shadowspoems

if you're here, you know me better than 100% of my relatives, congratulations [ she | them ]

[kawareo]

Bhaalist Unholy Communion

This post has been living in my brain rent free and then it hit me in just the right headspace to turn into a vent thing and made me write poetry for the first time since eight grade anyway enjoy my ramblings under cut

because isn't it fucked up that Durge has no bodily autonomy? That he's nothing (using he/him because im looking at my Durge specifically) without Bhaal because not even his own body is his own but still a part of Bhaal?

And sure it is an honor to be Bhaal's Chosen, but is it really if you never got the chance to choose yourself? Strike, my Durge, was born a Bhaalspawn and grew up in the cult since he was eight. It's all he's ever known, he's worshiped for being a demi-god, he's powerful and on top, and in the end, literally everything he has is only because his Father lets him have it.

The Communion especially shows that, with Strike being still worshiped, but it hurts him, the Bhaalists rip his body apart, use it, consume it, and he needs to think of it as a blessing because how lucky is he, to be the soul that was loaned piece of a god to guard? He'd think of his own body like that.

And it hurts Bhaalists, too! It works both ways! His blood is poisonous and his flesh aches in their throats, but it's a blessing! God of Murder loves his son and his love hurts, and if you love him back, you must let yourself be hurt and know how lucky you are to be allowed to be hurt by Bhaal or his mortal flesh itself!

I'm just very into the whole 'no bodily autonomy' thing that we have going on with Durge, like his father not only can take control of his body via the Urge, but he has Sceleritas to guide him away from anything that could be not by Bhaal's books, Orin and Saverok to be a (although messed up as hell) family to him so he'll never look for another, and to some degree, Bhaal can control Durge's mind...

No wonder he'd run to Gortash in the end. The first one who sees more than a Bhaalspawn when he looks at Strike, more than Bhaal's scion, he sees a person and ngl it's totally Bhaal's fault that Strike ended up like that

[wannab-urs]

he definitely fucks but there’s no way he fucks normal

[mobydyke]

harry du bois steps up to the lectern in front of the crowd. "as a lesbian...." he pauses, looks at kim questioningly. kim shakes his head imperceptibly. harry looks back at the audience "...supporter"

[shadowspoems]

another day, another crash

when will i stop counting

my waking hours with tragedy

when will the pain of missing her

eclipse the pain she caused me

i have fashioned an abacus,

tricoloured for my nightmares

there is a sickly forest green,

slimy to the touch, perfumed with

undeserved patience

for the one i wanted to give everything

but got nothing in turn but trouble

and i click, click, click the beads

changing the scene,

interchanging the people

though the pain stays

there is a tooth-rottingly sweet peach one,

for the ravenous open mouth

desperate to bite and chew and swallow

rip and tear my very essence

into comfortable chunks

while i stew in discomfort

with all the parts she didn't want

and when i try to count her beads,

my eyes swim in regret

my fingers refusing to move on

and sticking to the wood like honey

a forest fire of rage and a car crash

burning wood and smelting plastic

it burns in the nose to lose

chars your lungs black and cracks your skin

though the last bead has no such

easy conclusion

its colourless like black light and white shadow

barbed wire catching the tip of my fingers

burrowing deep with intent

never to let go of her coping mechanism

her perfect little defect therapist

her problem and her solution

to problems she created

click, click, click

switch it up every night

confront me with another ghost

no exorcism can take hold

im not haunted, im the haunted house

my abacus counts my pains

records it for my pleasure

of pressing down on open wounds

[shadowspoems]

drunk ramblings

a simple brush of skin

seems as tantalising as a stolen kiss

as a grip on your arm

im taking something not offered,

it has to be offered

since my presence is a burden

on everyone and me

so touch me but tell me

i can touch you back

because i want to lay my hand

on your cheek, softly

because i know your skin bruises, easily

dip down and steal a kiss

from lips used to talking

around the issue, eternal deflection

maybe you'd even have to

lay hand on my neck

to keep your balance against gravity

but its stolen, im a thief

every shred of attention a piece

i ripped from you like treasure

why must i think so lowly

of myself?

if you knew you are loved,

maybe that could help

but selfish, I hold my hearts dream

inside my chest

nothing i could offer, could ever be healing

since im poison and your a cup

oh, how i want to drink from you

oh, how i want to taste you

but how could hands

as selfishly unfeeling

ever leave something other than another

fucking bruise?

so i hate myself

for every second you suffer of loneliness

since no matter what

its my fault

knowing that even if

even when (hopefully) i tell you

there will be nothing but rejection

maybe you'll even leave

final and without second chance

and it'll break my fragil heart

because i just,

just want to love you

freely

i want to touch you,

cradle you in my arms

until pain pains no more

until my broken parts

mend some of yours

but poison spreads

and I'd only leave you

like a sword forged in open flame

cracked and curved

black and tarnished

a thing, pretentious thinking to be

a person

could never love you

like you deserve

i wonder

its never me, not even in fantasy

i can't even dream of touching your skin

without feeling like a thief

[dicktripwire]

Wallpapers from Monstress #13

[shadowspoems]

two breakfasts

oh, i dream of such morning

of fire cresting clouds pink and orange

the smell of roasted coffee

or sizzling scrambled eggs

surround me, tired, tired

but not yet ready to head to bed

again

not before the oranges are not pressed

not before the apples aren't sliced

not before i picked

a single blooming mint

to bring to my beloved

hold the cup under her nose

until it scrunches, adorably

and i say in low voice

careful not to raise her

"Good morning, my love,

let this day begin with me,

hearing your first words.

and let the day end

with me tasting your last."

oh, i dream of such morning

as i open my eyes, light high in the sky

my bed cold where my own back

did not find its rest

and the questions arrive,

as they are summoned by fantasy,

because ive been taught

that only real things have merit

that only possibilities

are worth considering

and i know, as i know most things,

as i study story and read reality

that i would not wake before

my beloved does

that i would find no strength

to lift my heavy body

even for someone else

that i would tire of routine,

as i do of them all

and crumble this perfect picture

by my own twisted hands

no freshly pressed oranges

because i never bought them

no coffee to raise a sleep caught mind

its still forgotten in the kettle

so

how could i pretend

that i could love somebody else

so much

that i forget my burning hate,

a fire so ravenous to consume me,

loving someone else's face

so much

that i don't have any space left

for despising my own

a terribly selfish ask

a villainous deception

"ha, i fooled you,"

i could say

"you thought you were loving a person,

but instead you loved a mirror,

showing you what you want to see.

but, you see, as a mirror,

i don't have a frame,

my back is open, naked,

and it takes but a push,

for me to splitter."

[shadowspoems]

there was a war once

now there's only ember

pillars erected for the victors

of blackened teeth and eyeless socket

churn in the midday heat

their flesh rotting soft, crows hunger for it

if it wasn't for the fire licking

up the corpse's pillar, their mass grave

consuming the conquered,

one last domination, their rest denied

for the flame did not spark

out of kindness, out of respect

whoever walked from the battle,

no name yet important enough,

lit the corpses up

out of practical maliciousness

out of revenge and wrath

and though dead have lost

their will with their last breath,

bones will remember

what intention laid behind the fire

and bones won't forget

with the single minded focus

of nothing else to do

and when green reclaims the red,

the open tomb forgotten,

heed your step along the path

for bones, unseen, may creak like old trees

yet their hands want to rip you down,

to join them in defeat