#escapril2025

[thepathetickind]

APRIL 02 🌼 TWIN FLOWER LETTERS writing prompts by laurenmaerie 

[ sweet pea & daisy ]

[cowboy-heart]

'there are many ways to drown' - escapril day 7, prompt is 'selkie'

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[Images ID: an original prose poem titled 'there are many ways to drown'. the poem is broken into paragraphs. poem begins:

When my selkie came to me / she made me feel free / her haunting eyes and / easy smile / her lips of salt sea / and her jaw of Highland bone / I held her face in my hands and / for a moment could hold water / felt the pull and tug of the current in her skin / she told me of her life / under the sea / how she yearned for land and its ilk / we captivated each other with / stories of other.

When my selkie came to me / she told me of schools of fish / of mermaids laughing in bubbles / but told me it was so dreary / once you’d seen the sea you’d seen it all / everything awash in cold blue / the North Sea taste in every bite you ate / unlike the sun of the land / where each hour brings a new hue / where each bite is like a thousand strings / each note playing tastebuds she never knew she had / where nature was varied / where mountains soared beyond the eye / where ground touched your feet / where birds and foxes and dogs sang / where day and night passed / where lovers were warmblooded.

When my selkie came to me / I told her of the land / that we no longer worked Highland dirt / where we were further from ourselves / than ever before / lost and grabbing at what we could / any cultural tie to what / we once were / reclaiming language stolen from our tongues / I told her of the land / that humans work an average of 13 years of their life / not accounting for overtime / that we must flock to cities of no community / relocate our lives / end relationships / in order to work / that we breathe in smoke / expelled by metal beasts that dominate the walkways / that homeless freeze in alleyways / and the housed in their tenements / under the thumb of once-invaders and those who bed with them / that the life expectancy drops every year / that we are only given an hour to visit the mortuary / before they are burned / and we are given only a week / to mourn them / before we must return to work.

When my selkie came to me / she told me the land was much more beautiful than the sea / I asked her if / she could cross into any sea she liked / no borders to hold her / and she smiled an ocean / told me that she could / and I asked her to take my skin.

end poem. in the bottom right corner, the writer is credited as 'Ren H.' End ID].

[nevira-names]

Day 3 of escapril, using prompts by @promptsbyjasmine on Instagram

This was "fig tree."

Tried to do my best to capture a sort of childlike innocence in this one. I haven't written poetry like this in...2 or more years, and I'm slowly catching up on escapril prompts this year, pulling from various poets who threw their hats in the ring.

Rather enjoyed it though <3

[thepathetickind]

prompts for APRIL [02] #escapril2025

[cowboy-heart]

'Vows For A Sunday Morning'

escapril day 28! prompt was my own 'unexpected encounter'

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ID in read more do not repost without credit

[ID: an original lineated poem titled 'Vows For A Sunday Morning'. Poem begins:

There is not much I can really offer you - myself and all my flinching hands, unfocused eyes that stay on the exit, flashing between adoration and headlights, a heartbeat that quickens into hoofbeats, but -

I offer you my name, all I am, condensed into a single syllable, the tripping hazards I went through to get it, the unearthing of a small, scared thing, a desire to soar yet to return to a home.

I offer you my Sundays, mornings spent flipping pancakes and popping toast, pouring coffee over ice, the day spent on sofas with legs over laps.

I offer you my shoulders, aching and stretching, a steady counterweight to the trebles of life, running a bath, bringing the shopping in, always making the bed after the last one’s out (it will usually be me) a grip when taking care of your every need in every way.

I offer you my words the ones laid neatly on a crisp white page, and the ones catching and tripping and falling onto the carpet, that leave us laughing and knocking teeth.

I offer you my clumsy, in love, in life, in conversation, in intimacy, in carrying the plates and mugs, in ordering the food.

I offer you my ageing, my growing wrinkles, my frown and smile lines, the bags under my eyes, the salt peppering my hair from the ripe old age of 24.

I offer you myself. It is all I have, and I hope you will forgive that. I may not have much in the way of savings, but I have been saving a heart on a sleeve for someone just like you to come along, an unexpected encounter that leads to infinite Sundays, a voice that says Only if you want to, honey and really means it.

Will you have me? Hold me tender? I will have and hold every part of you rugged and smooth, hard and easy, bruised and glowing, if you will let me.

This living, these hands, it’s easy with you.

end poem. in the bottom right corner, the writer is credited as 'Ren H.' end ID].

[thepathetickind]

prompts for APRIL [03] #escapril2025

[cowboy-heart]

'If god Exists'

escapril day 26! prompt used was my own 'dancing on a wednesday', and was inspired by @/moonannwrites (instagram) poem 'The Anatomy of a Dyke'!

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(ID in read more) do not repost without credit

[ID: an original prose poem titled 'If god Exists'. either side of the title are lavender sprigs, and the poem is in paragraphs. poem begins:

She pulls you in / threads you around her teeth / giving you hot rush / and the chill of enticement / a tongue that licks teeth like just dessert / her body not a desert / lush with hair and tattoo and acne / to be lost in / hair that sticks up like lightning / to be left on your pillowcase / a stomach that folds and cascades galaxies / puts a chain around your throat and acts the innocent / though there’s no weakness in her blood / looks at you under eyelids like undressing / a wound to be drank / and how you will drink / the night away.

Her fingers reach into roots / tracing the lines of lesbianism back decades / her rolling eyes reminiscent of dyke bar lights / her short nails reminiscent of a brick throw / her boots reminiscent of marching blisters / her thick hands reminiscent of tending the dying on wards / both abandoned yet / hostage / scars like ageing an oak / following the history of / bathroom haircuts and blowjobs / closet hiding and burning / yelling mothers and terrified lovers / disgusted friends and soaked sheets / unending nights and binge drinking / bingeing every chance at touch / at reality / she could get / to tide her over / until the tide took her over / when she needed sea-salt in every corner of her life / threw away the shaver and the boyfriend / got a lesbian one instead / kisses her at the bus stop / chases the man who called you a dyke / for a whole block till he’s weeping / stands outside the bathroom stall / to make sure you’re given no shit / shoulders folding into wings / that she now lets fill the sky with light / gathers faggots / dykes / bisexuals / tgirls / holding all in warm embrace / and sickly sweet blood / jeans stained from it / knuckles from beating / lips from wine and kissing / lets her eyelashes stick to each other / knows she looks hot as all hell / in joggers and hangover / she gives you eternity / and every wish and yearn you ever had / the impossible on her tongue / then takes you dancing on a Wednesday / takes you / takes all of you / every damn way.

Wears just boxers and sagging tits / hickies like islands / says to you over burning pancakes / here’s what catholics are afraid to admit / if god exists they’re a Dyke / only a Dyke could build the world in five days / with only stubbornness, toolbelt, forearms and sweat / you remind her that / they technically ended the world too / in a flood or whatever / she says / yeah? Have you ever seen a Lesbian breakup? / you say / wow / god’s kind of toxic / and ask / where are they now? / we’re in need of fire and brimstone more than ever / especially for a certain subpar children’s author / she shrugs / fucked if I know / probably off having sweaty Dyke sex on mars / you nod / good on them / she flips a blackened pancake / tilts her head like she has / no idea how it happened / WAIT, NO / VENUS!

end poem. in the bottom right corner, the writer is credited as 'Ren H.' end ID].

[cowboy-heart]

'The Older We Get' - a little letter to a baby butch

day 5 of escapril! inspired by my own prompt, 'to be a person'

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[Images ID: an original prose poem titled 'The Older We Get'. the poem is in a paragraph format. poem begins:

Hi little bird, Spring’s coming on strong now and I often think of you when it gets late, since you were born between sprouting blooms and summer fever. I know you’re hurting, and you don’t really know why it is or how it is, you can’t put into words the loneliness or the fear; all you know to do is climb trees to their highest point, roll downhill until you’re one big grass-stain, walk your friends home proudly like a tiny gent, give your friend an at home pedicure in your kitchen because her mum won’t let her get one yet, stop on the trail by the stream and close your eyes like it’s just you and running water.

I’m still learning to be a person, you know? And you might think it’s ironic but I think you might’ve had the right idea. I often think I gotta make something of my life, make my dad proud, pay bills, work a 9-5, make my degree worth something; but every time I’m drowning under the pressure, whether it’s self or society imposed, it’s always the same things that brought me peace and joy when I was young that remind me that life is pretty good sometimes. Sometimes you open your bedroom window and the night air is crisp and fresh. Sometimes the cat purrs on your belly. Sometimes you find a daffodil perfect for pressing. And sometimes you open a book just for a dozen pressed flowers to come tumbling out like a season’s time capsule. I don’t know if we’ll ever figure out how to be a person, I don’t if anyone ever knows, really. Between you and me, I still think adults are pretending to know. But what I do know is that we oughta take stock of the little joys, ought we? Because now those are the moments we living.

end poem. in the bottom right corner, the writer is signed as 'Ren H.' End ID.]