Writer-in-Progress

I tell stories to recapture the wonder of when the only constellations I knew were the ones I could trace between the freckles on my mother’s cheekbones.

[tragicbackstoryenjoyer]

Looking for writeblrs!

My dash has been a bit dry as of late, so please interact with this post if you're an active writeblr and I'll check your blog out! Some of the things I'm looking for:

fantasy or historical fiction

tragedies/bittersweet endings

blogs dedicated to one or a few wips rather than many

participation in writeblr ask/tag games (i do my best to ask back!)

unique settings that I haven't seen before

If you're interested in what I write, come check out my intro post here 😊

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

I am kind because

In another life

I am you

You are me

And I choose to believe

That you would pull me in

If I was adrift at sea

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

“How does it feel, to be the only one left?”

“It feels like dying, but without an end.”

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

“What are we, but a reflection of our actions?

What is man, but a reflection of our condemnations?

What is a haunting, but a reflection cursed to live forever?

We are naught but ghosts.”

- Excerpt from my WIP

[brainsanalysis-deactivated20210]

Hello please reblog this if you’re okay with people sending you random asks to get to know you better

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

I know you love me

So why does it feel

Like you don’t think that’s

Enough

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

I feel his hand stretch across the chasm between us

Warm and solid

It wisps across my shoulders before

Settling on my spine

My skin whispers of expectations

He sighs

I hope the world on his shoulders

Feels lighter for it

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

In the morning

He was was wandering hands and long naps

In the evening

He was strawberry kisses and watching fireworks

She was his

He was hers

They were happy

But she drove home

Alone

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

She traced patterns down the protagonist’s cheek thoughtfully. As if imagining her fingernail was a knife.

The protagonist shivered.

She traced patterns down the protagonist’s cheek thoughtfully. Her fingernail was as sharp as a knife.

The protagonist screamed.

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

There is no soundtrack to our lives

Our tragedies

Our triumphs

Are tragically

Anticlimactically

Silent

We rise and we

Fall

To the sound of our own breath and

Heartbeat

Our gut wrenching sobs

And belly aching laughter

No dramatic music

No montage

Just

.

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

With a tongue a few years from being silver

But still innocently pink

I spun a cardboard princess

Sick with cardboard hives

Hunting cardboard highwaymen

For taking cardboard lives

Making cardboard prisoners

Praying to be saved

Praying I don’t bury them

In a little cardboard grave

- as a child i played god

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

You always joke

About how you will see me in hell

And I laugh

And I tell you that Satan is saving my seat

But then I will look away

And blink

Because I am suddenly all too aware

That Hell is already burning behind my eyes

Heat pushing moisture out

Why else would I be holding back tears

You always joke

About how hell will be a party

It’ll be all the gays and gamblers

All the liars and lazies

And I will laugh

And tell you that I can get you an invitation

But then I will look away

Wondering if I can

Because I earned that invitation

With sticks and scoffs breaking bones too weak to be mistaken for stone

Hellfire burning my heart into obsidian

Because I heard the word devil on so many laughing lips

I stopped caring if it became true

I stopped caring and it became true

So I don’t think I can just hand you an invitation

But maybe gift you a copy of mine

With hesitation

Wondering if you can get by with a cheap imitation

On the list by association

Victim by relation

This should not be a coveted invitation

It was an agonizing initiation

Because to those who have earned it

Hell isn’t a party

It’s a fucking vacation

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

The third little piggy had roast beef and a pack a day

Smoking Cuban cigars and gum disease

While two little boys breath

Their father’s lung disease

They love him, but they can’t say it

Choking on smoke and selfishness

Every time they open their mouths

Cancer becomes a monster in their home

But it doesn’t live in the father’s new nicotine gum

Or the silent mother’s guilty tongue

No

The consequences blacken a toddler’s lungs

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

Lo(o)s(s)e

She tugs at the lace at her throat

A constricting collar

Life spent drowning among

throngs of lying people

So she expresses herself secretly

In vibrant lilies and blooming

violets

Delicate sand dollars and broken

seashells

Her watercolors leaving beautiful

bruises on her blank canvas

But they settle like a stone in her

stomach

Reminding her

Not to speak

Because no one will understand

And she will lose

Everything

[ataurusinabookshop]

Friend: Are you buying more books? Didn’t you just buy like five yesterday?

Me:

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

And the girl who couldn’t see the way she glittered gold, painstakingly painted herself silver.

[x-x-corpserot-x-x]

“You are nothing but a sad man who’s spent his life painting his face with smiles not his own. Your brother’s grin. Your enemy’s charming smirk. Your sister’s shy smile. And did you really think I wouldn’t recognize my own smug countenance? You, mon petit miroir, are nothing but a lie.” The hands on his chin tightened as the words turned bitter and cold. “The worst part is I trusted you. I knew you wore a mask. I thought I could remove it; uncover the real you; show you that I could love whatever was underneath. But there was nothing there. Nothing to see.”

I know what you are.

“Nothing to save.”

You are nothing.

“Nothing to love.”

To love nothing is to be nothing.

His antagonizer swept from the room as he shivered in the warm air of his spartan prison. Beige bedclothes and dark hardwoods seemed to mock him with their cheer.

I know what you are.

He shivered again.

I know what you are.

And as the memories of rejections mirrored each other in his head, he broke. As emptily tragic as the death of someone you never knew.

You are nothing.