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Teach me to say, “It’s all too sad, it’s so awful, so wretched, but I understand;” and teach me to comfort you as you used to for me: I will brush your hair and pile it up on top of your head with flowers from our twenty gardens, pinning myself to your shoulder with the ball of my chin as I soothe you, each soft word a petal so clean and organic you’d forget that life couldn’t help but bring rot with her when she came. You’ve been too far past the breadth of my world, lapped blood from your young fingers like blackberry juice in revelation. You brought me up to be sensible, to know which punches I could afford to pull, to which kindnesses I could entertain. For your joy was like cinnamon dusting my nose and throat, you seemed to hang clandestine above me, and you made me feel like I’d gotten the glory of Magdalen as easily as I’d ducked past the burden of being Jesus. Nobody could touch, Romans or Jews; Your protection and devotion could be a straight rule for mothers and daughters– I didn’t have to think about the blood that ran over from your mouth, slicked your chin and down to your fingers that you wiped across my cheeks and through my hair, staining me like a traffic light to the body you’d slashed it out from. The blood that’s gotten all over me isn’t mine and isn’t yours, it’s thick and oily and it’s clotting and being converted to jelly slick enough to reflect. Thinking about putting it in my mouth to suckle up my own victory is suffocating and horrible, too horrible for words and I want to claw my quivering guts out with my hands, scooping over and over, like swimming mom, like swimming, like swimming.

also here it is spaced out properly hhhhhggn

#fiction #prose #My writing #rictus writes #paradise AU

“...Your nose parting my hair like black waters, each strong breath a tradewind that could guild our ships back into port. I lay supine to your stomach and bathed in you, rolling myself in strange new wonders: warmth, stability, sanctuary, nepenthe.

I could draw my tongue over you and drink your body and mind, how your scent scratched itself into the brightwork of my thoughts: copper and iron and the dark slipperiness of blood, cotton, leather, pine smoke, petrichor; the slight brush of sunlight that settled into your skin and hummed through you as you moved each day...

The furious rewild of your combat, the diapasion of our bodies pressed together and churning each other to pieces...!”

#rictus writes #my writing #prose #fiction #paradise au #mephistopheles (character)#Eumenides (character)

Make me softer, make me softer. I'll drag it out of you.

ajkhlefius

#rictus writes #tiny lines #idk

“How dare you speak so cruelly to my children?! You,” HE gestured to me, “Rip off his wings.”

I turned to my mother in utter horror and found upon her lips blood and feathers, and beyond them, the smile of the little girl she’d told me he took away.

Summer Diary 2/?

#rictus writes #my writing #fiction #prose #paradise au #me?? w riting????

I am watching you throw punches from the roof of a Chinese restaurant I am trying to figure out if you are worth protecting— I don’t want to think about it/I need somebody to help me; I don’t know the words / does it have to be your voice / I don’t think I can do this Alone. Every morning I open my eyes, everything smells unfamiliar and cold I don’t have that split second where I forget— I need that second Stretch that moment out and break it on the wheel, my veins are shuddering With the blood of my mother, my sister, of breaths and screams Every time I close my eyes, I see my husband dying. Please don’t hurt me/please don’t touch me I forget the English words as I am speaking them; Cornstarch irritates my skin, birds are chittering in my ears Beetles run over my bones and teeth When I die I will turn to chalk and (if you’re worth this effort) you Will write down what I’ve done.

tiny / ain’t no thing

#rictus writes #my poem #poem #my poetry #poetry

“I’ve been told the whole point of me was to love you, to love you despite it all. How trying that is, how exhausting; I remember that morning riding the tail of winter when I was thinking of you, of all I had done.

My house was a ruin, my bedroom where I had fallen to my knees sparse meters away from the section of floor where my mother had pulled her last breath and thrown her last stone. Where it had struck my father between the eyes, cleansing his hatred of us and shutting his mouth in preparation to face his one true savior. Where I hadn’t been. Where the call hadn’t reached me— I was seventeen, holding a dropper to my eye so someone, anyone, could put his hands on my body without me screaming and beginning to hack him to pieces as terror robbed me blind.

Can I blame you for this? Was it your fault his hands reached for my exposed form? Was it your fault his spit ran along my skin like a rash? You had already forgiven him years ago, you must have, you could have stopped him and you snickered instead. I wanted you to be everything.

Can I blame you for leaving when I raved at you for doing nothing, reached down with my teeth to capture you and bleed out your call to arms? I didn’t care who you hurt: shoot him, shoot me, just make it stop. Can I blame you for caring more about your pride than my humanity? Who do I blame for ignoring the festering knowledge that they didn’t change you, that really, you’d always been this ignorant, this frivolous, this easily swayed? The truth of us sat in my intestines like a stone.

But there I was at two am, pounding on our sister’s door. There I was listening to her yell obscenities at both of us, that you were a shit of a sister and I was no sister-brother-whatever of hers. Neither she nor I had been invited to the wedding that blew the three of us apart forever... Three of us. She was a third wheel, and she knew it, and she despised it. There I was, listening to her scream about her sister’s monstrous husband, about the curse I’d brought down on their family with my introduction. Her jealousy lived and breathed. I didn’t know how to tell her she may have, in some ways, dodged one hell of a bullet.

The point of me was to love you, and for three fluttering years, I did so without guilt or question. Then he arrived, and I wish I could say, how dare you, you should have known better. But he was standard fare for you— in some ways he was standard fare for me. I should have left you. I should have known better. I know I could not have.”

#rictus writes #my writing #prose #fiction

“If you could have loved us, then why didn’t you? If you saw beauty in us, tenderness and loveliest sameness why couldn’t you just just just”

“But I couldn’t begin to after, don’t you understand that, after what he had done to myself and my own, I found I could not bare anything of yours, I couldn’t see your beauty, your sameness flickered and vanished; I felt as if I were the only beast left alive with working eyes.”

#rictus writes #my writing #prose #fiction #paradise au

Provocativ

“I always imagined sex with you is more about bartering than exchange,” it read. “Incessant power play. So hot.”

So hot. So distant and feeble, giving both of us plenty of room to abandon each other for the optimum violent white woman, should she come dancing into either of our lives. You adore my sharpest edges, but I’ve gotten the sense thinking about how I got them bores you to tears. You don’t like a lot of dimensions, do you; so just slap our bodies together until the quintessential drop dead gorgeous colonizer picks up his heart, grabs mine, and flies away with them.

I’m only keeping all this spit in my mouth because I don’t want to wake him up; because people who have been done a great service in being reunited can’t launch their disgust and contempt onto their bedroom carpet.

Bartering and power play, bargaining, a wicked new game I must have taken to like fine cut bougiousie cocaine.

“Oh fuck off, I love him, you goddamn vapid mosquito. Like I would ever dream of doing any of that bullshit to him.”

#rictus writes #my writing #prose #fiction #diary #🍋