#and my ribs are in better shape than they've been in YEARS
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Hey y’all! I had a bit of an asthma flareup* so I can’t do a bunch of the things I meant to do today (laundry, cleaning, cooking, singing, etc**). That does mean I have more time sitting at the computer than usual, so if you have any questions about any of the hobbies I do or suggestions of what I should make next (especially pride stuff for pride month) I’d love to hear them!
*I am okay! Had to use my inhaler, am kinda tired, but mostly fine. I am just not enjoying the Pollen Times in a place where the local flora are something other than cactus and palm trees
**the cleaning products I have are usually below the threshold of what causes me asthma trouble, except in times like now, when I’ve just had an asthma attack. So. No cleaning for me today. The singing is because it can also trigger an asthma attack if I’m on the edge of one? And it wasn’t really on my to-do list today, it’s just something I do a lot and get frustrated when I can’t sing for a day or two
#the person behind the yarn#on the one hand there's no tumbleweeds here and I'm like 90% sure I'm allergic to tumbleweeds#in the 'hives and migraines and anaphylaxis' way#and it's nice to not have that#on the other hand I never had pollen-induced asthma trouble back in socal#like. on the whole the asthma is less trouble than the anaphylaxis#but there's something in my kitchen that usually doesn't bother me at all but has set off like three asthma attacks now#and idk what it is! I can't figure it out!#oh well I guess I shouldn't complain that much#pollen asthma is much less bad than smoke asthma#and my ribs are in better shape than they've been in YEARS#just because I had a fire season with no fire (because the part of Tennessee I'm in doesn't HAVE fire season it's so weird)#I am grumpy about not being able to sing lol#like. I know it's for my own good. I KNOW it will cause me problems.#I still want to sing! but no#and that means no piano or guitar either because I know myself too well and if I play an instrument I will also sing lol
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@queerstudiesnatural Rain, my beloved, my lovely wife, here is a valentine's day/marriage present. It's a poem about Dean's hands bc handsnatural just Compels the hell out of me and I know you love it 💖
His Hands
His hands
Small, sticky-soft
with paper thin nails sharp as kitten claws
know nothing but gentleness
His hands
hold his baby brother for the first time
Cradle him close and make
wordless promises of love
His hands
Gray with soot
Clutching a wailing brother with sweaty fingers
Skin pink with heat and frozen in fear
His hands
ruffle Sammy's hair and pour meager bowls of cereal
They are still soft but
heavy with a father's expectations
His hands
know the hilt of a gun better than the shape of his own father's hand
and he cannot help but miss the rough calluses and blunt grip of those fingers
His hands
Are not his own
His hands
Belong to his father,
To the cause
To the forces of Heaven itself
His hands
are weapons,
Sledgehammers,
Swords with an edge so sharp they cut whatever they touch,
deadly as the creatures he hunts
His hands
knicked and bloody-knuckled,
bruised and bruising
are only allowed gentleness in the dark
when touching the body of some nameless person
His hands
Torn, the flesh flayed to expose delicate bones,
phalanges and metacarpals twisted and stripped
as if picked clean by some sharp-beaked predator
His hands
Whole, unblemished
Skin clean of ghostly scars and fingers supple and straight as river reeds,
still green with spring
His hands
White-knuckled, clutching the worn hilt of a knife
The blade buried deep in the ribs of his proclaimed savior:
An angel
who pulled him from the fire and
left his own mark,
a claim, a brand
on that soft new skin
His hands
Scarred, blood-soaked
monuments to violence and filial virtue
His hands
have forgotten more about gentleness than they had ever learned
His hands
Hard with everyone,
With his brother
With his friends
With his best friend
But hardest with himself
His hands
Shaking and touching his angel for the last time
Again
Feather light touches to cold, still skin
His hands
Tear curtains yellow as butter,
As yellow as the fuzzy bodies of the bees that buzz in the liquid sunshine
His hands
Stroke back the dark hair from the pale forehead of his angel,
His Bestfriend,
His Maybe-more
His hands
Wind the shroud and build the pyre
Carry the body with a gentleness long since thought lost
Fingers flick open the lighter and remember the heat of another fire long ago
Another fire that also stole his life away
His hands
Grind the bones to ashes, fine as dust and
spread them in the field, among the flowers
They unmake the angel, just as they were made by him
His hands
Clutch the phone just as they clutched that knife so long ago
They tangle themselves in that trenchcoat and cup the back of that precious head
thought lost forever
His hands
Carry violence like a hand-me-down coat
too big for his frame
But they also carry gentleness like the trembling, naked body of a baby bird
They learn to nurture the bird and starve the savagery
His hands
Cradle the face of his love,
Treasure the scrape of the stubble on palms no longer tough with calluses
His hands
Catch the hand of his son,
Comb through the sandy locks with the same affection they once reserved for his baby brother
His hands
Weild a cooking knife instead of a hunting knife
His knuckles find comfort in the reverent press of his lover's lips
Rather than the crack of bone on bone
His hands
Still scarred, but softer than they've been in 40 years
Older than he thought they would ever be
His hands
Are not weapons
His hands
Hurt with old age and a hard life
His hands
Are soothed by the herbs of his husband's garden,
Fruit borne of his new life
His hands
Are his own
#oh god i haven't written in so long and i haven't written poetry in even longer#i wrote destiel poetry in high school on the regular and if anyone's interested i can link to my old ff.net account#also this is a first draft no editing we die like men#also this turned out so much longer than i had planned oops#look it's hard to summarize 15 years of a character's life succinctly ok#also i genuinely do not know when to shut the fuck up#especially about dean#also in this poem 15×18 doesn't exist and we skip right to the happily ever after#rain and abby's valentine's wedding which is more important than the destianniversary get us gifts#dean#destiel#poetry#abby writes#his hands
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