I Think Some People Forget That Some Literature And Some Media Is Meant To Be Deeply Uncomfortable And

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Memories Of A Life Never Lived (Why Am I Worth Your Love?)

Starshine glimmer in dark oceans, the flicker of familiarity that truly made no sense yet still persistently existed. He does not linger on the memories he knows are not his, and yet they surface in his mind time and time again. He tips his head, bowing his head in submission as he is pressed onto satin sheets. He does not understand the ramifications of his remembrance, but he falls back into its embrace, willingly drinking from the truth that only he knows. He moans your name, gratitude lacing his every word and love flowing in his veins. Breathless whines and keening whimpers at the feeling of butterfly kisses across his skin, his eyes glazing in ecstasy. His mind falls, pleading and sobbing into quicksand, drowning in the memories that are not his, and yet they are all the same.

Each person he sees, he knows, is him, and yet he can not fathom how. For each iteration of his being has you by his side, steadfast and ever loving. His mind and his body wars with the other, pleasure overtaking the confusion blooming in his mind. His breath stutters, catching in his throat as he lets out a quiet but heaving sob. Tears glimmer in his eyes, beading on his eyelashes like the first of morning's dew. And for a moment, his world whites out, silence echoing in his ears like the death knell that he remembers hearing but never experiencing. When he comes to, he waits for a moment to catch his breath, and he smiles up at you. Wistful and longing and far too knowing.

The one who survives in the face of time and the tides of the seasons, and the one who lives and dies and lives again, to be mortal and not. They are doomed to fail, but that is the price of a live that was never meant to be. For eternity, they are sworn, but it is a tale of heartbreak and an ache soul deep.

Fallen From Grace (The Tale Of A Desecrated God)

The vengeance of a wretched god

Whose forgiveness is cruel

And their hunger unabating

They eat and eat

Consume til they burst

Adoration and devotion rots their teeth

Guilt and sorrow taints their tongue

Blood, sweat and tears seep into their throat

As souls line their stomach

It's not enough

Nothing is enough

A god hungers

And a soul yearns

For the piece that was torn

Lost in darkened void

They ache for something to fill the hole

That is all that remains of what they lost

To feel complete and whole

To return to a time before 

When things were kinder, simpler 

When hunger was not all that they were

@myuni-moon A little piece inspired by your writing. I hope you'll enjoy it.

I use a variety of things but mostly my messages app. I write and send drafts to myself.

plz reblog for science

Judge, Jury, Executioner (Applause For The Fall Of A God)

The silence hangs heavy as though the guillotine was raised over his own neck at the sight of pooling blues that shine with a gleam of gold. Eyes glazed and unseeing, pinpricks of starshine glow dimming to shadows of the abyss. The world slows down as panic grows, steadily until it all bursts. The first scream brings about a waterfall of regret and fury. He falls to his knees, his hand reaching out as his vision blurs. His soul was being torn apart. He knew he was forsaken. He had not stricken the final blow, but he had allowed it to fall. He was as guilty as the criminals he once sentenced to the dark prisons below the waters.

He couldn't hear the distorted wailing that echoed through the walls or feel rough hands desperately shaking his unresponsive body as he stared at the corpse, no doubtedly ice cold by now, lay quiet and still at his feet. He hears the faint rumble of a storm gathering outside, the world responding to his grief as the rain begins to pour. Mercury silver raindrops puddling on the roads in murky, muddled blues. At last, his heart can not take the guilt, the agony, and he collapses. His only thought to be allowed to never wake, to be free from the guilt and blood of his God staining his hands like the coward he was, to grovel at the feet of his God like the sinner, once beloved, he is.

Anemoia (How Long Will You Reach For The Ghosts Of Distant Stars?)

They could see the stars tonight, bright splatters of light across the shadows of the sky. They don't really know why they decided to come out here, so far from the comfort of their little cottage, but they don't want to return, not yet at least. Wrapped in their cloak, they nestle themselves into the trunk of an old, hollowed out tree as they crane their neck upwards. The stars flicker and blink down at them, almost as if they were waving a hello. A ridiculous thought they don't mind entertaining as they raise their own hand to wave back. Maybe they are a bit of a fool, but they never claimed to be wise in the first place.

This reminds them of dreams they could have sworn they had forgotten, the wisps of names and faces that linger on their tongue even as the memories faded from their mind. They could almost feel the leathery skin underneath their fingertips, the sharp edges of scales too big. The blooming feeling of awe as feather and fur alike curl around their shoulders. Even the whistling winds, rustling through leaves and grass, remind them of the songs they used to sing, the lyrics long forgotten. Not quite unexpectedly, it hurts. Aching something fierce and bold in their chest, that forces tears to well in their eyes. Logically, they know it's silly to cry over something they can barely remember, over something that the world doesn't remember existing. At least, not in this life.

But they don't swallow down the sob that leaves their throat nor wipe away the iridescent tears that fall from their eyes. They don't mind the chill that seeps into their chest as their tears soak through the thin fabric of their shirt, far too busy watching the stars drift across the skies. They think, at first, only distantly, that they can see the twisting shapes of long serpentine bodies and billowing wings. They swear they can hear the timber of voices overlapped, the shadows of all too human bodies that they should know but can't quite remember. They wonder if they can miss people that don't exist.

They wonder if these memories are what drives them away from the people, the connections, of this earth. Star child, they remember their grandmother whispering to them in the late hours of the night. You are loved, they remember her murmuring to them every day from then on. They remember clinging to her feeble form as she spun tales of mystical beasts and stories of man made gods. Rivers to a lake, spiraling into the deep caverns underneath, hoarding knowledge underneath their silence. They wonder if there was some truth to her tales after all.

Star child, that name, title they suppose, has haunted them throughout their entire life. They wonder if it is why they can taste lightning on their tongue even when the skies are clear, if it is why they can feel the brittle-snap of thunder between their teeth. They wonder if it is why frost cradles their skin even when hearth-warm fire curls in their chest, the duality often leaving them sick and bedridden. Wildfires spark to life, just shy of burning and charring the vulnerable flesh of their heart. That coil around their ribcage and rumble as though the earth was quaking under a cat's quiet purr. All the while, ice forms at the base of their throat, encircling their arms like sharp shackles. They don't mind the chill, even when it hurts to speak. They welcome the frost and the cold, wrapping themselves in snow to stave off the constant heat.

They suppose it is, just like the winds that push for them to wander the world. A wanderlust unseen in their family, where others root themselves into the soil, they take to the skies. Following where the breeze and the gales blow them, the peaks of snow-capped mountains and the depths of oceans. Their body is not meant for travel, frail from the war that wages inside them. But it's not as if they could stop. They ache for the road, to chase after the stars as if they could someday reach up to pluck them from the skies. Their only real companion over the years, the feel of coiled bodies in the palm of their hand and the sound of an echoing roar in their ears.

Sometimes, they still expect a tail to curl itself around their legs even though the creature that tail is connected to only resides in their dreams. They still turn and expect to see the divine tipped claws of monsters, to have to tip their head back to speak to looming shadows of those they should know and still somewhat do, even if they haven't met them yet. Their disappointment when all that greets them is silence and emptiness is often crushing and immeasurable, inconsolable grief that drapes across their shoulders like a dark veil. Those days, they spend their time inside, away from the sun and the stars, away from the gaze of the people that stare and stare. They spend those days painting and writing, over and over, trying to capture the faces and forms of their companions they so desperately want to remember.

But it never looks quite right. Something is always wrong, always off. Failure is a bitter thing to swallow, it tastes of bile and blood and tainted honor. It is the shattering of pride, the sting of human hubris that leads them to bury their half written journals and messily sketched paintings. It is what forces them to grip the few pieces of their memories close, cradling their dreams like the most precious of treasures. Long fluttering scarves and cloaks, flowing fabrics that hide the invisible pouches of chiming bells and glimmering scales. Though they carry little on their journey, they can't help but feel an anchor's weight on their shoulders, Atlas heavy. A worthwhile price for the imaginary companions that drive away the loneliness, even if they do still want to feel the steady heartbeat underneath their hands.

Star child, they muse to themselves, it grows more fitting by the year. Stardust in their veins and the world at their fingertips, it is only a matter of time before they will be cradled in the careful coils of their once lost companions, one way or another.

@n0tamused

We Told Nothing But Lies (But You Forgave Us Anyway)

A short piece inspired by @hiraya-rawr's sagau works but mainly references her last resort fic.

Captured and cornered

The crowd calls for your head

It was a mere panicked decision 

One you didn't even mean to make

Secrets spill from your lips

Ones you've discovered

Read and remembered

From the time before all this

Stories and promises 

Ones that shouldn't be known

All splayed out before them

Like a dam burst open

You can not stop the flow

That tumbles out

It splatters on their faces

Staining them ink and shadow

Send ice through their veins

Freeze them in place

A mirror gaze of stars 

That flicker in your blood

Blurring out your edges

Till the shimmer shine of nebulae

Are all that haloes your head

And envelopes your soul

Doesn't it hurt?

That all you're known for

Are stories blown out of proportion 

And never truly for yourself?

You have survived

But can you pay the price?

To Be Favored By The Stars (Surrender Yourself To Eternity)

Child of the golden stars, how do you plead?

He peers around the ornate room, the heavy weight of a golden medallion on his chest as he breathes. He expects dust and ash falling to the ground, the laughter of someone he loves in his ears, but there is only silence where he stands. He does not have much to offer, but still, he raises a tattered dream with small, thin hands up to skies. Words spring from his lips, his hands unable to stifle the harrowing words: ■■■■■■

Child of the desolate sands, how do you plead?

There are faceless people around them, dripping red, red into the stands. The one before him raises his arms in surrender, letting cold shackles form around his wrists and tightening around his neck. A placid smile that looks eerie and wrong plastered on his face as he raises his chin up. The same echo in his voice as he answers: ■■■■■■

Child of the impious idols, how do you plead?

The silk that wraps so snugly around him feels like the cruel grip of a trap, a spider's web in which he thrashes. Hollow eyes scream and weep without tears as he brings himself to smile, a lie on his lips. He can feel the dread creeping in, the voice of death in his ears. He offers himself up, splaying out his hands as he welcomes all to peck and tear pieces from his shattered self. His truth is already blatant on his lips: ■■■■■■

Child of a fallen star, how do you plead?

Confessions of blood and pain spill from cracked lips, an empty gaze that stares through him as tears fall unbidden from their eyes. Palms upturned, waiting a blow that will punish them further, blackened skin on their neck, and they can not breathe. They speak, and they speak until their voice is raw and their throat is bleeding. Scorching sunflares on their skin, embers burning their bones, and smoke clogging their lungs. They gaze up at the face of their goddess, a gaze that closes upon them thrice over. They are a wretched thing, yet they are cradled ever so gently in the palm of the one who presses a blessing into their soul.

"Guilty."

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