[jagular]

Streets choke on their own light.

Walls sweat with smoke.

Every hand is reaching

for a price or a throat.

I walk among them

with the earth under my nails

and their coins in my pockets.

Tell me:

what makes me different?

[jagular]

🪩☄️(~600 words)

Life. It was a matter of opinion, really.

Civilizations born and extinguished within their own planets, entire races watching stars blaze their courses and constellations shift from year to year. Their worlds forever moving on from one age to another, and each with a name; each with a heart of its own, beating at a different pace.

But time was relative, and to one who has watched too much pass before his optics, things became stagnant and fleeting, just like the millions of sparks he’d seen go out.

Cybertronians could travel galaxies and swim in endless seas, yet those didn’t appeal to one who was losing hope.

One who’d realised what it was like to be stranded amidst the universes, reaching out for the truth while a blaze of colour danced across the night sky, filling every crevice with lilac and violet, stretching shadows and fear over all lifeforms and machinery alike.

He’d watched stars erupt into blazing streaks, exploding into a shower of light—then into dull, fading embers. One day, one hour, a moment’s difference—they’d all disappear into nothingness; they would wink out like blown-out flames, or fade away like dust on the wind.

After eons, he’d begun to learn. And all that he knew was this: no amount of studying would grant him access to the workings and beauty of life, and no amount of listening could tell him of how long the universe itself would continue to live. He did not wish for things to be over so soon; not that he hadn’t already experienced much; it was simply… to have life constantly following one pattern was enough to render someone mad.

Prismshard knew all about life. Knew how fleeting everything was, how fragile.

But… he never thought that his ship would fall to a collision.

Stingray was gone. Destroyed and utterly annihilated, in fact; having crashed on a planetoid. The engine was disabled, her thrusters had malfunctioned. In the end, the spacecraft’s own speed, paired with the unexpected turbulence of the asteroid field, had served as the primary reason behind Stingray’s ultimate downfall.

Now, there was only debris left; metal remnants of what had once been his personal ride through the cosmos, the very representation of his freedom. It was scattered on a foreign world.

Prismshard stirred after exventing lowly. He’d taken refuge underneath the charred surface of Stingray’s remains; the jagged remains were giving him ample room to lean on, and to rest, or rather—to give up on trying to escape, once and for all. He couldn’t access any channels on his commsuite, and though he’d sent his distress signal, he was almost sure that there wouldn’t be anyone to come looking for him.

“I’ve sent you on your way, old girl… don’t blame yourself,” he cooed to the half-burnt husk of his former vessel, stroking one of the sharp edges on Stingray’s final state. “You gave me your best, and for that, I must thank you. I am deeply grateful.”

His golden-tipped digits gingerly brushed the torn material beneath him. The alloy’s finish had been scorched, marred, scratched… it had certainly gone through a lot since being mangled by the sheer strength of the asteroids. Now, it laid there—in all its glory, ruined beyond repair.

The cold wind whipped his white body, rattled the prongs on his helm. Prismshard’s gaze dropped once again. His energy levels were low, but he wouldn’t succumb just yet. His vessel’s remains had shielded his more sensitive wiring from the outside elements, he still had some time left… at the most, a couple of orbital cycles.

Maybe… that would be enough. Perhaps, it was about time.

[jagular]

[jagular]

They said my blood was wrong.

Not my blade.

Not my bruise.

Not the way I bowed

or bled

or broke my bones to belong.

Only my blood.

They watched me rise

like smoke

from a fire they started,

and hated that I did not choke.

I was sharper

than any of them

so they dulled me in whispers,

called my loyalty a mask,

my oath a lie,

my place

a mistake.

No trial.

No voice.

Just the sound of stone walls

and iron doors

and their laughter

when they left me in the dark.

I did not cry.

I did not pray.

I dug.

With fingers, with teeth,

with the weight of everything

they said I could not be.

And when I rose,

I did not forgive.

[jagular]

A mirror born of silver light,

Where starlit silence finds its place;

No sculptor’s hand, no painter’s sight

Could craft so fair a frame for grace.

I know not yet the spark within,

What music hums beneath thy guise—

Yet still my gaze, despite my sin,

Is captive to thy gleaming eyes.

[jagular]

My dear, my vessel,

the star-born cradle of my wandering,

you carried me farther than any dared dream,

through voids unlit, through storms unkind,

through the silence where gods go blind.

Now, your form lies fractured,

scattered silver upon a world of ice,

your hull whispering echoes of journeys past,

soft hymns lost to the dark and vast.

Do not grieve, old girl,

for your purpose was noble,

for the stars are cruel architects,

we mere notes in their endless melody,

a fleeting chord in their eternal harmony.

But oh, what a song we sang,

you and I, through shadows and space,

a chorus of defiance and faith,

carved in stardust no silence could erase.

Do not weep for me,

for I am not afraid.

This frozen world will cradle my frame,

but my soul; it will roam,

carried still by the memory of your embrace.

You were my wings, my shelter, my spark,

and though your shell may rust and shatter,

know this:

you were more than steel,

more than wires,

you were home.

[jagular]

I walked where golden arches shone,

Beneath the spires of old I tread,

A chorus once was mine alone,

Now echoes haunt the steps I shed.

The velvet boards, the silver beams,

The hush before the overture.

All faded now to fractured dreams

No melody could yet make pure.

They named us blades for Senate’s will,

With banners bright and voices raised.

We fought, not for the spark, but drill—

Our hymns consumed, our temples razed.

O light that danced upon my frame,

Ere silence swept the vaulted hall,

I sing not now for praise or fame.

I sing to feel, if that is all.

For war hath drawn the curtain wide

On all I was, and might have been.

What place hath grace when sparks have died?

What balm can rise from such a din?

Yet still I keep this voice in trust,

Though none may hear nor heed its fall.

Let ruin rust and steel go dust.

I sing. I sing. Despite it all.

[jagular]

You left perfume

on my skin,

like a caress too fleeting

to matter.

Your voice stayed

in the din,

long after your heels ceased

to patter.

I do not chase.

But my hands

still smell like you.

Next time,

leave something

I can bite into.

[jagular]

Somewhere along the line,

I forgot what warmth felt like

until you laughed

with your whole mouth

and pressed your cold feet

against mine.

You smelled like ash and roses,

spoke with syrup in your throat,

and left your rings

on every surface

like breadcrumbs

you hope I would follow.

You talk in spirals,

but you rest your cheek

on my chest.

Your weight

was the first thing in years

that made me

sink.

And somewhere,

between your second insult

and your last stretch,

I remembered

how to feel full.

Full

of something

I could not name

if you asked.

So don’t ask.

[jagular]

He thinks I don’t see.

He thinks because I don’t speak,

I must be asleep.

But I watch

every cracked excuse

fall from his mouth

like spoiled fruit.

He is lucky

I am tired

and paid well.

Because if this were before—

I’d have buried him

so deep

his mother would feel it

in her bones.

[jagular]

This morning,

there were no footsteps

in the hall.

Only the sound

of warm tea cooling,

and the scratch of a pen

that did not want to be held.

The light

snuck in anyway,

nudging at my shoulder

like a lover

I had forgotten to miss.

I moved

only because

I had to.