Ryver of the Night

She/Her Writer Future Neurolgist. Safe space for the, LGBTQA+ community, foreigners and neurodivergent. Minors DNI Level 18, Spawned 01 21 2008

[ryverofthenight]

Ryver of the Night

☆ She/Her ☆

"Somewhere between confession and disappearance"

somewhere between nowhere and never

I bloom in decay

teeth in the wallpaper

static between stars

resident of the in-between

I have no mouth and I must scream

Child of Saturn.

Time eats all his children in the end.

Maybe Cupid wont miss.

I let you know me.

Hello, It's Ryver of the Night.

I have admired Tumblr and AO3 from afar, knowing how much my friends love it.

I am eighteen and prefer that minors I don't know not interact with me. I also prefer that if you're 30+ and I don't know you, you don't interact.

I am a hyperglot, currently at sixteen languages. So if you send an ask and tell me what language you'd like it in, I can do that for you.

Please do not ask me to do strange, out-there kinks. I will not answer to homophobic, transphobic, ableist, misandrist, misogynistic, racist, incestuous, rape-related, minor-involved, or non-consensual things. You will be removed and reported.

I love to Dance, Sing, and write.

Soon, I'll get my Notion working so you guys can have my stories. 🫶 I'll add more to this when I get all of it fixed.

Don't be afraid to ask, I want asks, I love to see people out there that have silly little questions.

[ryverofthenight]

Ryver of the Night is back!

What a sight!

[ryverofthenight]

How would Mikhail and Castiel get along fans?

[ryverofthenight]

Will I have the flesh the maggots adore? Will I too be able to be enjoyed? A bite of misery. Sorrow within the marrow. Will they struggle with the scars, tough flesh, and will the maggots feel the poison of too many pills in their stomachs? Will the maggots that eat dead flesh come to save me when I am buried in a grave too shallow on the side of the road? When I ask not for a funeral, for nothing special, and invite no one. I want to know the bugs will treat me no better than a skunk that got hit in ninety-degree weather, and may the autopsy men and women share the same disgust as the man scraping said skunk off the highway. Treat me no better. I was no one special; I wasn't important. May the vile worms get a buzz off of the medication in my intestines meant to put me to sleep. The mushrooms grow with a wicked tint from the impure remains. I will not be in the back of anyone's mind for too long, a fleeting memory. I can only hope. I don't deserve more than a pang in the chest of familiarity. I got what I needed in life; I was well off. I may have been poor, but I was fed every night. My teeth rotted from the sweets I stress ate. I was warm. I was content until bothered. I am who I am. And I wish not to have any quote on my tomb; no words are good enough to be engraved. Besides, it'd cost more anyhow.

[ryverofthenight]

Freak.

I am a control freak.

I yell at you like my mother would me.

I am the worst of them put together.

I am made of two people, both with rage.

Different triggers I would hit all the time like buttons being pressed.

I yell at you for the same thing I would be yelled at for, and then some.

I’m afraid all at once, of my mom and dad yelling.

What we do right now, as I stare into your eyes.

You have no idea what my issue is.

Why a pen in the wrong place can set me off, because when I was little that would get me in trouble.

I get loud because I don’t want to get hurt.

You’re a man, and men have always put hands on me.

Don’t blame me for being afraid, you’re bigger than me.

What if I say something I can’t take back?

Why can’t I just shut up and say you're right?

I’m sorry. I’m scared.

I was born and raised to be incredibly afraid and I don’t want to sound innocent but in a world full of wolves I’m a sheep, in a world full of coyotes I’m a doe.

I’m just trying to survive, as a minnow in shark infested waters.

I have nothing good to show, and my yellowing teeth are bared.

I would never hurt you, and if I knew how to love you, and accept what you have to offer I would.

I don’t want to carry on the hurt and pain from my mom and dad to our relationship.

I’m not an evil person, I don’t want to say vile things.

And I tend to throw other people’s things away because that’s how my things were treated.

It didn’t matter the value.

Like that one time—that time my mom threw one of my cat stuffies in the trash because I was playing with it during naptime and I ran and dug in the trash to go get my cat stuffie.

I will never forget it. The pain I felt.

I don’t play with anything during bedtime, during work. Not anymore. Sometimes you have to be vile and disgusting to get what you need.

Sometimes letting out those words help you heal inside.

And I'm sorry I made you a victim to my wounds.

Next time listen to me, and put the pen where it belongs.

[ryverofthenight]

Fine, I'm doing great. I miss your writings; I liked the one about perfectionism! 🫂

I miss you guys too.

[ryverofthenight]

Checking in on my lil' comets. How is everyone?

I know I haven't written anything in a while.

[ryverofthenight]

This Must Be The Most Important Dance Of My Life.

Hips on yours, your thighs trembling. You're taller than I am, but that doesn't stop you from shrinking under my hands. You aren't muscular, not that it would matter much; we're in the dark. But I've never had a good image of you. I never wear my glasses; I want nothing to block my soul from yours when we look at each other. I'm not looking through rose-tinted glasses if I'm not wearing any. You do not value my warnings. A home I've made a house to better suit your mood. My voice sounds like a church bell on crisp snow. You tell me what I say isn't possible, it isn't that bad. I have never been with someone like you. I am thinking of your voice even when you sleep. Even when flesh is hot, even when a coiling in my gut curls tight around my organs. When my chest raises, I cover a smell with my perfume to help me sleep at night. When I act like what happened didn't happen. I find myself hot and flustered in the bathroom at my work, and all I can do is claw at my body. A bird wants to be free, my heart from a cage of my ribs. I have to force my arms away. 

I am angry at the world because I refuse to say no. I am the person I am because I never say no. 

And how much easier it would be if I did. 

Maybe I'd be heard, rather than be told.

I wouldn't struggle with thoughts of harm to myself and to you.

And the month is over; I can crawl out of my closet, for one less skeleton to be in there. I am still alive, but my bones still count. Even when they become jelly in fear, they still count. All 206 bones in my body still count. Even when broken from the pressure and the bruises I cause myself. 

I still have a flower, it still can be. Protected. Colors invariant. One single. A breath. A soft color. And you cannot taint the color with red unless I say. I said no. In the voice of later. Even when you refused to touch me, look at me, or gaslit me. I said later. I said no. 

You shouldn’t desire to love me to death. 

That’s my job.

You can't call them rose-tinted if I've already taken them off.

I am not wrong for not wanting it between my legs, last time you made a mess. 

I said no, I hate saying yes. 

One key doesn’t make every door open. 

You can’t keep asking. 

I can’t say no all the time.

I am afraid of disappointing you, I want control.

I hate you sometimes for my actions. 

You deny me of love until I let you under my clothes. 

I said I wanted them on.

Your fingers may creep but the clothes stay on. 

I said no. I said later. 

I have no glasses on. Nothing left to tint you pink.

Let me put my clothes back on. 

I can’t see you in the dark, I want my own pillow. 

I hate your breath on mine. I hate kissing you. 

I want my clothes on. 

I hate you for what I’ve done. 

This is MY flower. 

It will wilt and die before I give it to you.

I love it to DEATH. That's MY job.

Stop giving me money and gifts, I’m afraid you’ll hold it against me when my hands refuse to explore a body I can't see.

Yes doesn’t mean all the time.

Love hurts. 

Your aim is true. I have to cry now. 

Every hand hurts, and I think your hand hurts now. 

I want my clothes on, and I hide my eyes behind my glasses. Because if my soul can't find yours, I want to see the world.

[ryverofthenight]

I am alive!!

-Glyph

I left for a long time. I've changed.

[ryverofthenight]

The way you sound.

I have never understood sayings.

I haven't ever understood the expression it's raining cats and dogs.

Or the expression, the devil is beating his wife.

However, I do understand the expression:

Walk in someone else's moccasins.

The way I sound is expressionless—not because there's something wrong, but because I don't feel the emotion is valid. I often mimic those around me, and I know social rules. I just don't know how to follow them exactly. I know I am supposed to like small children; I'm supposed to like kittens. They are tiny, innocent, and kind, which is supposed to release a maternal feeling. I just lack the emotional capability. So I fake it. I smile, give candy and say "oh, you're so cute".

And the way I sound, people are a big fan of hearing what I didn't say. I've come to find out.

And I grit and bare it.

Even if their spindles prickle at my sinew.

The way you sound to me is hostile until given a motive for the situation. I ask for a moment, I get told 'You have an attitude problem.'

I told you my machine does not allow a person of my position. You tell the person you're on the phone with you 'hate talking to little girls.'

You deny, I insist.

You heard what I didn't say.

This is not my fault; your anger is misguided.

I am not a little girl; I do not have an attitude problem.

I know this because if I speak it, it is truth. I don't have the capacity to keep up a lie.

You have made me cry.

You have sunk your teeth into a heart with no malice, rammed your horns into a doe who doesn't desire to understand the incompetent.

You have left me to marinate with thoughts of doubt.

Made me question if I deserve the money I rightfully work for.

You sound aggressive.

You sound mean.

You sound like every highschooler who picked on me because they thought I was less than what I am.

And in the least cringe way, I have a brain that sparkles given the circumstance.

You sound like my father, spewing venom because he can't handle his marrige.

You sound like the teacher who got mad at me for sleeping in his room after I got shoved down a flight of stairs for looking weird.

You sound like my boss when I refused to come in a hour and a half early because we had prior plans saying my mother will make me lose my job.

You sound like my sexual abuser that tells me 'just take the photo, ryver, come on, before she gets home' after I told him no.

How you sound to me is the exact reason I don't know who I am.

How you sound is the reason I bite when I get overwhelmed.

You did this to me. You made me this way.

Why do you blame me for something you caused to happen?

Aren't you man enough not to throw a fit at my disability?

Aren't you a woman too?

Don't you understand my situation?

How you sound is hypocritical.

The way you sound describes a world I don't want to be in.

So why are you worried about how I sound?

I sound as best as I can manage for how you sound.

[ryverofthenight]

Do we want my newest page?

Necessary new writings of Ryver

yes

no

Voting ended onJun 28

[ryverofthenight]

Tumblr reminding me I haven't posted in a while.

[ryverofthenight]

WHERE THE FUCK IS GLYPH WHAT DID YOU DO TO THEM.

[ryverofthenight]

Should The New Necessary Writings Of Ryver be a thing?

[ryverofthenight]

If my book, of my own thoughts

if given animation and lungs to breathe

the poison the owner complained about

would slit wrist and bleed the ink it carried

of the suffering written between the lines

because it would be the worse version of myself

a version—

desperate to contain thoughts I couldn't handle in my head

and the ink would leave a messy void that would stain anything in reach

like it's author did in every home they crawled in

leaving a trace, carrying, carving a handwriting digging so hard into a page that it leaves an EKG of a heart going 120 bpm frantically

hands shaking, eyes jittering in sockets and manic pupils staring down at itself

the book, with no name other than what was handed to it in a jot,

The New Necessary Writings Of Ryver

[ryverofthenight]

People told me to lower the bar, that it's too high.

I prefer to choke on star dust.

I prefer to push myself to the edge, because my brain is a sponge and it's only useful if I make it soak as much in as it can, until it falls apart.

So that when it falls apart, my family has a portion of wealth to pick at like scavengers, because maybe within the rubble of my success I'll mean something with my degrees, certificates, and medals. Maybe the crash back into earths orbit will be softened by the bucks we worship.

Maybe I can be something grand.

Maybe I can dream.

Maybe the money will be worth it and it wont just be another hundred dollars to sink into the gas or monsters to keep me going.

[ryverofthenight]

With what my body's mind will never keep up with, cursed to forever be a confused seven year old's understanding of social construct. Forever asking someone new, "what's your favorite color?"

Cursed to forever have a faster mind, but wired in a way nobody will understand. For all the knowledge I have nobody will understand me because how could someone so young possibly understand what took me fourteen years to do in a week?

Cursed to forever be underestimated because instead of anything grand, I only have a mound of flesh between my legs.. which means nothing Important will ever become of me.

And for all the languages I know, I'll never know the right words to say when communicating something important.