#loosely!

[creatediana]

Hate is a strong word (all men are words) Hate's a big strong word a big strong man— that's why I use it— I want to be wrapped in his big strong arms in the moonlight I guess as he whispers in my ear (that delicate Hate) like a delicate thing he perceives me to be Oh a woman am I after all I guess and isn't a difference a beautiful thing? Isn't it nice my big strong Hate being gentle for once being gentle to me like he knows how to be (Oh he knows how to be) my delicate big strong man for me my Hate my own my lover my dear one when he's close to me only his eyes can I see only his arms can I feel and I long for them long for them tenderly cradling me like the baby I am a baby a woman a female a lover disgrace to my sex disgraced my sex is disgraced and it was before I got here anyway I guess so I look for my comfort a face like my father's (you like that, Freud?) oh just a lion I long for a lion I long for the lips of a lion to kiss me to lick me a lion I've tamed Oh Hate is a lion my lionheart knight like King Richard a real man a brave man crusading and brutal a prisoner man and a word he's a word as all men are all men are words but my Hate is my real man my Hate I know I know I am brutal I know I love Hate and I know I'm a lover a delicate woman a different enticing thing daunting a prospect I know I am typical— what do you want? What do you want? I'm disgraced anyway I'm disgraced by my father disgraced by my birth disgraced by my sex by my female my sex by my sex I'm disgraced if I have it or don't and I haven't I haven't a thing anymore a thing but my fantasies love and my Hate and my Hate isn't real is not real but it is Oh my Hate it is real when I lie down at night when I lie down at night just a woman a delicate false feeble thing nobody's baby no more when I lie down I lie to myself more than anything lie to myself for my pride's sore sake my sore stubborn pride I'm a lioness not I'm a cub abandoned forgotten because lions sleep most of the day away anyway there is less pride than laziness I guess Hate finds me in this cave lying prisoner like King Richard myself am King Richard after all a woman a brutal a woman with far too much pride like a medieval crusader God knows why Hate finds me my Hate my reason for living my reason for loving my love after all my love for myself and my pride stubborn Hate my love for my father my birth my disgrace my strong man men are never as they present themselves they are no lions no kings (anymore anyway) a real man a big strong man is a lie I lie down with him— him, lion-sweetheart— Hate mine

"Haterosexual (Really All Mine)" - a poem written 3/28/2025

[webster-max]

What do you fear more, the fire or the ashes?

The fire, says the one standing in ashen ruins. You can work with ashes. There might be something to recover, if you care to look. Care to pick through them. If you cover your nose and mouth and brace yourself to choke on all that’s been lost, on everything precious that has been reduced to dust, then you may find some remnant, and that is at least something.

In the fire you can do nothing. You can watch as it takes, and you can feel as it burns, and you are stuck still as it destroys. The ashes, they are saddening, such a terrible reminder of what has gone. More practically, they are somewhat dangerous to breathe in. You shouldn’t linger by the ashes, warns the one who cannot, will not move from those same ashes.

But who would fear them more than the fire, asks the one who stands in the ruin with the slightest of laughs. Those ashes swirl by, sticking to skin where they land.

Earlier, another is asked the same question.

What do you fear more, the fire or the ashes?

The ashes, answers one who sees what is wrong with this house and knows what must be done. Oh, the ashes, says the one who runs, room to room, lacing the floors with gasoline, flicking it high up the walls, letting it run down like rain on window panes. At the floor’s centre, the one who knows what to do dumps the canister. It clatters, splashing it’s contents everywhere. This fire will spread, given the chance, and with shaking fingers, the one who will give this fire a chance to burn down this place pulls out the single match from a box of chances.

The ashes, this one insists. I fear the ashes. Don’t make me face what comes after.

[sailor-slam-dunk]

i’ll maybe upload regular, proper version of this later, but i wanted to show off some new stuff i’m trying with illustrator and seeing what the potential is for coloring characters. it’s incredibly arduous and hard but it’s what i got right now. tested using an [old!] drawing of one of my boyfriend’s gemsonas [chalcopyrite] i had lying around. i probably should have picked an easier one.