iwoll

hey, im iwoll, i like vampires and sad poetry. only hmu if you are sad or a vampire. or both

[iwoll]

cold brew & chess

yesterday, i got a new pillow case.

he said it was so i wouldn't miss him

which is funny,

because now i miss him

in the sweetest way.

every time i see it

draped over my chair,

every time i catch the scent of his cologne

(burberry, i think)

that sits stubbornly, clinging to the sleeves,

i smile.

i slipped it beside my pillow

and laughed to myself

because from across the room

it almost looked like him.

it holds the shape of broad shoulders,

bruised collarbones,

the suggestion of a boy

with doe eyes

and wild hair to match.

i am quite fond of him.

and he knows this.

and maybe the best part is

he tells me he likes me

and i believe him.

there is something wonderfully new about that.

i feel lucky

because ninety miles west

is a boy who thought ahead.

a boy who covered a sweater in cologne

before handing it to me.

who wanted me to have something

until i could have him.

[iwoll]

dawn of the final day

i am a sincerely selfish person!

it's like a locked jaw

holding something too tightly

just to prove it’s mine.

and i knew!

i need to say that first.

not in a prophetic way,

moreso in the administrative sense

of reading the fine print

and signing anyway.

so i knew

before the first late-night reply,

before i started measuring time

in the distance between your messages

there was never dishonesty between us

just small, deliberate eclipses maybe.

we called it timing

we called it utilitarian

we called it going with the flow

but it was more like

watching the water rise

and deciding not to move.

i saw the ending

the way you see headlights

before the turn

and stepping into the street regardless.

and i wish i could've made you feel

the exact shape of what you leave in me.

not pain, not even sadness,

but that low sickening hum

of almost-almost being chosen.

you only text me past dusk

like i’m a nightlight

you don’t have to look at.

like i’m a contingency plan

or warmth without consequence.

it seems like you only reach for me

when the dark starts to breathe too loud.

but who am i to blame?

i answered.

because knowing something ends

has never been enough

to make me walk away.

because hope, for me,

is a kind of stubborn self-harm.

it's quiet, defensible,

and so easy to romanticize.

i keep thinking

maybe this is the time it breaks

maybe this is the night

you choose me on purpose

not because it’s late

not because you’re lonely

not because i’m convenient

and already awake

but because something in you

leans toward something in me

without needing warmth

as an excuse.

i replay it—

the almosts, the nearlys,

the way your words hover

just shy of meaning something.

and i let them.

which is where the rot starts.

there is something in me

that is learning the language of teeth and tongues

i can feel it

like the bile that emerges from my throat.

i feel my intent turning sharp at the edges,

like a thought that wants to hurt back

just to prove it can.

and i don’t know what to do with that.

i don’t know how to hold anger

without it becoming a mirror.

so i practice small disappearances.

forgetting people in increments,

like skipping songs

i used reherse the words to.

teaching myself

it’s okay to close the book

even if i loved the beginning

even if i spoiled the end

even if i kept hoping

it would rewrite itself

and still,

i wonder if we read the same ones.

if somewhere in the margins

you paused where i paused

if you ever underlined something

and felt less alone for it

or if i’ve been narrating

for both of us

this whole time.

i wonder if you’ve ever had a kind thought

about me

you didn’t say aloud.

i wonder if we’ve ever been

the same person

for even a second.

i keep making a fool of myself

in front of you

hope is embarrassing like that

tripping over sincerity

like it’s something i should’ve grown out of

but i’m starting to think

maybe that’s all it is.

knowing exactly how this ends

and staying anyway

trying loudly

trying with witnesses

trying in a world that keeps records

of every almost.

and maybe being seen

mid-fall

and knowing i jumped

is the closest thing

to honesty

i know how to offer.

[iwoll]

st. olga

i am nothing if not vengeful.

but not the kind you’d recognize

no red string conspiracies,

no knives clenched between my teeth.

just the quiet tallying.

a ledger kept behind my eyes

of who taught me how to flinch,

who made my body learn retreat

before my mind and mouth ever could.

i prayed for their downfall—

not loudly, and definitely not prettily.

no candles, no bargains.

just a wish pressed flat

between my ribs.

and praise be, it worked.

my mother laughs when i say it,

oh, you’re terrible,

it’s like a joke we get to share.

but she knows.

she knows the shape of my anger,

she's seen the ugly parts.

oh, how good it feels

to say don’t do that,

to watch them do it anyway,

to witness the so-called surprise

when it leaves one hurt.

part of me hopes they reach out—

not to reconcile,

just to confess

that i was right.

just so i can ignore it.

idiot.

[iwoll]

a study in permanence

i think i'd like to keep fragments of you

like the receipts in my center console.

crumpled, but proof that something

once passed between us.

and i hope i can hold on to those parts of you;

i know they’ll help me later on.

like learning how to sit with silence

or how true music died with the pittsburg scene.

and i wish we had met sooner

before i learned i had the nervous system of a soldier

before every word became a negotiation

i keep saying

“you don’t even know me.”

it’s less so a reminder for you,

moreso a reminder for me.

a boundary i overline with marker

because this map seems all too familiar.

you don’t know me,

and i’m not sure if you ever will

so instead i leave pieces of you

in places i might return to later—

hoping permanence can be borrowed

if it cannot be built.

[virsaille]

Carl Kahler (1856-1906)

Three Black Cats

[ivynightshade]

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s ‘i am an observer, but not by choice’.

[iwoll]

the soundtrack of dysregulation

sounds a bit like this—

an awkward date

with a boy i liked too much,

the kind that knocks your ribs out of time,

a two-hour phone call later,

but first—

silence.

dry spells,

then the body remembering itself

too well.

i restart my meds,

forget i’m already at the ceiling,

empty stomach, full panic,

anxiety that always makes me nauseous

decides today to mean it.

all shift, the soundtrack loops—

call lights that ring from a mile away,

hospital shoes squeaking secrets into the floor,

the constant check your phone,

the echo after.

no new texts.

the nausea thickens,

turns real,

turns loud,

before i know it,

i'm running for the bathroom,

dry heaving into stainless steel,

gagging—please call charge!—

i wipe my eyes,

walk back out,

tell the other techs i’m okay,

they tell me to go home.

at home, the track drops its filter—

throwing up,

again,

and again,

my body insisting on honesty.

he’s busy.

i know he’s busy.

i know this.

he calls anyway—

two hours of steadiness,

his voice almost teaching me how to breathe,

and for a moment

the soundtracksoftens.

then the call ends.

typing bubbles stretch too long,

hope curdling back into nausea,

hospital quiet now,

no call lights,

just my pulse in my ears,

dry heaving without an audience,

waiting for a sound

that doesn’t come.

no new texts.

[iwoll]

anticipatory rejection grief

i don’t fit in.

i never learned the trick of it.

not as a girl rehearsing a future

that wasn’t mine,

and not as a man

still apologizing for his outline.

i want a clear life.

an honest, uncomplicated homosexual life—

the kind where love doesn’t pause

to inventory what i’m made of,

where attraction doesn’t hinge

on what’s missing or different.

even when it’s good—

even when laughter lands right,

even when our knees touch

and it feels like something real—

there’s always the quiet terror:

will this end

when my body enters the room?

there are losses you can’t point to.

they hollow you from the inside,

carve a small, permanent hole

just beneath the ribs.

i will never get my boyhood back.

i will never live it uninterrupted,

never move through first love

without translation or apology.

i imagine another version of myself

passing through the world untouched,

wanted without preface,

met without questions.

i don’t fit the stereotypes.

though maybe that’s my fault.

maybe if i dress the part,

listen to the right music,

perform correctly—

would you still look

between my thighs

for the final verdict?

i thought i was okay with who i am.

i truly believed that was enough.

i said it out loud

and i meant it most days.

but something broke this week—

not my identity,

not my truth,

just my faith

that authenticity alone

could save me.

and now i am standing

between what survived

and what never got the chance,

mourning a life

that only ever wanted

to be ordinary.

[iwoll]

wow, king, complex situation!

two shards of glass

trying to pass as a mosaic—

dangerous up close,

yet convincing from across the room.

i guess you got what you wanted—

an audience over a partner.

a carnival mirror, not a person.

and i hate that it still stings

because some part of me asks

the small, embarrassing question:

why not me?

why wasn’t i enough

to keep?

honestly—

that’s the funniest part.

you found someone

who speaks your language fluently,

who understands the performance,

who won’t interrupt the monologue.

i hope it lasts forever.

or a month.

or just long enough

for you to learn

what it’s like

to date yourself.

i’m done being collateral damage

in your personality disorders’ meet-cute.

enjoy each other.

truly.

i think this is the cleanest possible ending.

and the best part is?

it doesn’t include me.

[iwoll]

mutual destruction in Eb

they found each other

like rats find rot,

like two hands reaching for the same dull blade.

you—

who eyed up women like they were no more than slabs of flesh,

who kissed me as if my resistance were a nuisance,

who needed rescuing from yourself

because I was drunk and you were entitled.

and you—

who left me mid-motion, mid-breath, mid-body,

walked out like i was an unfinished thought,

the day after you couldn’t bother to feign kindness.

of course!

maybe you did it to hurt me,

maybe you just never cared.

well, you got what you wanted, so congratulations

one of you kneeling in worship,

calling mediocre chords holy,

building an altar out of feedback and superego,

the same way I once did.

your hands must be sore

from lifting someone who never learned

how to stand.

fire feeds fire,

and I mean that tenderly.

i hope you bruise each other

in quiet ways.

i hope you mirror back every lie,

every half-love, every almost.

i hope you fall asleep beside someone

who feels exactly as unwell

as you made me feel.

i loved you like a person,

and, hey, that was my mistake.

i am done being the lesson.

now go and be each other’s punishment.

i survived you both.

that’s the part you’ll never touch.

[iwoll]

the st. croix in winter

the historic brick and river wind

teaching us we dressed wrong on purpose.

light jackets, bare hands,

no hats—

as if winter might go easy on us.

we wander until wandering

becomes standing,

until standing becomes sitting—

my residence behind us and my home ahead,

the st. croix threading frost

through every possible inch of our beings.

i’m so cold my words come out wrong,

tongue stiff, sentences unfinished,

but i don’t want to leave the cold

because leaving means the end.

so i stay.

we both do.

on the bench, we inch closer.

maybe for warmth

or maybe because wanting to touch

feels safer when the wind gives us an excuse.

the river keeps moving.

and so do our stories.

time doing that kind thing

where it doesn’t rush you.

you walk me to my car.

so i smile up at you,

and you kiss me—

light, quick, careful.

somehow more meaningful

than any kiss that tried too hard.

i still felt the cold,

but it’s less bitter now.

i feel alive in a way that’s healthy—

not like i might explode with every breath,

but like my lungs finally know

what they’re for.

i don’t know how long this will last.

i only know this moment:

to be met where I am.

quiet proof.

a gentleness

i’m still learning how to hold.

a small smile lingers.

so i enjoy you.

and i'll let myself believe

something good could bloom—

like frost catching sunlight

and refusing to melt.

[artgate-blog]

Henry Fuseli

Romeo at Juliet’s Deathbed

1809

[iwoll]

the sound of technicolor

i have a daydream that comes to me

in the dead of winter—

the type that only arrives

when the roads are salted white

and loneliness sounds like brakes grinding in the cold.

in it, there is wind everywhere,

threading through my hair

as i drive the manual mustang,

deep on i-10,

living life in technicolor.

there’s a man beside me—

always faceless,

just the outline of someone

who chooses to stay.

desert songs play from the tape deck,

warped and warm,

music that sounds like dust and devotion,

redlining the engine,

as if we're outrunning whatever survived last night.

in the daydream, i look over at him

and something soft, something ordinary,

fills my chest—

joy, and pride,

and the quiet thrill of being chosen.

it rises to my eyes,

though he wouldn’t see it anyway,

not behind those sun-reflective glasses.

still, i know he’s feeling it too.

and then the dream releases me.

and here i am again,

in the dead of winter,

alone in my car.

the desert songs still playing

though the passenger seat remains faithful

only to its emptiness.

and the bleak road ahead

asking nothing,

just humming that same tired note.

[iwoll]

jack-o-lantern

i tend to get very excited

when i like someone.

my chest does flips like a coin caught in sunlight,

every word is like a gunshot ripple

and every laugh is a bomb seconds from detonation.

i’m trying to enjoy it—

really, i am.

not rush it,

not twist it into something urgent

before it’s even ready to take its first steps.

but sometimes

you waste a beautiful stanza

on someone who wouldn’t even glance at the page.

and you want it back—

you want to knead it, soft as clay,

reshape it,

and make it match

the one who makes your pulse

a little more reckless.

and i keep telling myself:

you don’t secure love by being flawless,

don’t try to polish out the edges

until they gleam.

you secure it by showing up,

by being consistent,

by being kind,

and by being real.

so here i am—

hands open,

pen ready,

stanza written—

for the flame that is genuinely worth the burn.

[jaywalkers]

paramedics and the role of storytelling

people around me tend to find it funny that i’m studying to be a paramedic/working in sar but that my main hobby is creative writing.

but the thing is, they’re way more connected than you might originally think. storytelling is a defining characteristic of paramedic practice. 

paramedics (and those in emergency services) are “immersed in narrative” according to timothy tangherlini, who’s a folklorist. it’s a key part of the work and the environment. among ambulance personnel, storytelling stands as one of the most developed aspects of the occupational culture. it influences how emergency workers cope with the psychological trauma associated with their work; how they interact with the environment and the public, and how they interact with each other, management and other closely related agencies.

 lazarsfeld-jackson, who’s done some really cool work on paramedic’s oral traditions, also notes that for paramedics/ems, storytelling is a method of /debriefing/. it’s informal and a way more to fill time in long hours on a rig, but it’s still become part of the job. there’s also more to be said about the very cynical, self-deprecating, anti-hero tone of these stories as well as the competition like narrative pool that occurs on stations — “such stories are not fit for public consumption” she goes on to say. 

oral tradition is a HUGE part of wider ems, too. i’m saying this from my own experience — i’ve been a surf lifeguard since i was fourteen, and storytelling is a massive part of filling time on long days, as well as proving your abilities. it’s how we learn from and teach e/o. and it carries on. there’s stories from years ago that still get used to teach us concepts and warn us of things, there’s always the ‘oh i heard about this guy’ stories, there’s a long, interconnected web of stories in surf lifesaving that’s an inherent part of the environment. it’s also a more consumable form of lessons for younger guards than the traditional kind. for them, too, telling their own stories is a kind of rite of passage. storytelling plays a role in the formation of identity for ems workers. 

also from a structural pov, those in ems and services are responding to incidents that are constrained, have a defined climax, and have falling action. most of the situations we respond to have a clear narrative arc, which makes storytelling such an easy way of debriefing. 

all that said, because of the nature of the job and the environment, paramedicine and emergency services are strongly connected to storytelling as a discipline for various reasons, and have super strong oral traditions. so it’s kind of not strange that i drifted toward it. 

references

Lazarsfeld-Jensen, A. (2014). Telling stories out of school: Experiencing the paramedic’s oral traditions and role dissonance. Nurse Education in Practice, 14(6), 734–739. 

Furness, S., Hanson, L., & Spier, J. (2021). Archetypal meanings of being a paramedic: A hermeneutic review. Australasian Emergency Care, 24(2), 135–140. 

Timothy R. Tangherlini (2000). Heroes and Lies: Storytelling Tactics among Paramedics. Folklore, 111(1), 43–66.

[iwoll]

biblical crashout incoming

i give everything and get nothing.

i give nothing and i get everything—

why is that?

you said you wanted me safe,

then fucked the only guy who made me feel less than.

genuine harassment,

telling people you’d get me in bed

while i was ten drinks deep.

you’d call that flirting.

i’d call it prophecy.

the kind carved on bathroom walls

and etched out with someone else’s blood red lipstick.

i am the patron saint of empty pews,

praying to nothing,

hating god just enough to still believe in him.

i’ll have you know,

all of these lines have been written

going ninety down the freeway—

you think i care about self-preservation?

i’ve been running through every red light

that could possibly remind me of you.

what happens when i get into a happy relationship?

will i lose my ability to write?

what then?

what makes me special,

if not my art?

my lack of dick?

my hatred of god?

i guess i’ll never know.

maybe i’m just a tragician—

the kind who performs my tragedy for the crowd,

the kind who conjures it too,

pulling disappearances out of heartbreak

and calling it talent.

you were breathtaking

in the deadliest way—

and there’s nothing i would do to change it.

i’d still drink the poison

if it meant feeling holy for a second.

man after man after man,

striking nothing but fool’s gold.

their hands glittered with the dust of me,

and they called it love.

so much for healing.

so much for safety.

i’m rotting in the aftermath

of people who called me beautiful.

[iwoll]

the part before the stay

i move like fog through people's days,

soft, unnoticed, until i lift—

a borrowed sweater, a placeholder,

a breath that doesn’t ask to stay.

i talk in disclaimers.

and laugh with an asterisk.

even love, when i try to hand it over,

feels like it’s a time bomb.

you loved me.

i know that like i know the sun rises—

quiet, certain, brief.

i’ve felt like a stepping stone,

the soft place someone lands

before they leap again.

a test run for tenderness,

a rough draft of devotion.

you’ll look back and say,

"that was when i learned

how to love gently.

how to say sorry.

how to listen."

and maybe that’s beautiful.

maybe that’s enough.

i know i’m great.

but i also know i’m not always

what people stay for.

i expect the exit,

even when no one's packing.

i expect the catch

after the compliment.

the embers after the fire.

maybe we were reading different books

with the same cover.

maybe love isn’t always

the whole story.

still—

sometimes i dream

someone might read the fine print

and stay anyway.

might call me home

instead of a lesson.

but mostly,

i pack light.

i smile like a guest.

and i leave before they ask me to.