puncture wounds.

the force treats vengeance as an open wound. 𝙥𝙖𝙙𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙣, dig two graves.

[iswound]

independent  and   private   twelfth   sister  from  jedi:  the   fallen   order.  original  character.   est.   25/01/21.   heavily   inspired  by  the   song   BLOODMONEY by poppy.  as  wounded  by   jeanie  (she/her). 

carrd. other blog.

[gaycommunist]

the monstrous feminine: wounds and rage

euripides, from “hippolytos, grief lessons: four plays” translated by anne carson // “the madwoman in the attic: the woman writer and the nineteenth-century literary imagination” sandra gilbert and susan gubar // @girlinterruptedpdf // catherynne m. valente “deathless” // safiya sinclair // aleksandra waliszewska // anne carson // “white oleander” janet fitch // anne sexton @heavensghost // @blacklodgelesbian // “crazy” jasmine mans

[iswound]

bro uni fuckin sucks 

[iswound]

im hearteyes @.... twelve

[iswound]

VERSES  -   INFO (TBA TO CARRD)  POSTED HERE FOR CONVIENENCE.

yours  is  the  darkness  of  my  soul’s  return.  main  verse.  post  fallen  order.  ages  nineteen - seventy.  what  horror  teaches  us.  the  shedding  of  the  twelfth  sister  skin  as  kestis  and  the  broken  jedi  master  dishevels  fortress  citadel  for  what  it  truly  is :  nothing  but  bone  rot  blacklungs  and  a  graveyard  of  corrupted,  devoured  innocence,  along  with  the  purified  corpse  of  the  second  sister  as  she  sings  for  rome  at  the  bottom  of  leviathan’s  well.   she  leaves  the  fortress  as  posideon’s  wrath  takes  back  what  is  rightfully  his,  leaving  the  fallen  grace  in  black  as  he  draws  the  last  of  the  twelfth  sister’s  ugly  blood.

no  longer  the  twelfth  sister  but  harboring  her  ghosts  and  the  sins  of  days  past,  the  not - inquisitor  travels  unnamed  across  the  hallows  of  galaxy,  careful  not  to  linger  too  long  in  fear  of  corrupting  the  force  surrounding  the  homes  she  treads.  

haunted  by  her  ghosts  and  the  Force’s  demand  for  penance,  the  unnamed  uses  intel  gathered  via  the  abuse  of  her  role  as  the  twelfth  sister  in  order  to  hunt  down  those  who  had  a  hand  in  the  establishment  of  her  previous  association,  vader’s  angels  (”when  god  wants  someone  killed,  when  he  wants  something  done,  he  sends  his  angels”)  the  sith  inquisitorius: sith  warlords,  retired  jedi,  petty  crime  lords.   murders  characterized with  the  absence  of  Force  use  but  rather  in  lieu  of  her  parents’  deaths:  asphyxiation,  puncture  wounds  and  the  absence  of  the  jugular. 

although  unnamed,  she  was  been  deemed  by  the  empire  and  resistance  alike :  the  iolanthe  serial  killer,  a  horror  story  told  to  discipline  children  into  doing  as  they’re  told.  reward:  negotiable,  if  you  believe  she’s  real.  dead  or  alive.  approach  with  caution.

[iswound]

❝   THE  SUNLIGHT  WAS  LIKE  LIFE  TO  ME,  THE  OPENED  WOUND.

in  the  storm,  padmé  remains  alarmingly  calm.  what  is  left  of  her  body  absorbs  the  bitterness,  the  acidic  taste  makes  her  cringe  at  each  syllable  though  she  doesn’t  show  it.  whatever  the  darkness  chose  to  throw  at  her,  whether  it  be  the  sharpness  of  the  other’s  tongue  or  a  rotting  blame  from  the  innards  of  a  tree,  it  would  surely  pass  right  through  her  deathly  glow  and  each  time,  padmé  will  try  to  catch  it  and  hold  onto  it  as  her  own  for  she  is  just  as  responsible  as  any  for  the  devastation.  she  promised  a  holy  grail  before  she  perished,  and  the  word  of  honour  wasn’t  kept.  because  of  that,  she  will  clasp  onto  the  blame  irregardless  of  what  is  and  isn’t  rightfully  hers,  and  in  her  chest  it  will  bloom  again;  a  never  ending  apology  to  those  who  have  lost  and  to  those  who  will  lose.  

she  gulps;  her  head  stays  high  and  her  shoulders  are  back.  she  will  not  fall  at  the  feet  of  the  witch  today.  not  because  she  is  petty,  but  because  she  knows  that  the  woman  is  hurting,  that  she  is  mourning  a  home  within  a  person  and  has  since  replaced  it  with  a  dilapidated  version  of  it  within  herself.  this  she  understands    ——    she  was  that  woman.  she  will  always  be  that  woman  no  matter  how  much  she  tried  to  detach  herself  from  the  former  jedi  and  his  reckoning.  both  women  will  remain  crushed,  spat  out  versions  of  their  former  selves,  navigating  the  cosmos  with  repent,  acerbity,  and  dolour.

❝    i’m  not  responsible  for  the  ending  of  your  story    ——-    ❞    then  what  is  her  purpose?  it’s  a  good  question  and  it’s  not  something  that  is  easily  answered.  padmé  couldn’t  answer  that  herself:  at  first,  she  appeared  only  as  a  dream,  a  beacon  of  hope  in  face  of  her  passing,  a  candle  that  will  never  go  out.  then,  with  all  the  rage  of  a  dying  light,  she  clung  onto  the  force  with  a  connection  she  hadn’t  fostered  when  alive  and  acted  as  guide,  a  new  form  of  the  light  that  she  had  been  during  the  clone  wars.  

Q:    but  what  is  her  purpose?  you’ve  explained  all  this,  yet  there’s  no  answer  accompanying  it.   A:    i  don’t  know.

❝    ——    i  am  trying  to  offer  you  peace.    ❞

❝peace    ——  i’m  tired  of  pulling  your  teeth,  senator.  ❞ when  her  ghost  lies  with  your  concussed  demons  awake,  dull  eyed  and   ravenous,  every  incision  her  reach  carves  and  wounds  her  tongue  soothes  becomes  a  vicious,  hungry  mouth.  

peace,  she  vindicates,  dismembering  the  tattered  loins  of  your  disjointed  rib  cage,  sinew  by  sinew,  until  all  the  intent  her  once  sun - lined  fingers  sows,  deep  into  the  seeping  mulberry  of  your  exposed  muscles,  becomes  a  surrogate  for  each  corrupt  beat  of  your  fickle,  sordid  heart. 

do  you  see  it  now,  wound?  her  knife  practices  something  cleansing,  something  holy.  dismemberment,  however,  poses  its  advantage :  god  gets  to  see  all  the  dirty  parts  as  she  slices  your  sins  lose  for  all  to  see,  until  you’re  forced  to  look  at  yourself  and  see  that  all  there  is  is  the  hope  she’s  forcing  down  your  throat.and  the  look  in  her  eyes,  like  sunlight  through  the  window,  makes  you  want  it  too but  fuck,your  father’s  doing  something  bloody  and  murderous  in  the  broken  flesh  of  your  mouth  and  he  swears  that  between  your  first  and  second  fang  that  i’ll  always  there,  girl,  always  in  you,  and  you  know  that  as  long  as  he’s  hungry  you’ll  never  be  good  enough  for  her  or  the  peace  she  promises  you’ll  choke  on.

GOD  SCREAMS  AS  YOUR  SENATOR,  LIKE  A  TREMOUR  OF  PURE  SUNLIGHT,  HOLDS YOUR  LIVER  FOR  ALL  TO  SEE:  can’t  you  see  that  you  want  it  too,  just  like  the  decayed  corpse  of  your  father’s ghost?  he  sees  what  you  see,  darling.  he  knows  what  you  know  in  ways  you  don’t know  yourself.  (you  can’t  hide  from  your  daddy’s  crowbar  hands  forever,  girl. )

❝offering  peace  alludes  to  an  indication  that  there’s  something  you  need  to  atone  for  too,  senator.❞ and  in  ways  too,  you  want  to  scream  at  her :  senator,  in  ways  neither  of  us  can  ever  understand,  we  have  come  home.  i  did  this  to  you  in  ways  you  will  never  understand.  lay  your  liver  down  at  the  altar  of  god  and  wipe  the  blood  off  her  trembling  hands.  whisper  into  her  dying  corpse  as  you  coddle  her  ghost  in  your  tired,  wilted  arms.  wound,  try  not  to  wet  her  with  the  blood  oozing  from  the  wound  on  your  jugular :  how  did  it  feel  when  you  died,  senator?  did  you  feel  me  there,  too?   ask  for  the  purifying  cross  and  your  mother’s  knife  as  you  plead  to  her  so :  senator,  senator,  we  are  singing  now  while  naboo  burns.   

(  the  cold  Force  of  the  jedi  temple  succumbs  to  silence  under  the  old  sole  of  your  used,  tattered  boot.  the  Force  molds  itself,  devouring  whatever’s  left  of  your  being  as  you  venture  closer  into  it’s  old  bones.  you  wonder  if  it  feels  her,  too.  now,  you  feel  it  as  it  shifts  and  knows  what  you  did.  it  hungers  for  vengeance.  you  welcome  it  home.  )  ❝  i’ll  admit  to  mine  if  you  admit  he  was  yours. ❞

[iswound]

SIKEN  -  WAR  OF  THE  FOXES.  ACCEPTING  -   STARTER.

difficult  thing,  to  be  scrutinized  so  long.  @sabcrlost​

here  in  her  aches  remains  the  remnants  of  your  tattered  old  ghost  town :   tell  me,  wound,  do  you  remember  the  dog  pits?  the  sinkhole,  the  flesh  made  gold  beskar,  the  black  lung  capillaries  left  bare  and  raw  and  anything  -  but  -  corrupt,  something  that  tastes  vaguely  of  your  mother’s  embrace,  a  veracious  sensation  so  foreign  and  good  to  the  likes  of  your  nefarious,  nimble  fingers.  here  in  her  eyes  remains  the  god - slayed  salvation  that  could  have  been  good  for  you  once,  wound.  do  your  hallow  eyes  remember  the  promise  she’d  bring  you,  oh  mand’alor  graced  on  holy  scorched  earth,  if  only  you  stayed  and  bled  for  her  crown?  that  she  too,  would  make  all  the  bad  things  go  away  if  only  you  gave  her  salvation?  yes,  of  course  you  remember.  your  mother  wouldn’t  let  you,  no,  of  course  she  wouldn’t.  her  :  all  a  dead,  rotten  carcass  but  not  infinitely  -  not  in  the  ways  that  mattered.  she  whispers  in  your  ear  on  nights  you  can’t  handle  your  own  feasible  skin :  too  bad  you  fucked  it  all  up  by  leaving,  girl. 

❝     oh,  and  you  wouldn’t  know?    ❞  your  words  are  as  cold  and  uncouth  as  your  ghost  -  mother’s  hands  as  her  teeth  make  its  home  in  the  warmth  of  your  weeping  jugular.  she  infects :  how  many  of  our  kind  have  you  left  to  the  imps?  count,  child,  how  many  times  did  you  lead  clones  in  pursuit  of  a  jedi,  only  to  find  the  blood  of  a  brother  covert  on  your  traitor  hands?  i’ve  counted  dozens,  but  you’ve  always  lied  before.

you  open  your  lips,  trying  to  say  something  to  your  mand’alor,  your  angel - hymned  saviour,  but  your  mother  claws  poison  at  the  tip  of  your  ravaged  tongue:  careful  child,  there’s  mandalore  blood  dripping  from  your  hungry  tongue.  you  swallow:    ❝     i suppose  you  expect  apologies.  tell  me  what  i  have  to  atone  for  and  i  might  think  about  it,  if  you  even  remember  me  at  all.    ❞

[iswound]

twelve shows up to every inquisitor meeting like this. no i dont make the rules

[iswound]

FOUNDLING :  how  did  it  feel  to  be  killed  by  your  master?    YOU,  QUIETLY :  like  asking  my  father  for  permission to  bleed.

independent  &  private  twelfth  sister  from  sw’s  jedi:  fallen  order.       original    character  with  written  origins.  carrd.  as  wounded   by  jeanie. 

[iswound]

SIKEN  -  WAR  OF  THE  FOXES.  ACCEPTING. STARTER.

people like to think war means something. @seadaught​

here,  right  here.  there  is  a  peculiar  prestige.  a  thin  -  veined  might    you’re  too  vain  and  vulgar  to  have  the  guts  to  stomach,  a  force  so  familiar  and  disingenuous  you  might  as  well  call  it  daddy’s  hungry  hands  and  surrender  your  severed  jugular,  ugly  and  beating,  to  it  on  a  bloody  altar.  here,  there  is  terror  without  an  object,  without  eminence  or  danger.  to  think :  her  very  presence  screams  absinthe  and  fuck,  you’re  choking  on  it.  she,  being  overwhelms  mind  and  the  body,  and  in  this  moment  of  veraciousness  and  terror,  of  the  force  and  your  father’s  hands,  of  the  war  you  had  failed  to  start  and  failed  to  finish,  you  wonder  how  she’d  kill  you.

❝    of  course  it  does.  it  means  conquering.  it  means  power.    ❞ power. the  force. one  in  the  same, the  name  we're  not  allowed  to  say,  the  omitted  vowel,  the  face  we  can't  see,  and  the  sublime  terror  that  stands  comfortingly  between  us  and  all  the  horrors  and  evils  of  this  world,  commanding  our  attention.  you  breathe,  waiting  for  the  fingers  on  your  throat :  ❝     only  a  fool  or  the  conquered  would  think  it  means  nothing.  are  you  both?  i  peg  you  for  both.      ❞

[nbchannibaldaily]

[iswound]

SIKEN  -  WAR  OF  THE  FOXES.  ACCEPTING. STARTER.

‘ this  is  also  part  of  the  story:  how  the  story  changes.  this  is  something  I  forgot  to  tell  you.'   @amidla​

❝      you  forgot?  just  that  easy?     ❞    it’s  bitter.  tastes  like  pine  thorns  as  they  scrape  flesh  in  your  warm,  raw  mouth.

to  think  there  is  blood  on  your  young  hands.

❝    you  haunt  my  nights  for  years,  and  you  only  think  to  remember  now,  sweet  senator?    ❞   careful  now,  lazarus.  choose  your  next  actions  with  the  absence  of  blasphemy.  take  the  rusted  end  of  your  daddy’s  old  crowbar  and  pry  out  the  broken  pieces  of  god  that  lay  corrupt  in  you.  show  her  the  parts  where  she  too  had  the  most  sacred  part  in  its  apollesthai  corrupting,  front  center  and  holy  stage. 

❝     tell  me,  did  you  remember  his  love,  too,  or  did  you  forget  that  as  well? ❞      pry  her  fingers  from  your  fourth  rib  and  tell  her  how  it  was  her  love  that  did  it.  ( no  love  is  stronger.  no  heart  more  abandoned  than  yours,  my  sweet  senator. )  scream  about  the  little  boy  with  the  heathen  eyes  in  the  sweet  town  lost  in  the  sands  of  a  lovelorn  settlement  and  how  he  went  missing,  tell  her  how  the  town  treated  it  as  nothing  new.  tell  her  how  he  was  resurrected  only  in  rhyme  the  same  day  her  heart  bled  for  the  heathen  boy  she  loved,  and  how  the  galaxy  continues  to  drown  in  its  bloody  sacrament.  tell  her  about  the  pastor  with  the  snakes  in  his  hands  and  how  he  ripped  the  jugular  straight  from  a  girl’s  neck  and  called  it  homage  to  their  starcrossed  love.  tell  her  the  girl  was  you.

you  are  a  house  swollen  with  the  dead,  but  still  a  home.  

[tombstcne-blog]

RICHARD SIKEN / WAR OF THE FOXES Change pronouns as necessary and tweak sentences as appropriate!

I am faithful to you, darling.

When you bang on the wall you have to remember you’re on both sides of it but go ahead, yell at yourself.

Some people don’t understand anything.

He’s easy to desire since there’s not much to him.

No one wants to know what’s in his head.

To make something beautiful should be enough. It isn’t. It should be.

You’d break your heart to make it bigger.

Will you defend yourself? From me, I mean.

Let’s kill something.

I prefer to blame others, it’s easier.

All these ghosts come streaming down and I wish I had something else.

We all move forward anyway. Ripples in all directions.

What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be alive. Something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead.

All thoughts finish themselves eventually.

Can we love nature for what it really is: predatory?

When you have nothing to say, set something on fire.

I wanted to explain myself to myself in an understandable way.

Something’s not right about what I’m doing but I’m still doing it.

The enormity of my desire disgusts me.

Look away but I’m still there.

Want something to chase you? Run.

Take only what you need.

Never finish a war without starting another.

I’ve seen your true face: the back of your head. If you were walking away, keep walking.

The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does.

All these things and what to do with them. We carve up the world all the time.

I like dead things. They cannot hurt me.

We like things related to our survival: soup, arrows - they expand the range of the species.

My body is a graveyard.

People like to think war means something.

Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other. We know who our enemies are. We know.

There are many loves but only one war.

You will need to comfort him, or we will never be finished with this.

You cannot have an opponent if you keep saying yes.

Its roots in the ground and its branches in the air, a tree is pulled in two directions.

The boy is a bird, bad bird. He falls out of trees.

You cannot get in the way of anyone’s path to God. You can, but it does no good.

Some say God is where we put our sorrow.

In the wrong light anyone can look like a darkness.

What can you know about a person?

Difficult thing, to be scrutinized so long.

Even when I look away I am still looking.

Everyone secretly wants to collaborate with the enemy, to construct a truer version of the self.

How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?

Why build a room you can live in? Why build a shed for your fears?

There wasn’t much left but it felt like him, wild and scared.

The best part of spirituality is reverence. There are other parts. Some people like to hear the sound of their own voice.

If you don’t believe in God, then who are you talking to?

But truth doesn’t count in law, only proof.

Was I discovered or invented? Feels like I’ve always been here.

Measure yourself against the truth and not the other way around.

Perfect and completely dead.

People don’t learn anything unless they are afraid of being left behind.

Logic is boring because it works. Being unreasonable is exciting.

I am your arrival, there is no refusal, we are here, you see, together, we are already here.

This is also part of the story: how the story changes. This is something I forgot to tell you.

You might like it here. I think that you might like it here.

I tell you these things because I love you.

It’s nothing like I thought it would be and closer to what I meant.

Maybe we will wake up to the silence of shoes at the foot of the bed not going anywhere.

It reminds me of where I was going without you.

You know what it’s like to be alone: gimlets and vermicide. You know what it’s like to be alive, so forgiveness.

You asked me once, What are we made of? Well, these are the things we’re made of.

I turned my ears in all directions. I’ll live alone or in between.

Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.

Your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything.

I live in big spaces, so I’m left alone in big spaces.

We made ourselves cold. We made ourselves snow. We smuggled ourselves into ourselves. Haunted by each other’s knowledge.

To hide somewhere is not surrender, it is trickery.

I try to guess your trajectory and end up telling my own story.

I surrender my desire to be healed.

Take it or leave it, and for the most part you take it.

Shame comes from vanity. Shame means you’re guilty, like the rest of us, but you think you’re better than we are. Maybe you are.

There is no new me, there is no old me, there’s just me, the same me, the whole time.

Don’t try to make a stronger wind, you’ll wear yourself out. Build a better sail.

You want to solve something? Get out of your own way.

What’s the difference between me and the world? Compartmentalisation.

I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard to make it love.

I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary.

I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad. It’s too much work.

I mean, maybe it’s better if my opponent wins.

What happens when I no longer want to meet you?

Nothing lasts forever: we know this.

Longing and suffering? Of course, of course. You want it to mean something.

You can disconnect it or you can try to glue it all together.

We could pull it apart, spend our whole lives pulling it apart and have no time left to do anything smart with the pieces.

The sooner you embrace it, the sooner it will leave you.

You are what you cover up.

Noise and more noise. Noise up to heaven.

One wonders why a story like this exists.

I want to give you more but not everything. You don’t need everything.

Someone has to leave first.

He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand.

All this was prepared for me. All this was set in motion long ago.

I stayed as long as I could. Now look at the moon.

What does all this love amount to?

[iswound]

when i said twelve was ripped in her stats

.... this was what i meant

[mrsdemie]

Alexa Demie for Cultured Magazine