lackadaisical writer

Genderfluid/AroAce (Aromantic Asexual)/Writer (when I want to write..)

[lackadaisicalwriter]

Grip

It’s time to get a grip. The walls melt together under the fluorescent lights, the tiles bleeding from one line to the next. A syringe clatters to the floor, its contents empty. Spiders crawl along the sides of it, wiggling around. 

Coherent thoughts, they seem to whisper, their voices chittering and dissolving. A tune plays from another room. It sounds like a radio is playing, or maybe someone is humming. Abruptly the music is cut short. It was never music at all, instead a mantra of names, or something like that. Incoherent screeches maybe, it’s slipping from between the folds. 

A smell wafts throughout the ‘room’. It smells like, snails? The slime coats the insides of the ‘room’. It only marginally makes things better, but infinitely makes things worse. A tilt of the head, and suddenly the slime is gone. In fact, so is the ‘room’. 

Hair stretches through this plane, winding and coiling, uncaring of anything in its path. It tastes vaguely of regret, or sorrow. The hair clumps together, swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and swirling and

Ah, there it is.

You grip the needle. It’s time to get back to work, you’ve wasted enough time entertaining the mirrors. 

[lackadaisicalwriter]

Ash (A continuation of ‘Sasha’)

      She’s doing it again. 

       The haze in your brain casts a mist in your vision. You try to gather the thoughts into your mind, before realizing what a tremendous effort to do that is. Instead, you focus on her. 

    She seems amused, as far as you can tell. It makes you nervous, her bouts of joy, things of madness. Perhaps that’s being a bit harsh on her. You can remember a time, even after it all, where her amusement wasn’t anything for you to worry about. 

   Not anymore. Something has changed, between the last cycle. You wish you could crack open her skull, and read her brain, flipping through it like pages in a book. 

  Your vision flickers, or maybe your lights do? It’s getting harder and harder to breathe, she’s getting impatient. You’ll have time to ponder what’s changed later, for now you have a nightmare to step into.

   The breath is stolen from your chest, as your vision goes. Or so you think. The shapes crawling in the air beg to differ. 

  You lift your hands to your face, except… What has happened to your hands? Where there was once unblemished flesh where your wrist met your arm, there are now hideous burn marks… No, not marks. 

    It’s hard to see your vision as dark as it is, but you believe those not to be burn marks. Detachedly, you pick at the skin, and find it to be what you suspected. 

  The skin peels easily, and suddenly you are assaulted by the smell of dead flesh. Your hands are rotten, the flesh sagging from your bones and disgustingly mushy. A shape moves underneath your palm, and suddenly you feel the urge to throw up. 

   Giving in to the urge proves to be a mistake, a fountain of rot flowing out from your mouth and nose. You can’t breathe, but it doesn’t hurt. 

  It never does. A mercy, as your hands burn, the pain dull yet prominent. 

   You’ve had the displeasure of sitting in on her thoughts once, hearing her bemoan over your body. But what right does she have, to wax sad poems about your body when she never has to deal with this? Does she think she is the victim here?

  Your spiteful thoughts are interrupted by a giggle coming from around you. You recognize that laughter.

   The walls bleed with blood stolen from you, your own eyes peeking out from behind the flesh of the wall. A pristine hand bursts from beneath you, attached to a decaying corpse. Bugs struggle to get free from it, as the hand extends out to you, beckoning. 

   Your own hands twitch unpleasantly, an almost inaudible squelching noise emitting from them as something moves beneath. Despite your earlier thoughts, you kneel down next to the hand. Your own rotting one grips onto it tightly, as your flesh slides off of you, clumping together on the floor.

    She smiles at you. You aren’t looking, but you know she is smiling. She seems amused by something… 

[lackadaisicalwriter]

Sasha

Your hands are not your own. That isn’t to say they aren’t still yours, but they are no longer yours and yours alone. Perhaps it is in the way they hold tightly onto things, squeezing more tightly than you’d thought possible. You never fancied yourself having a strong grip, but now your hands… 

  These hands, the flesh beneath them, in the grooves of them. Would you still be able to feel it, if they were chopped off? You ask yourself such morbid questions often these days.. Would they twitch, would you still be able to flex your amputated fingers? If time had passed, their freshness wilting away like daisies, would those hands, squirming with the children of millions of flies, still be able to grip as tightly as before?

    They say that you shouldn’t think such thoughts, but you know that they don’t quite understand your dilemma. You’re grateful they don’t. To have a body part you can’t even claim as your own, nor was gifted to you… Some days, you look into the mirror and wonder if this is how Victor Frankenstein felt upon seeing his creation. 

   Though maybe that is being a bit unkind to the monster. They had thought put into their creation. Yours did not. No genius slaving away for hours a day, carefully cutting up rotting corpses just to lovingly crochet their skin together. No bitter rejection by the one who had so lovingly gifted you the face of another’s loved one. 

   Just yourself, and the body. Perhaps if you had a creator you would have a reason to be so spiteful. Someone who scorned you, at the least. You used to have that, someone to blame. But lately, even with your body not being yours, you can’t say your actions are justified anymore. 

The past transgression that person once did to you. What was it again? What made you so, melancholic and bitter? Was it as horrible as you’ve led yourself to believe? Those hands, they clasp themselves together tightly. 

What does it matter, anyways. You’ve made your bed, the corpse of what you once had/were rotting it away, and it’s time to lie in it.

[vestellaris]

Holy crap. You use tumblr also?

very recently yes :D

[lackadaisicalwriter]

boo B)

[lackadaisicalwriter]

Teritary Cold Hearts

A cold blooms from within, choking out anything else. No room remains, he’s all taken over from the cold within. 

A greedy thing, this ice, it eats away at everything inside, growing stronger the more there is. 

People try and help, bringing their own flame to try and thaw it out. But none of them ever work, and they become discouraged. Leaving the cold alone once more, isolated. 

Once, there was a flame bright enough to melt this cold, but the frost was smart. It in-cased the flame, binding it away from where it resides, letting it flourish as much as it wanted. 

Through the stream of time, the cold burrows deep, hanging on tightly. It’s never alone now, always attached at the heart to him, but the cold touch of frost can never compare to that of other beings. 

A thousand lifetimes come and go, all in his eyes, and yet his only companion to celebrate it with is the cold that grows. Hugging it tightly, never as tight as it holds him, is all he can do. A constant is still a constant, in an ever changing world, no matter how life-stealing it may be. 

The sun sets today, as it has every other day, but it will come back in the morning. Perhaps one day, that flame will be set free, and this cold will be replaced. Until that day comes, it will remain, and he’ll stay isolated. 

At the least, that man will have the memory of what he once had to keep him sane. Even if those that he knew, the people that tried to warm him, have left him behind, he will always remember their warmth. A warmth he one day will be able to reciprocate.

[lackadaisicalwriter]

hi B)