and the skeletons left behind in dark alleyways. He’s compliant to memory, but not to its tendency to bend and break the bearer over their knees—for better or worse, he still remembers: a livewire boy, with a different kind of electricity wired through his bones, left at the mercy of gravity. There hadn’t been the chance to catch his breath, as it all had happened so fast: the slip, the fall, the sickening impact several stories down. Even now, Seunghyun recalls the first thought that had come to mind that night: how he had no idea a body could break at angles that sharp, how it’d take days, even weeks to scrub out the dark pool stained into the asphalt. 

It’s one of two skeletons he’s left behind. The other is here, hair and clothes slick with rain, looking more like some phantom shadow than any real, breathing thing. His dryness is predictable—certainly it must be an inevitability, a sign of the wearing thin over keeping thick skin. Somehow all of this makes Seunghyun feel more vulnerable than he should. 

“Would’ve been hard to find that out—I did kind of vanish without notice.” The look in his eyes says enough.

( “It’s what I wanted all this time.” )

In the back of his mind, he’s half-convinced that it had simply been the case of distance making the heart grow far from fonder; the desire to move on less than a want than it was a need. Survivor’s guilt no longer feels like a fresh bruise, but the motions resurface like a bad habit, like a hand tracing over the places that have long seemed to heal, remembering where it had hurt the most, aching black and blue. In the short-lived silence, the question swells up in the empty space, fills in the gap from end to end: is it better to pretend to consider the could-have’s, or best to never consider them at all?

“So,” He holds himself steady, each word shaped straight and even and artificial. How Taewook would respond means nothing nothing to him.

Or so he tells himself.

“What’s your business here?”    

he’s teetering around the edge of which he’s been cautious enough not to cross over. call it what you will –– this coincidence, but fate is a funny word for a man who paints his own path with flesh and iron. it’s a cruel reminder of the greyest of areas in between black and white, life and death –– where he’s been left, a graveyard of ambiguity and moral conflicts. it’s the legroom for all the lies ( it’s okay. it happens. ) he’s told himself for a semblance of the false sense of security.

perhaps there is still hope left somewhere in them from all these years ago, waiting to be ignited with forgiveness.

he doesn’t take any steps forth. there is comfort in distance, in the silence with no questions and no invitations down the memory lane they ( used to ) share.

they weren’t the boys he thought they were.

a nod, “ you did what you had to ” ( would’ve been nice to hear from you in the least –– anything at all. ). it’s not entirely empathy, but he does make an effort in attempting some. essentially, this is what happens when they play with the flames –– it spirals out of control and bridges are burnt, leaving in its trail the ugliness of what they are capable of together, wiping the rest clean. this state of being in between is all they are left with now.

the flowers in his hand seem out of place. he’s beginning to think he should’ve shown up empty-handed after all. nevertheless, he presents them with both hands, a habit of respect ingrained in the gesture considering who these are for. the dots are connected somehow, every crack filled in with the newfound realisation –– the cheekbones, that same curve of a half smile. he has a hunch or two, but he gives the benefit of doubt and what appears to be consideration on his part.

“ flowers, for the old man who used to work here. ” a brief pause, “ shared an awful lot of stories with me, this is the least i could give. ”

[cittamemes]

In Depth Headcanon Prompts;

[1601k]

cittamemes:

☠ : Are there any recent/daily thoughts they have about death or dying? ☯ : Do they believe for every darkness there is a lightness? If not, why? ♥ : Name one thing about the way their emotions work that they despise. ☆ : Would they ever wish upon a falling star? If so, what would they wish? ☁ : Describe how they would spend a stormy, overcast/rainy day. ☂ : Storms or clear skies? εжз : What about nature do they find calming? What about nature do they find disagreeable? ☎ : List three or more people they would call out for during an emergency. ☛ : What is their typical response to being given orders? ☢ : Describe a thought or dream that would cause them to have a mental meltdown. ✄ : Are there any reasons why they would ever think of self-harm? If so, what are they? ❤ : Describe a physical action that shows complete trust. ❥ : Describe a verbal way they would express complete trust. ✗ : Explain how they portray feelings of hostility or dislike. ⊗ : What is something that causes them to question themself? ☾ : On a sleepless night, what would they be found doing? ☤ : Is there anything about their health they are continuously on edge about? Something they disregard? ✓ : Name at least two people who can trust them with their life. ❣: Describe a way that will earn affection (whether platonic or romantic) from them. ✖ : Describe a way to make them uneasy or apprehensive. ♆ : Are they prone to violent outbursts or thoughts? ✏ : What are their creative outlets? ✉ : Do they tend to rely on words or actions more? ♡ : Is there a certain scent that brings about nostalgia? If so, describe a memory this scent brings back. ۞: Are there any inner demons they can never seem to get rid of? What are they?

[umryusol-blog]

speed up

[1601k]

ncjennie:

she’s chasing the moon through a narrowing path, alleyway walls stretching out her shadow to a near-terrifying size as it tails her relentlessly. it latches onto her, ghost hands searing into her back, and nearly tugs a falter in her footsteps; but not quite. the chase is banal for the most part, akin to opening credits of a movie that she’d much rather skip over altogether. for the longest time it’s just her and her footsteps, wind against brick walls, mosquito-bitten flesh of the moon against the paper canvas of a black sky. 

she curbs a corner, and there he is, stalking just a few feet behind a poor lady unfortunate enough to cross his path. goosebumps litter her skin, shiver trickling down her spine as she measures her options. slipping a hand into the pocket of her hoodie, she finds her pen, cool metal hugged tight in her palm. footsteps quicken their pace until she renders herself close enough, then the following unfold in a whirlwind: sharp knee to his thigh and she’s swiveling him around, pen clicking in the air as she aims tip-first.

pause. ( she doesn’t feel like wasting her time, decides she’d much rather save her stamina for another well-deserved routine. ) she doesn’t beat around the bush tonight. she goes for the jugular.

somewhere in the near distance, muffled shouts grow louder, sirens splattering a disarray of blinding light against the walls that surround them. “fuck, fuck, hey!" 

he twists out of her arm, harsh pull and shove before he springs off into the darkness. she watches as the lady scampers off in the opposite direction, echoing screams spiraling to the sky. she’s running off in the next second, retracing her footsteps through the narrowing path, moon chasing her shadow, shadow clinging to her back. any kind of run-in with the police was an unwelcome one; she doesn’t dare to look back.

lack of oxygen kindles an uncomfortable burn down her lungs, heart beating erratically against her ribcage as she slips out of the alleyway and onto a scantly populated street. any attempt to catch her breath becomes secondary to the way she grabs her phone, fingertips typing frantic and rushed across the screen despite the calm demeanor of her messages.

(kkt / ok) hi

grimaces some, then adds:

(kkt / ok) oppa? (kkt / ok) busy? need you to pick me up (kkt / ok) same place as last (kkt / ok) i’ll explain when you get here (kkt / ok) tell your chauffeur to step on it, pretty please

it’s much less of a fight than a slaughter, and he’s uncertain which one he prefers. the up side: it’s less of a struggle and he’s all for efficiency, tidiness, the split-second thrill that comes cheap ( also, the dry-cleaning service unknowingly thrives on these moments ). the down side: it leaves his vulnerability out in the open, something soft and tender even for just the briefest moment; admittance allows it to take form and perhaps grow roots that are capable of reaching deep in ( in seek of something more ), while denial is the safety exit that he keeps within reach at all times. yet his gaze doesn’t falter, not even as he bears witness to the way lustre leaves the man’s eyes.

he moves on to the next figure, all trembling bones and frail shoulders. he can’t exactly tell what this is –– fear, perhaps. but what of? suffering, death, him. sometimes in a different order, he reckons. it’s a thought that entertains him, but not for long. the nearest boy reaches him in stealthy steps when beckoned over, the weapon’s spun around an index for him –– taewook’s message is clear. but when cold fingertips brush against his, grip weak and hesitant with the weapon weighing down in the boy’s hold, taewook knows he can’t do it.

nevertheless, he waits.

every breath is held in throats and the boy has the mouth of the gun aimed, but it’s been a good three minutes of stillness and nothing. the silence is almost impenetrable, slight irritation evident in the light furrow of brows with his lips pulled taut and he has half the mind to change his plans for this boy –– until his message tone sounds.

fucking kakaotalk.

though –– he knows for a fact that she doesn’t ask him unless absolutely necessary. the gravity of this unknown situation dawns upon him, except he can’t leave without the assurance of this man’s silence. another offers, but he declines it, the weapon back in his palm as he ties the dead knot on the final loose end in one swift move.

gun left in the care of his right-hand man who trails after him as he heads for the car, he only remembers then to reply the messages that have conveniently hastened his mission and footsteps.

( kkt → pen ) otw ( kkt → pen ) he’ll run the red lights if he has to

as promised, the chauffeur speeds through several almost-red lights with his job ( read: life ) on the line. 

( kkt → pen ) how long do we have?

it’s taewook’s rare indulgence that fuel her untimely requests –– part rapport that stems from the subtle similarities she holds with his sister. tips of his fingers prod at his nose bridge, eyes closed from the realisation that he hasn’t gone home in two weeks. the moment is a brief one when the vehicle comes to a halt, and he’s glancing out from tinted windows in search of the one he’s come all this way for, gun kept close to his side and well within his reach for good measure.

[bobolun]

[florizels]

we want the dead unmentionable, we refuse to name them, we refuse to feed them. Our dead as a result are thinner, greyer, harder to hear, and hungrier.

Margaret Atwood, Cat’s Eye (via florizels)

[5oil]