#tuserfaheys

[pushkins]

It took me a long time to understand why we say ridden by anxiety. It's the yolk of it's endless circling, over and over the same trail spiralling down. The hopeless, the bargaining, the insignificant decisions that were not insignificant at all are brought back by your voice.

Your unwelcome intrusion in my sleep, you're a voyeur to the wound inflicted by your choices.

Loss evokes trauma, my feet tread on the memory of broken mirror and metal, abrasions — my walk a penitent prayer, the wounds like stigmata; I am devoted to the memory of us.

What I will not say: I think more of you now that you're gone than I did before. How is this trade of fair?

Your unwelcome martyrdom with our friends, you're jury and executioner and saint and martyr in our shared history. Have it, it's yours now.

Heartache evokes trauma, the only truth I recognise in you are the pieces of me you took — the distorted shadow I cast dragging the rewritten history, ink still wet.

What I will not say: The loss of you is deep enough to shake the foundations of my soul. I have woken up at dawn with your name as cheap comfort.

Your unwelcome haunting; the rattling of your bones in the places that were ours. The fragments of me you appropriated, and for that I cannot forgive.

(the anxiety that rides in at the sight of an open door; the sun-warmed welcome mat; the newfound silhouette at the window; they take your place on the couch; the cooling tea; the language built between until ours turns distant, then one day hopefully forgotten)

What I will not say: I've tasted the shame left by the echo of your absence.

— for @primordialnyx || Eliot C. ||☕|| commission

[pushkins]

We become facsimiles of each other you and I, our warm footsteps on the rain soaked asphalt. I was in mourning when we met, black on black and the taste of stale bread.

Your arrival was loud like the cries of seagulls overhead piercing this ash coloured purgatory. Rejection burning out of my skin under your fingers.

It's not your fingers but mine that claw open the old wound.

- personal musings || new friendships || Eliot C. ||☕||

[pushkins]

when ophelia stepped into the throne room, she was madness given a voice; her fingernails missing and replaced with splintered aches; dirt, across her eyelids and cheeks — a war cry, an accusation in her song.

YOU, pray; PRAY YOU, MARK. (you listen, listen, listen now)

there’s nothing pretty about grief; it’s savage and raw, biting at the skin - tender or not - until it breaks. the muscle and fat between the crooked, yellow teeth of vain men.

there’s nothing beautiful about ophelia’s grief; it is wilting flowers and weeds, burning the skin - blisters swelling. fingers trampled by the heels of expectation and soles of ambition as they stepped over.

and the world has stepped on thousands of girls just like ophelia. again and again, and wondered what made them go mad.

inspired by this post.

[pushkins]

the moon is a sickle-shaped silhouette; your body by the doorway, waiting. your mouth tasted of dirt and your touch burnt scars between skin and bone. i remember -- the ribbons in your hair, shroud-thin and spilling between my fingers; our breaths a quiet hymnal written in stripped light, i sang you to sleep one last time, foreheads stained with our white-ash fears. your ascendance an inconsolable absence

not even prayer could alleviate.

— discussion @candlelitnetwork || Eliot C. ||☕|| Patreon

[pushkins]

I think I dreamt you, sleepy-eyed Metztli whispers, her fingers caressing the soft white ear, the twitching nose. Yes, I dreamt you. When the sun and moon were equals, the world beneath knew no fear of darkness. Death had no shade in which to hide. Until Metztli hid her brightness beneath the rabbit, struck by its body, pressing her face close enough to hide her tears.

— moon touched || Eliot C. || aztec myths with @thewinedarksea ||☕||

[pushkins]

One Coffee And Your Heart, Please

FANDOM: Star Wars: Thrawn 

SUMMARY: The coffee shop rests between two dilapidated buildings, the front decorated with a myriad of colourful cloths upon which coffee pot sets sit at different heights.  || ☕|| Patreon

NOTES: Thranto. Self-indulgent fluff, coffee shop au! Thank you to @mortisbane & @yalakid. If you like or reblog this, thank you very much!

AO3 HERE

[pushkins]

Modern day Pegasus is a nervous looking youth with hands and feet too big for his coltish body. His eyes are like his mother’s: a deep shade of brown, almost black and soulful — in mourning for all the secrets she carried behind her stone-cold features.

Pegasus doesn’t remember his mother well, just the imprint of her sorrow running through his skin. Fragments: the hand prints of his heavenly progenitor; Chrysaor’s synchronised breaths; the span of his own wings while springing forth from his mother’s blood.

His twin has kingly airs while Pegasus struggles with his footing, tripping on air, floating aimlessly on water. He feels best when he sits on the ledges of windows and lets his feet dangle as if gravity were optional.

By the time he is fifteen his knees are always scrapped, his fingers are calloused but Pegasus has found an escape: watch him once his feet leave the ground, and he ricochets off the walls with such grace. He scrambles up buildings, jumps across and rolls upon landing — his balance is perfect, acrobatics mastered with few tries.

Modern day Pegasus doesn’t have wings, not the tangible kind. His centre of gravity is off-kilter, fixed on clouds and skies and stars. He’s wild and untamed, drifting alone but never lonely.

A youth approaches Pegasus when he is sitting by a water fountain and cleaning his knuckles under the spray, the water turning to rust. This youth’s footing is certain, his posture screams hubris, adventure, uncertainty — enough to stop Pegasus in his tracks and really look.

He offers his hand, gold bracelets clinking like wind chimes, “My name’s Bellerophon, and I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.”

Modern Myths Network | Event Four | Creature | Metaphysical  ↳ Pegasus 

[pushkins]

The absence of light leaves a lesion in her soul; when the sun turns away and rides his chariot high in the sky, forgetting her existence  — that is the true absence of light. Not the dark that creeps outside the halls on nights where the moon is newly birthed and invisible to the eye.

Titans are terrible beings, she thinks as she searches for his brilliance. Beautiful, terrible, cruel — their divinity is barely contained, burning at the merest glance unlike Olympians who have mastered their otherworldly grace. Olympians don’t burn mortals in the same way Titans do.

She turns between sheets and looks Helios, her sorrow a serrated knife leaving behind lacerations in his divinity. “You wound me so deeply,” she says, “and I’m expected to swallow this rage.” She presses a thumb to his collarbone, bruising.

Helios flinches, and offers no answer. Mortals are interchangeable, their lifespan a single breath to a Titan.

“I don’t want to apologise for my existence. Why are we always expected to apologise for the rage brought on by the divine?”

— modern myths || happy birthday to @reyavie || Eliot C. ||☕||