darknessbutbright - Tumblr blog

darknessbutbright · 2 years

Text

feast

the pills are green. encased in plastic, they stick to your fingers like prey for a long-gone venus fly-trap. small letters the swirling hex upon survival. you need it down your gullet.

the ones before, the white mush on your tongue tasting like death. a bittersweet ode to life. they taste better if you don't think. not that you do anyway. they make you think, helping you out of bed in one hour instead of five.

and before that you were granted another that didn't work out. induced paranoia, stupor's reign, video player looping your flight to nowhere. she nodded and prescribed sleep. tasted different to the usual.

they're all gone now. no more, make your own, a chemist's mystery. you learn the ways of mankind once again. you feel.

-

(writer note: can't lie and say this isn't partially based off my past)

4 notes · View notes

darknessbutbright · 2 years

Text

metamorphosis

you bathe in lava, porcelain cracking under

immense heat. Japanese pottery dictates shards glued

in gold; flaws displayed in

brilliant perfection.

you painstakingly adorn yourself in pyrite

watch the molten river bleed

watch as you are put together in the arms of Hephaestus

foolish dreams are scorned

you emerge scorched from the kiln

shatter once again into rusted remnants

2 notes · View notes

darknessbutbright · 2 years

Text

deconstruction

they slip into the attic

mushy peas in one hand grotesque

lumps of dried skin, pellets a bitter snow covering the floorboards.

droll moonish smile watches the rotting slush seep

dripping through

and the legs buckle knees scream

claimed by the green sea, weak waves

hoping for a glimpse of the neighbours. grains of sand pressurized

into the cracked body of an hourglass, decimated splinters

frozen in endless limbo as the walls collapse.

all that's left, they say, is the ghost of what was once beautiful.

0 notes

darknessbutbright · 2 years

Text

golden

hair silken waves slithering down

like Dorian, alabaster skin cracking under

your bones revealing a pit of fiery red

the sun plays

gleaming then glaring, searing white-hot

kisses trembling in corrosive hatred

loosened strands of coarse rope

a shackling angel; Sibyl in vain

of everything, nevermore a joke to

Adonis once adored

-

(writer note: feelings about him stir in me sometimes)

4 notes · View notes

darknessbutbright · 2 years

Text

pyre

dearest mother, forgive me

for i am not enough; wings spread wide

within flickering flames, alight in flight

slicked in gasoline, drenched wretch

in tears vodka shoved down my throat a launched hockey puck tossing and turning

choking heat.

spit-roasted delicacy

snow white’s apple strings attached

puppeteer’s love

1 note · View note

darknessbutbright · 2 years

Text

epitaph

it writhes beneath the floorboards

irregular tap-dancer moulding, moulting

blue roots embedded in fading red, love

within wooden splinters of nocked arrows

shattering on impact. one more, one,

more for the mere mortal

who lies

a hostage to calcified glee,

nothing but glory to the decayed

sleet ribbons harden into chains,

lowering into a hollow grave.

1 note · View note

darknessbutbright · 2 years

Text

sharpshooter

take a gun, and point

it to my face leaving traces

of desolation and debris

oh deer, darling, daring at the hunting-ground

watering doe eyes blooming scarlet

starlet, now her eyes water at flashing white

black ticks on sterile canvas leap of faith into darkness

dots and dashes upon batting eyelashes, coy

wishes of Morse

morsels, delectable dosages to be had,

marvellous Morpheus dreams

of drowning.

love, Charlotte

-

(writer note: totally not a name reveal, but scarlet rhymes with starlet and charlotte and i... liked where it went)

1 note · View note

darknessbutbright · 2 years

Text

Icarus

(minor tw: alluded suicide)

you stare at the bridge.

the bridge was once beautiful, you noted. paired with a picturesque blue sky, it would look good as a cover photo, but one could only hope. all that's left are the arches of steel, the sterile white glaring at those who dare to pass.

you sigh and embark on your journey. every step you take echoes, the tapping reminiscent of a ticking time bomb. your feet weave through an imaginary crowd, taking swift flight over the sheets of metal, a nimble dance of remembrance. the wisps appear in your vision; a pair huddling in the cold, frantic parents in chase of their children, dogs bounding in spite of their leashes. they blur, streaks of vibrant colour lost to time.

the air seems to freeze as you amble. it stands in stoic silence, a soldier saluting their commander. stray leaves lay limp on the ground, littered along with glass shards; the remnants of windows of abandoned shops, back when people still had fight in them, as they tried to hoard any food they could find. everyone's gone now, bar you.

you gaze at the arches as you reach their main structural beam. a rusted sign proclaims the use of anti-climb paint. you scoff at the sight of the crumbling coat of white, the faults revealing patches of brown and grey. besides, the arches are climbable; the bodies lining the river below indicate so. teenagers used to climb them as a dare, a fleeting moment of bravery for those who succeeded in getting to the top. the definition of success changed when everyone realized that there wasn't anything left.

you finally realized yesterday. you scoured your meagre pantry, left no stone unturned as you ventured out to town. the place has simply run dry, and you accept your fate.

you hoist yourself up eagerly, the thought of spreading your wings spurring you on, Daedalus screaming no, no, never. thin arms cling on to the beam as gravity threatens to drag you down, your legs slipping from the paint you once mocked. crusty flakes embed themselves under your nails, leaving trails of pink on top of the brown lines of years past. with a last burst of energy, you heave your withered soul onto the apex of the arch.

and then you fly.

(author note: this was inspired by a place i went to yesterday; it was so bleak and grey, desolate and saddening that i couldn't help but write)

14 notes · View notes

darknessbutbright · 2 years

Text

questions

People tend to drift, like leaves in an autumn breeze. Some cling on to the decaying branches, refusing to leave out of pure desperation until the branch snaps and they litter the grassy plains. The others choose to fly, curling up their edges in preparation, launching themselves into wind currents. Blind faith or bravery?

Alas, all trees beckon its progeny to explore the world. Change is inevitable. I used to think not, but I was young then; a child with her dazzling innocence a sweet sight to behold. Then life swept it away in a blink of an eye. Is this what growing up is?

The polished gem fractures, leaving behind a jaded soul. But yet there is still love within me for the bloodied spikes, the scars a mesmerizing reminder of all I've been through. For they are signs of recovery, stability; isn't that what everyone strives to be?

I find myself clutching on to the falling leaves at times. Holding them up to the sunlight, weighing them within my palms before they disintegrate into dust, the extinguishing of a memory that once was. But I know I will learn; to walk through the forest without hesitation, scattered leaves in my wake as I go forth to search for leaves anew.

Will I finally be happy then?

-

(author note: i actually love the metaphor i've used here since i was inspired by an actual autumnal scene- again this is another sorta vent thing but reflective)

0 notes

darknessbutbright · 3 years

Text

to reminisce of a villain

There is a figure in your head. A miniature, fragile doll tucked between the folds in your brain, nestled in your sulci like one would in a blanket.

She speaks, and all you do is follow her every command. Autonomy doesn’t exist- not anymore.

You recall the days when she hadn’t arrived. Unaching bones and a spring in your step were of the days of yore, an era foregone; lost to the depths of your memory. Fighting back was useless, although you did at first. Such is the nature of naivety.

The memory of your battle churns vaguely within the chasm. The parasite was located, but yet any attempt of usurping her throne would always fail. Tactics constantly shifted, from active persecution of the doll to a war of attrition. Desperate for change, you even tried the ultimate weapon of denial, but to no avail. Hope was but a fleeting memory.

The tyrant destroyed the inner workings of your mind in a matter of days. You trembled at your queen’s gaze while she tugged on your heartstrings, pain racking through your chest as you silently pleaded for mercy. Dominance was inevitable.

And so you flung away the reins to your brain to your doll, as well the key to the control panel for your bodily functions, and cowered in your shack, where you stay in even now.

You adore your queen. You revel in her presence, her meticulous rule the reason why you survive. There are days where the temptation to sever the connection grows, but she persuades you to stop and return to her embrace. Hollow eyes blink, head nods, and you stay by her side.

The lines blur. She spins her thread of truth, convinces you that you and her are forever bound, your state better off in her capable hands, and you lap it all up like a hungry dog.

You dance in your thread of lies, and all is well.

(author's note: i haven't written in so long- life has been full of changes; since creative writing's more of a hobby i essentially stopped to focus on exams, and now i've started writing again since they're done and dusted. this is just vent writing i guess, to help with my mental health. joined a creative writing society at uni, the prompt was villain this week, decided to do my own twist!)

2 notes · View notes

darknessbutbright · 3 years

Text

thorny benevolence (tw emotional abuse)

Rose fumbles with the crumpled edges of the photo, unfurls it, and passes it to me. At the end of her wrinkled finger is a child.

“Look at you, you there…”

The child stared back with fervour, grinning from ear to ear; it was a family photo of sorts. The mother figure wrangling her arms over the child in an effort to stop the child from escaping her clutches. Uneven pigtails, haphazardly tied with a ribbon to make the little girl remotely presentable.

I see the memories travel in front of Rose’s eyes, of me, once a child, of the family she once had. She smiles at them; wisps of light guiding her through the memories of the past. Rose had the advantage of the rose-tinted lenses of old age, blessing her with ignorance. On the other hand, all I notice are the child’s eyes. Her unnerving gaze, reminiscent of a taxidermied animal, despite the toothy grin she had. I flip the photo over, discerning the fading scrawls on the back. The photo was taken in 1987.

Even at such an early age, I already understood some semblance of the truth.

Rose sees a mother holding her child in place, but doesn’t see the way said mother pushes the child away afterwards. She sees the messy hair, attributing it to the wonders of childhood play, but she doesn’t see the child’s tears after failing to tie her hair for the fifth time in a row, in fear of her mother finding out. As she grasped understanding of words and sentences, the arguments became clearer and clearer in her mind. Father told Rose to treat her as her own. Rose told Father no, she would only love her own kin. The little girl learned how to curse, to compile insults and use her tongue as a weapon against anyone who dared to come close, a skill that the maternal figure in her life lovingly taught her. She amazed her teachers, understanding concepts such as infidelity and divorce at the age of 8.

Rose forgets of how her thorns destroyed her un-child. A flower cursed to wilt, but yet the un-child blooms amidst her diet of hate.

The grandfather clock chimes 3, snapping Rose out her trance.

“Thank you for staying with me today, my darling. I love you so much.”

My eyes turn into those of the child as my lips turn up of my own accord.

“Bye, Mum.”

1 note · View note

darknessbutbright · 3 years

Text

isaac. (tw death, suicide)

I dreamed about a boy named Isaac, who killed himself inside a dingy bathroom on the fifth floor of a school. He held the face of a boy I once knew, a boy so lively outside but wished to end it all. He told me, crying, tears staining his phone screen, asking what the point of living was. I don’t know, I said, I really don’t.

But yet he lived. He left and pursued a new life in a faraway country, and I watch him thrive on social media. I wonder how much of that is real.

My dreams don’t make much sense. It takes moments, episodes of events of the day and compiles them together in some twisted summary. Isaac isn’t real but I woke up feeling uncomfortable. Like when you watch the news, and all the news spews is negativity, deaths, rising death toll, lockdowns, mental health.

Who actually is Isaac?

Perhaps I see stories, stories of a random person living on this damned planet. There might be an Isaac somewhere who killed themselves in the same way I dreamt of. If Isaac is real, I hope he’s okay.

-

(author note: i don't know what i'm doing with this but here's something that's been on my mind; don't you hate it when there's suicide in your dreams?)

1 note · View note

darknessbutbright · 3 years

Text

(tw: suicidal references)

It feels like this human doesn’t want to be saved.

Toaster under a running tap, making its home within a sink. Forks splayed on the counter, conveniently near sockets that were half plugged in. The mould was once confined within the kitchen, but it had soon spread through the dingy apartment, mingling with the thick threads of dust.

Tiam sighed, bracing themselves for the worst. They knew for a fact that their client wasn’t dead, since they weren’t reassigned to some other human. Perhaps the client were asleep somewhere, under the heaps of clothing littered across the room. They snuck into the bedroom, through the door left slightly ajar, their eyes adjusting to the darkness within.

It took a while to locate the whereabouts of the human Tiam was searching for. A humanoid figure, huddled, shaking in a blanket. The human seemed to be cowering at the sight of the angel, their eyes flitting nervously, tracking the glow that emanated from their wings. Tiam wasn’t sure why they were visible; none of the previous humans could detect their presence.

“Go away, you’re not real, you’re just some hallucination…”

The figure muttered weakly, their eyes straining at the overwhelming light the angel brought into the room. Tiam surveyed the bedroom, eyes growing wide as they spotted the crumpled remains of a signed letter, dozens of blades by its side.

“You see my collection, eh? I don’t know what you are, and why you’re here, but do take me away. Saves me the trouble of getting up.”

“Please. Tell me how I can help.”

(bolded line is a prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting, link here)

(author note: it’s okay to not be okay, please reach out if needed! take care of yourselves, readers!)

2 notes · View notes

darknessbutbright · 3 years

Text

an alternative ending to A Streetcar Named Desire...

The gentleman from Dallas sat across from her, eyes containing nothing but love for the one opposite him. He clasped her hand and brought it to his lips, whispering countless promises to the trembling girl in her hospital gown.

“It’s not a dream, my darling Blanche. They say you are insane, but you are anything but that. Do you not remember what my promise to you was, before I left Laurel?”

She nodded, and recited what Shep had once told her; long before Belle Reve had passed into the hands of strangers, long before the days of the Flamingo Hotel.

“You said you were my Rosenkavalier.”

“And your Rosenkavalier I shall be. Escape with me, my girl in white, and we shall be together forever.”

-

Blanche shimmies down the window with a makeshift rope of bedsheets, her coarse hair catching the breeze, the wind threatening to tug her down. Shep’s words course through her head, that his yacht would be on standby at the docks, his men stocking it with countless bottles of champagne and jewels of his own choosing.

“You won’t need to worry about anything anymore. I, Shep Huntleigh, swear to gift you everything you desire. You own my heart and soul, dear princess, not a day goes by where I wish for your company.”

The woman clad in white flutters among the shadows, careful to lurk within distance of the street lamps, knowing that they would lead to her capture. She follows her intuition, trailing the streetcar tracks on the asphalt; her nose, once used to discern perfume, learns to pursue the faint smell of salt within the air. New Orleans was quiet, and Blanche was alone, all alone in the night.

The thundering told her otherwise.

The rumbling crept up on the lone figure, the streetcar hurtling on the tracks, taking no note of her until it was too late. The driver of the Polaris slams on the brakes, silent prayers hoping for a quick death for the girl glued to the ground

Fate ties Blanche to the tracks , the fabric of her gown latching onto the rail, pining her down as the roars grow louder and louder.

“Oh, Shep, save me…”

The Rosenkavalier swoops in, saving the fair maiden.

The Rosenprinzessin leaves with her Rosenkavalier, the girl in white taking no notice of the streetcar splattered with crimson; she places her hand in his, not hearing the shrieks of those surrounding the girl in red.

The moth, now a butterfly, is finally alive.

(author note: done for a school assignment- pretty proud of myself)

6 notes · View notes

darknessbutbright · 3 years

Text

what is love?

(tw: mention of suicide attempt)

My mother once gave me some advice. “You don't ever fall for someone,” she said, “you sacrifice.”

I remember scoffing at her words. Sure, of course she was biased. Her and my father got divorced. She was probably still hurt from it or whatever. I dismissed this as her being cynical.

But that was before I met you.

Being a walking, talking cliche, I fell for you. You were my Prince Charming, seemingly my Mr Right. I still recall your arms holding me close as I napped on your lap, the light teasing kisses trailing along my head, you tightly embracing me like a child with his favourite toy.

I suppose that's the right way to describe it, considering you were toying with me.

I gave you all I had. I was devoted to making you happy, since you were precious, a treasure in my eyes. I thought my feelings were reciprocated, considering how sweet you were. No one had ever treated me this well before. I skipped classes, determined to spend every moment with you. I wanted to feel cherished, to have that intoxicating sense of love fill me, allowing me to forget the hardships of life. I was your worshiper, and you bestowed on me happiness, comforting me during my downs. You were always there for me no matter what. From minuscule things like random hugs or walking me somewhere to carrying me back home while I was drunk, you were always my reliable supporter. I still recall the texts, the calls, us chatting up till dawn, the sleep deprivation worth it for every moment we spent together. You kept my secrets and I kept yours; we seemed to be made for each other.

Alas, every child gets sick of its toy someday. They find some other toy to play with, and the old toy is forgotten. You murdered me the day you told me that you preferred to stay friends. I couldn't feel a single thing, my senses being overwhelmed by a wave of numbness. You moved on. Loved another.

Did you ever love me? Or was I just a whim?

You told me that we were still friends. And nothing would change between us. Was that what you actually thought?

My heart was aching. Torn, mangled, the scars still fresh. You summoned a demon hidden within the depths of my mind, one I didn’t even know I had. The pain was too much to handle. I became an artist, my skin becoming my canvas as I tried desperately to sculpt myself into a better person, into one who could process heartbreak. I absorbed myself into my work, churning out carmine masterpieces, with no inch of my body left untouched. It only made everything worse. No one noticed. In their eyes, I was still the optimistic, happy-go-lucky child everyone saw me as. I knew what people expected of me, and so I gave them what they wanted to know. From what I’ve learnt from you, secrets are better left untold, as no one actually cares anyway. I pretended that everything was alright, until I simply couldn’t anymore. Physical, emotional and mental pain can cause one to become insane. I remember those final days, my head going impossibly haywire with my mother's words consuming my brain.

“You don't fall, you sacrifice.”

Fall, sacrifice, falling, sacrificing, fell, sacrificed.

I guess I kind of proved my mother wrong. You do technically fall, by 'falling' off a building. Since everything hurt so much, what more would a fall do for me? It gave me a chance to escape, and I failed that. I didn't even leave a letter or anything since the decision was spontaneous. Not that people couldn't figure out why I jumped. You came to visit me, with an apologetic look on your face. Tried to justify your actions.

“It would be detrimental to both of us, since we had different expectations of each other. Maybe we should take a break from each other. Even as friends.”

Your words drove a dagger into my already shattered heart, but I told you that I understood. Unsalvageable toys are not wanted.

I haven’t felt anything since then. Irreversible damage. No appetite, no feelings, no nothing. But no one knows, especially you, since I pretend that I’m recovering in front of all our mutual friends when they come to visit me out of pity. I hear about you from them. You’re very concerned about me, apparently, but you don’t want to affect my progress, that’s why you’re not visiting. Sleepless nights, silent tears, feelings of guilt… just stories made up to invoke my sympathy for you. You’re not suffering at all, are you? Trying to sabotage me even more. In everyone’s eyes, I’m a good girl who’s pouring her heart out to psychologists and psychiatrists to learn how to cope with daily life again. Those stupid shrinks consider everything as progress. Hell, even a screaming tantrum counts, since it’s apparently ‘a release of pent-up frustration’.

Mother was right. You only sacrifice. You don't fall. Love is an ideal, the American Dream for the so-called romantics, intangible, unreachable. A goal designed for the sappy fools who see the world through their tinted shades, still thinking that life is just merry and utter sweet perfection. The wild goose-chase that ends up wasting one’s life. Or destroying one’s life. Or both, for those poor unfortunate souls.

A farce for the sole purpose of reproduction. That's what love is.

7 notes · View notes

darknessbutbright · 3 years

Text

A rush of bile, scorching the inside of my throat. My stomach lurching and groaning, an old locomotive in disrepair. The candlelight zigzagging around in my field of vision. This is but a normal day.

With my remaining strength, I pull myself towards the desk, its legs hammered to the floor with dozens of steel nails. The sheet of cream lies there, ready for the load it would take. My hands shake as I grasp the table’s edge, as a dollop of vomit launches out of my mouth. Tears from my eyes combine with the fresh acid on the piece of paper, adding the essence of emotion, rendering the sheet suitable for the publisher.

The stream of brownish-green continues as my hands work furiously to shift the papers, determined to catch all of the flow. This was taking longer than expected, the vomit typically ending after 5 minutes or so, but it was different this time. Countless moments of retching, my body recoiling at the amount of output I produced.

This was my biggest work yet. The agency would be stunned. I would finally be able to negotiate a better contract.

Now to wait for it to dry.

I watch the gunk coalesce into coherent words, letters transforming into sentences chock-full of literary devices, left for readers to decipher for some hidden meaning. The cream becomes sterile, a stark contrast to the swamp once before, the manuscript left with dead, inked characters. I see the pain, the death within this piece, insight into the twists and turns of those who chose to embark on the journey I’ve created. Eyes drooping, I dump the sheaf into the agency-provided envelope, and remind myself to post it in the following days.

Before I fall asleep, I scribble down my details onto the back of the envelope.

“H. F. Monroe, Writer.”

(author note: i apologize for the hiatus. i had exams and i’ve been drained out of my wits. not gonna lie writing this was tiring, even though writing does bring me joy. i wonder if anyone still reads stuff on this blog.)

1 note · View note

darknessbutbright · 3 years

Text

“Did you know that you talk in your sleep?”

Mai shuffled around, her arms straining against the ropes that held her. She winced as the man put his gloved hands on her shoulders, shoving her onto the concrete floor. Her ribs throbbed, a dull ache that she was used to. Since the Purge, she had received no medical attention. Only those loyal to the Wano would get help.

Most people chose the easy way out, pledging their lives to the Wano. They started their new lives as lowly servants, spending their lives in shoddy shacks. Children were herded into the Pen, training as soldiers for the regime. Mai knew Kaya was in there, and so she tried to break her sister out.

Mai regretted even coming to the compound when Kaya knocked her unconscious one night, and took her body to her supervisor.

“You talk about your sister in your sleep.”

His voice was metallic. An analyst, designed to gouge information out of potential victims. Mai knew his tactics, and remained silent; he was trying to make her emotional.

No matter how much she tried to suppress it, the fire within her still burned, spitting out poisonous fantasies of retribution.

“You don’t understand why. You feel angry, hurt, that your sister chose the path of righteousness. You have the right to be. She is intelligent, trained by the best agents, and your stupidity blocks your way to success.”

Mai knew she was stupid. Stupid to hope that her sister would return to her, despite knowing the brainwashing the Wano did to all initiates. Stupid to act on intuition, refusing to listen to her family as she set out for her suicide mission. Stupid to think her sister would change after all these years, her being the power hungry beast she was.

“You have the power to change your life. Say the oath, and you will be free, respected by all.”

The man slammed the cell door behind her, leaving the broken girl to mull over her failures.

(bolded line is the prompt, prompt by @write-it-motherfuckers, link to prompt here (number 12))

0 notes