I drew these ten years ago, April, 2013.
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The bubbling rage under the crispy skin.
The salty tears behind the beautifully presented eyes.
The never ending worry flattened with a rolling pin.
The mournful sadness hidden in culinary lies.
I never want to face them, nor do I want them to know.
I always fear my friends will see my flaws.
I hide them by letting my culinary passion flow.
I hide them with my skills in knives and saws.
Cut the meat. Dice the potatoes. Let them simmer
Slice the heart. Then pour in five cups of raw emotion.
Grind the cumin. Add some ginger. Put in the pepper.
Pour until covered in anxiety. Share yourself with caution.
I use this to hide. To never show my pride.
I will one day show them. plate them like my dishes.
I have so many on my side.
Maybe I shouldn't hide the sidedish of emotional fishes.
Maybe I will get to meet and love the ones who care so endlessly.
The ones whom I wish to share my culinary love and feelings.
I only need to continue, live on and hide culinarily.
And they will come or I will go to embrace my friends with the future that brings.
@pie-tra-deactivated20240107 (I love you)
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from In the House With No Doors by Sarah Kay
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10/14/23
Just seven years and a million more,
I’d spend with you, I would adore,
I gaze at you, look for your eye,
I wish that you would call me “mine,”
Though not on paper, not a line,
By these seven years more I would abide,
Though perhaps not aloud to you,
I would not dare,
But to the stars, whispered to the air,
I’d gaze at you, and feel in my chest,
A tightness growing, losing my breath,
As softly, my mind calls in the peace of the night,
I love you,
I love you,
I love you, my wife.
Softly,
~ Nico
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scribble— nngh! scribble— nngh! scribble— nngh!
“d-dad, i c-can’t color the right way with you doin’ that—!” i sob. you yank my pigtails back roughly, causing me to yelp and cry as you pound into me. i’m lying on my stomach in bed and clutching my pastel markers tightly in my little fingers. i whine and wiggle under you, trying to get away.
you lean down and bite my neck harshly. “stay. fucking. still.” you growl as you press my face to the coloring book. the marker on the page mixes with my tears and leaves colorful splotches on my face. “color in your fuckin’ book.” you raise my head back up by yanking my pigtails. the thrusts get harsher, somehow. i can’t stop crying.
“p-please, s-stop dad!! i-it hurts!!”
“you think i— ghh, you think i give a shit?” your left hand reaches to choke my little neck, the grip so strong it makes my face turn red and i can’t help but feel dizzy. “you— hfff, you’ve been—shityou’resotightwhenichokeyoulikethis— such a little sh-shit lately. dad’s pent up. frustrated. fuckin’ mad.” the tip of your cock bashes against my cervix again and again, like a battering ram. “you begged and begged and begged me at the store to get you that stupid. fuckin’. coloring book. and now you’re going to be a good little whore and color in the lines while i take out all this anger on you.”
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I love how in the Dracula Daily fandom, we don’t say that we are beginning once again on May 3rd.
Rather, we say “my dear friend Johnathan is preparing for his upcoming trip. I hope he has such a wonderful time and that he brings back some delicious recipes :)”
And I think that’s beautiful
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