i may be a writer but i dont

E or Yancy. he / they. Pro Palestine. writing blog. profile picture from a picrew (link here) (ID below). - Profile ID: A postage stamp with a white border and a dark green background with a white, crescent moon outline. The number "04" is in the upper left corner in white numbering. The center point of the stamp is a red flower with a sleeping grey mouse wearing square glasses in front of it.

[yum-is]

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Everything is okay to reblog unless explicitly stated otherwise.

Hopefully the links work, please tell me if they don't

Tags:

my poetry

my prose

my writing - all writing, both prose and poetry

transfer - used for writing I transfer from my personal blog

All trigger warnings or content warnings I can think of use "tw," "cw," and just the plain tag. Feel free to tell me if i need to add anything.

(up to date as of 11 July, 2022)

[yum-is]

Not Dead Yet

[Plain Text: Not Dead Yet]

Listen

To the tip tap rainy day pattern of my step.

The click of my cane is the shading of my walk,

Aluminum bent handle

The lines of my sketch Stretch

My dislocation between my teeth.

I know the gummy taste

Of orange bottle medication

Lick

The dust off my thumbs

Swallow

The bittersweet taste of relief,

Maybe.

Two tablets taken by mouth daily,

Check my pulse against the Morse code cheat sheet,

Fall risk, it says

Sick, it says

Alive, alive, alive

Not dead yet, 

It says.

I'll hang x rays on my walls

And call it art.

[yum-is]

Red and pink

Pastel capsules

Chugged down

By the chalky handful

I'll give you my heart

If you're willing to get your

Hands

Dirty

gorey spilling viscera

clumped in palms

Will you love

The jagged lines

Of my ribs?

Will you love

The stone heart

Exhumed from my chest?

Disappointment

Is breaking my shoulders

Where you set it

I'm sorry

You expected something

I'm sorry

You didn't know my heart

Is just

An

Organ

[yum-is]

Laika - Short Story

[Personal Log - Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - 03.11.2057

The launch was successful. That should be obvious. That’s the nice thing about personal logs, I can say obvious stuff like that without having to deal with condescending scientists being, well, condescending.

I’ve never been beyond the reinforced walls of Mos Station. I’ve spent so long staring out the viewports and wondering at what might be waiting beyond the glow of dead stars. The closest star is still Sol, perched at the center of our home system. I can’t turn to see it. I’m not allowed to move out of this chair except to briefly stand.

In the old days, back on Earth, launches were supposedly strenuous things. I’m not a scientist, but I’ve done my research. I know all about g forces and atmospheric interference and thrust. Well. In theory. I don’t fully understand it.

Maybe that’s what makes this all so incredible. This mission is going to be the farthest a sentient, living being has ever traveled away from our home planet. It’s a groundbreaking scientific achievement. Hundreds of millions of dollars have gone into this, years of engineering and training. A scientist would’ve been the obvious choice for the mission. Maybe one that’s actually seen Earth.

Instead, they chose me.

I’m not sure why, but it makes me feel special. I’m just another orphan from miner parents on Mos Station. There are hundreds of us. They chose three of us. Only one of us would actually be launched.

And they chose me.

The wires are kind of itchy under my bandages. I won’t scratch. I promised I wouldn’t. See? I can be good. I’ll be good. You trained me for this.

I can do it. I’m a big kid. I’m almost 13.

[Personal Log - Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - 04.11.2057

Day two! I haven’t scratched and I’ve sat still and I’m doing my best.

Would I be able to see Mos Station if I turned around?

I won’t. I said I wouldn’t.

But could I physically see it?

It’s really empty out here. Everything is dotted with the twinkling lights of far off stars. Most of those stars are dead long before the light reaches us. It reminds me of a graveyard. I’ve never seen one, but the book the librarian lent me last year when I tried to get out of the cold while the environmental controls were purged mentioned them.

People on Earth bury their dead. It seems strange to me. Is it to help the bodies decompose? Or is there some kind of spiritual meaning? Out here, we cremate and eject the dead. Your name gets added to the wall of remembrance if you’re rich enough. We don’t have enough space to bury our dead under stones.

The food you give me out here isn’t very good. I’ll eat it. Of course I will. You had me eating it before I left anyways. It just isn’t very good. But that isn’t the point, is it? It’s just meant to keep me alive.

Will you make me borscht when I get back?

[Personal Log - Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - 05.11.2057

I’m tired. I don’t really want to sleep. You strapped me down so that nothing I do would mess with your test results too badly, but I’m still scared that sleeping will jerk a wire out of place or something. I don’t want to mess up.

Home isn’t a place, it’s people. That’s how the saying goes, right? I never really got that. It’s hard to think of people as home when you don’t have people or a place. Just wherever you can catch some peace or safety.

I think I get it now.

You love me, right? You said we were family. You patted my head after you strapped me in, told me to hang on. Told me you’d see me when I got back. You looked sad, the same way you did when I was chosen for this.

Do you miss me?

I think I miss you.

I’ll be good, I promise, I won’t scratch or fidget or play with any of the blinking lights.

It’s really dark out here now. I can’t see the glow of Mos Station on the edges of the window anymore. How far am I? How alone?

I am alone, right? The first to go this far out. To see this view, the glimmering expanse of the unknown. I read that phrase somewhere. It fits here, to describe the tapestry of the universe that hasn’t been explored yet. I’ve never seen a tapestry. 

Will you show me when I get back?

[Personal Log - Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - 06.11.2057

It’s getting hot. Is that supposed to happen? There’s a glow along the edges of the window. It’s different from the lights of the station. It’s warm and fuzzy around the edges, like the carpeting in our room. We all had to share, you know.

Why did you choose me? You never said.

I’m scared.

“Buck up, Curly. Come on, Chatterbox! You promised to be good, remember?”

I know, I know. But it’s so hot. It’s getting hard to think. I promised not to scratch or jabber on and on, but I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Am I still good? Do you still love me?

The metal burns. It’s getting really hot. A new light turned on. It’s blinking and red and really annoying.

I can’t tell if my ears are ringing or if there’s an alarm going off.

I know I said I’d see you when I got back, but I don’t know if I can do that. You said, I’d come back, right? 

Lemon said you were lying to us. Said we were lab rats, expendable.

Did you lie?

I’ve been so good. Please don’t lie. Please come get me.

Is it alright if I close my eyes for a minute? It’s getting brighter in here. The window fogged up. Is it supposed to do that?

I’m so tired. Are you making borscht? Will you pat my head again?

I’m sorry. I tried. I’m just so….so….

[Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - NO FURTHER DATA

[yum-is]

Laika - Short Story

[Personal Log - Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - 03.11.2057

The launch was successful. That should be obvious. That’s the nice thing about personal logs, I can say obvious stuff like that without having to deal with condescending scientists being, well, condescending.

I’ve never been beyond the reinforced walls of Mos Station. I’ve spent so long staring out the viewports and wondering at what might be waiting beyond the glow of dead stars. The closest star is still Sol, perched at the center of our home system. I can’t turn to see it. I’m not allowed to move out of this chair except to briefly stand.

In the old days, back on Earth, launches were supposedly strenuous things. I’m not a scientist, but I’ve done my research. I know all about g forces and atmospheric interference and thrust. Well. In theory. I don’t fully understand it.

Maybe that’s what makes this all so incredible. This mission is going to be the farthest a sentient, living being has ever traveled away from our home planet. It’s a groundbreaking scientific achievement. Hundreds of millions of dollars have gone into this, years of engineering and training. A scientist would’ve been the obvious choice for the mission. Maybe one that’s actually seen Earth.

Instead, they chose me.

I’m not sure why, but it makes me feel special. I’m just another orphan from miner parents on Mos Station. There are hundreds of us. They chose three of us. Only one of us would actually be launched.

And they chose me.

The wires are kind of itchy under my bandages. I won’t scratch. I promised I wouldn’t. See? I can be good. I’ll be good. You trained me for this.

I can do it. I’m a big kid. I’m almost 13.

[Personal Log - Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - 04.11.2057

Day two! I haven’t scratched and I’ve sat still and I’m doing my best.

Would I be able to see Mos Station if I turned around?

I won’t. I said I wouldn’t.

But could I physically see it?

It’s really empty out here. Everything is dotted with the twinkling lights of far off stars. Most of those stars are dead long before the light reaches us. It reminds me of a graveyard. I’ve never seen one, but the book the librarian lent me last year when I tried to get out of the cold while the environmental controls were purged mentioned them.

People on Earth bury their dead. It seems strange to me. Is it to help the bodies decompose? Or is there some kind of spiritual meaning? Out here, we cremate and eject the dead. Your name gets added to the wall of remembrance if you’re rich enough. We don’t have enough space to bury our dead under stones.

The food you give me out here isn’t very good. I’ll eat it. Of course I will. You had me eating it before I left anyways. It just isn’t very good. But that isn’t the point, is it? It’s just meant to keep me alive.

Will you make me borscht when I get back?

[Personal Log - Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - 05.11.2057

I’m tired. I don’t really want to sleep. You strapped me down so that nothing I do would mess with your test results too badly, but I’m still scared that sleeping will jerk a wire out of place or something. I don’t want to mess up.

Home isn’t a place, it’s people. That’s how the saying goes, right? I never really got that. It’s hard to think of people as home when you don’t have people or a place. Just wherever you can catch some peace or safety.

I think I get it now.

You love me, right? You said we were family. You patted my head after you strapped me in, told me to hang on. Told me you’d see me when I got back. You looked sad, the same way you did when I was chosen for this.

Do you miss me?

I think I miss you.

I’ll be good, I promise, I won’t scratch or fidget or play with any of the blinking lights.

It’s really dark out here now. I can’t see the glow of Mos Station on the edges of the window anymore. How far am I? How alone?

I am alone, right? The first to go this far out. To see this view, the glimmering expanse of the unknown. I read that phrase somewhere. It fits here, to describe the tapestry of the universe that hasn’t been explored yet. I’ve never seen a tapestry. 

Will you show me when I get back?

[Personal Log - Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - 06.11.2057

It’s getting hot. Is that supposed to happen? There’s a glow along the edges of the window. It’s different from the lights of the station. It’s warm and fuzzy around the edges, like the carpeting in our room. We all had to share, you know.

Why did you choose me? You never said.

I’m scared.

“Buck up, Curly. Come on, Chatterbox! You promised to be good, remember?”

I know, I know. But it’s so hot. It’s getting hard to think. I promised not to scratch or jabber on and on, but I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Am I still good? Do you still love me?

The metal burns. It’s getting really hot. A new light turned on. It’s blinking and red and really annoying.

I can’t tell if my ears are ringing or if there’s an alarm going off.

I know I said I’d see you when I got back, but I don’t know if I can do that. You said, I’d come back, right? 

Lemon said you were lying to us. Said we were lab rats, expendable.

Did you lie?

I’ve been so good. Please don’t lie. Please come get me.

Is it alright if I close my eyes for a minute? It’s getting brighter in here. The window fogged up. Is it supposed to do that?

I’m so tired. Are you making borscht? Will you pat my head again?

I’m sorry. I tried. I’m just so….so….

[Subject 12.1.9.11.1 - Barkley, L.] - NO FURTHER DATA

[yum-is]

Another notch in the book

A tally on the post

Never meant to see 16.

What do they say

When you open your mouth?

Can they see your lungs

Shrinking down your throat?

Sword in hand

Held above your head

Slitting you palms,

Sweaty and slick.

Hey baby,

Don't tell me your name.

I'll call you

Asphalt On My Knees.

I'll call you

God In The Smoke.

[yum-is]

Season of love

Pink day

I think I'd rather

Fade away

What happened

To the unromantic sway

Of my aromantic

Green tinted days

.

SAD and

Tangled up inside

This Valentine's

I'll wash away in the tide

Stay in bed

Until everything feels fine

Queerly confident

Slipping away with my pride

[yum-is]

Red and pink

Pastel capsules

Chugged down

By the chalky handful

I'll give you my heart

If you're willing to get your

Hands

Dirty

gorey spilling viscera

clumped in palms

Will you love

The jagged lines

Of my ribs?

Will you love

The stone heart

Exhumed from my chest?

Disappointment

Is breaking my shoulders

Where you set it

I'm sorry

You expected something

I'm sorry

You didn't know my heart

Is just

An

Organ

[yum-is]

The worst day of the year

Is hailed with paper hearts

Torn from chests

Taped to walls

Chocolate boxes underground

Sh-thunk

Shovelfuls of chalky candy

Tossed aside

Pretty purple fingertips

Bloated ans bent

Ratty hair

Clumped to scalp

What holiday is better

To love the rotted shell left

Than the cracked rib

Pulsing, writhing chest cavity

Worst day of the year

[yum-is]

The worst day of the year

Is hailed with paper hearts

Torn from chests

Taped to walls

Chocolate boxes underground

Sh-thunk

Shovelfuls of chalky candy

Tossed aside

Pretty purple fingertips

Bloated ans bent

Ratty hair

Clumped to scalp

What holiday is better

To love the rotted shell left

Than the cracked rib

Pulsing, writhing chest cavity

Worst day of the year

[yum-is]

Red and pink

Pastel capsules

Chugged down

By the chalky handful

I'll give you my heart

If you're willing to get your

Hands

Dirty

gorey spilling viscera

clumped in palms

Will you love

The jagged lines

Of my ribs?

Will you love

The stone heart

Exhumed from my chest?

Disappointment

Is breaking my shoulders

Where you set it

I'm sorry

You expected something

I'm sorry

You didn't know my heart

Is just

An

Organ

[yum-is]

Season of love

Pink day

I think I'd rather

Fade away

What happened

To the unromantic sway

Of my aromantic

Green tinted days

.

SAD and

Tangled up inside

This Valentine's

I'll wash away in the tide

Stay in bed

Until everything feels fine

Queerly confident

Slipping away with my pride

[yum-is]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood Additional Tags: implied jmart, Implied Jon, Eyepocalypse, Apocalypse, Poetry, on tragedy and choices, i. am aromantic. idk dude, i dont actually use the word together even once Summary:

[ Dear heart Who sees all and knows all. Dear heart At the center of the sky. ]

– From the notes of Martin Blackwood

[yum-is]

Not Dead Yet

[Plain Text: Not Dead Yet]

Listen

To the tip tap rainy day pattern of my step.

The click of my cane is the shading of my walk,

Aluminum bent handle

The lines of my sketch Stretch

My dislocation between my teeth.

I know the gummy taste

Of orange bottle medication

Lick

The dust off my thumbs

Swallow

The bittersweet taste of relief,

Maybe.

Two tablets taken by mouth daily,

Check my pulse against the Morse code cheat sheet,

Fall risk, it says

Sick, it says

Alive, alive, alive

Not dead yet, 

It says.

I'll hang x rays on my walls

And call it art.

[yum-is]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood Additional Tags: implied jmart, Implied Jon, Eyepocalypse, Apocalypse, Poetry, on tragedy and choices, i. am aromantic. idk dude, i dont actually use the word together even once Summary:

[ Dear heart Who sees all and knows all. Dear heart At the center of the sky. ]

– From the notes of Martin Blackwood

[yum-is]

Not Dead Yet

[Plain Text: Not Dead Yet]

Listen

To the tip tap rainy day pattern of my step.

The click of my cane is the shading of my walk,

Aluminum bent handle

The lines of my sketch Stretch

My dislocation between my teeth.

I know the gummy taste

Of orange bottle medication

Lick

The dust off my thumbs

Swallow

The bittersweet taste of relief,

Maybe.

Two tablets taken by mouth daily,

Check my pulse against the Morse code cheat sheet,

Fall risk, it says

Sick, it says

Alive, alive, alive

Not dead yet, 

It says.

I'll hang x rays on my walls

And call it art.

[yum-is]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood Additional Tags: implied jmart, Implied Jon, Eyepocalypse, Apocalypse, Poetry, on tragedy and choices, i. am aromantic. idk dude, i dont actually use the word together even once Summary:

[ Dear heart Who sees all and knows all. Dear heart At the center of the sky. ]

– From the notes of Martin Blackwood