everyone's posting jegulus right now so have this from regulus' pov:

it wasn’t that i was ever scared of james. i really wasn’t. i think i was always more scared of what he could mean. what he could do to me. i never knew if that was good or not. i guess it wasn’t.

because that’s the thing about people you love, isn’t it? they’re good for a time but then they end up becoming your worst source of heartbreak. and that’s what james was. my worst source of heartbreak.

and i refuse to think of him as anything else because if i do-

well. that’s just it, isn’t it?

sometimes you love someone so much they become part of your soul. 

and then. what happens when that part gets taken from you?

do you believe in god ?

Clytemnestra Auditions For The Role Of Lady Macbeth by Patroclus Minh

(click for better quality)

[Text ID:

He shot her by the altar. In this version of the story, the sun hinges behind him as he steps on stage. I want to scream, to cry, to say, please she’s my daughter, she’s my daughter. I want to beg but there is nothing left to beg for. Instead, the darkness coils through him like a knife. Come, unsex me here. I stare into aperture, into night: —fill me to the brim with direst cruelty. You could consider him naive. There is no version of this story where there is enough CGI to save her, where his hands are not dripping in rotten meat. In this version, he is not yet king. He slams me against the wall and the cameraman catches our bodies in the clasp of light. My fingers tremble but do not give. My conscience begs for guilt. I do not hesitate. I deliver the lines. I pour poison in his ears and he sings like a sparrow. He tells me it was quick, and easy. He tells me the priest has to sacrifice the animal to appease the gods. He tells me the battle is lost — and won. I remember her corpse: abandoned, disposable like a prop. I watch his arrogance stain his feet in red. I shame to wear a heart so white, I whisper. The lens sharpens into view. He clutches the dagger. I go off-script, go gleeful, go reckless. —How else to portray your hate to hateful men who claim to love you? I raise the axe. I count the blows. It’s as easy as lights, camera, action.

/End ID]

reread some richard siken and decided to try a new format. might change it up later

#kimchay — “someone has to leave first”

→canon revisit sprinkled with some good old richard siken-esque introspection

chapter 1/2 ; he won't tell you that he loves you (chay's pov)

litany of the yearning heart

“Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s terrifying.” — Richard Siken

God, i know i’m patient but i don’t know for how much longer. why is it not enough to want things and put in the work? i’m ready now—and i want all of it.

i’m talking about love, of course. give me all the cheese, the instagram posts with overdone one-liners or full-length novels as captions. i want every reason to smile, because everything reminds me of them.

love is a choice and i have always wondered what it must be like to be loved on purpose, for someone to find me and say: you—it’s you i want. i am choosing to love you. i wish being loved was as easy as loving.

this is not to say i fall in love easily—if only it came easier to me. i don’t know how to love without being transformed or consumed. as a child, i was taught that love is forever; i wish i was told that it was hard, too.

i understand all of the advice, i just don’t think it applies to me. love yourself—they say, and i do—the way you love others—listen! i know no other way than this. i only ever love one way: completely, and the way i want to be loved.

maybe that’s the problem: i want to be all-in in love—including the bad days. the disappointments and apologies; the surprises and tears, whichever kind. to have something promised.

even if it ends up broken. i want to fuck up and have to make up for it, to have someone other than myself to be better for. i don’t want it to just mean something—i want it to be everything.

and i do mean everything: healing and hurting, better or worse, etcetera. it’s already been said so many ways. i know what i’m asking for, God— i’ve been asking. so when shall i receive?

— jade a.

escapril day 17: the horror!

bonus prompt - @adventurerswritingguild: Create a piece exploring the overwhelming, all-consuming desire of being chosen.

Midnight phone calls. Drunk words that are often sober thoughts. Empty promises that you’ll forget about tomorrow. Your heavy breathing as you tell me how you love the sound of my voice. You love it yet you were always the first to shut me down. To tell me “you don’t know what you’re talking about”, like you knew me better than myself. I don’t remember the sound of your voice, I tend to forget it until you call me and I can’t help but pick up. I want to tell you that I stopped taking my meds because they never really worked in the first place, but you can’t stop talking about your weekend in Vegas and about how you spent all your money playing games you knew you would lose. You told me that no one else was interested in your stories and I told you that I wasn’t either, I just had too much time on my hands. You laughed at that and I couldn’t help but laugh too because we both knew I was a liar even though we didn’t say it out loud. I don’t know much about love, but what we had couldn’t have been it. The arguments you started where you swore you did nothing wrong and the moments of silence between our words that lasted too long. I remember asking you “why don’t you love me anymore?” but I knew in that moment that you never did.

10/05/22 4:21am

Dating

I often feel as though I approach dating with the same attitude as an injury. It will hurt less if I rip the band-aid off at once. Healing isn’t near as important as ensuring the temporary pain is just that, temporary.

I’ll tell you every part of me. If I give you every detail as quick as I can, then you can reject me faster. My understanding of pain would still be fresh, no surprises. The pain can’t be as bad since there hasn’t been time to heal around you. It has to hurt less. It will still hurt

What is my other option?

Going slow? Giving only digestible bites of myself, piece by piece, until the plate is empty? Allowing myself time to become enveloped in the idea of you? All while not knowing your thoughts. I don’t know how to tell if you are being honest with how you feel or if it is simply a cover, a white lie. When in reality, you are slowly cauterizing the part of me attached to you.

Meanwhile, I continue to buy into this idea of us. None the wiser of what is happening below the bandages. I’m following the guidelines. Ice. Compress. Elevate.

I believe that I am healing. I thought I was healing

What if I do become attached? Over the extended time of us connecting, I begin to forget that I’m even injured. Then you decide it’s too much. I’m too much. I’ll be left here with an injury that isn’t healed, that now feels worse than before. How can it feel worse than before?

Before.

I was use to the empty feeling inside myself, use to being alone. Knew precisely how poking at my already formed bruise felt. I don’t need you to heal. I don’t want to heal. I am perfectly content in my discomfort.

But then you showed up.

There are only two outcomes; we both know this.

One) You stay. The injury subsides completely. No more bruises to poke. There is no longer a void inside me. Not by your conscience doing, just by your presence. I often forget the fact I was even injured in the first place. please stay

Two) You leave. The injury feels worse. I can’t know if it actually is or if I have simply forgotten the pain from before. Numbing myself might not help this time; it’s too late. I don’t remember the recovery steps. I must have misplaced that information when I was learning your middle name and how to comfort you when something’s gone wrong.

What do I do with this information? I can’t use is on my own wound.

What am I to do? What do you want me to do?

I’m forcing the bandage off. I refuse to stand by, unknowing, while you take bites of me. Either you accept it all or choke. I won’t put myself through another bruise. I don’t know if I’d survive

You will not make my void bigger.

For all the things I wanted

Adam writes it as a wish.

The pen travels across the paper over and over, transmitting the ferocity of his desire, the intensity of his longing, all the nights he went to sleep thinking of him, all the mornings in which he was the first thing to come into his mind.

I want you to be my first

He starts, creating a special place within the gardens of his psyche just for Will, a secret forest just for them, in which they can discover each other's bodies as if they're searching for the treasure on a pirate's map, a place where Will can love him as Adam loves him, a place where they can finally get what they want.

I want to conquer your body with my hands, I want to touch and memorize every mole and every scar. I want to trace your nose with my fingertips, poke every blackhead and pimple like I'm touching the constellations that lay right above our heads. I want to forget what a human body looks like just so I can experience you as God's first creation, I want to glance into the veins in your sclera believing them to be the lines of my life. I want you to be my life

They just pour out of him, resembling a flood, these absurd words that could be laughed at by so many, they are the truth inside his heart, and Adam doesn't want to be a coward, not anymore, so he writes and writes and writes, until he has nothing more to write, until there are no words left on the dictionary that could ever be equal or worthy of Will.

I want your mouth, I want to feel the shape of your front teeth with my tongue, I want your tongue in mine, I want to dance with you among the wetness. I want your hands around my neck, I want my hands around your neck, I want to be breathless for you, I want to give you my every breath just as much as I want to give you my last. I want your legs around me, I want my legs around you, I want you in me just as much as I want me to be engraved deep inside you, I want to feel and become your insides, I want to be part of your walls, I want to be one of the paintings hanging in your living room.

Adam cries, sobs, his tears wetting the paper with his honesty, with his desire, desire that burns his insides, the dwarf blazing feeling inside his chest only growing bigger and bigger, he wants to hide, he wants to run, wants to run after Will, wants to be his and wants him to be his.

I want to be the green chair in your dining room, I want to be the fork you use to eat your eggs in the morning, I want to be the eggs. I want to be the pages of your favorite novel, that old book you touch so delicately just because the paper is too fragile for your usual roughness. I want to be the cigarette you smoke in the evenings, I want to be the teddy bear you still keep in your bed after all these years, I want to be the calico cat waiting at your door at 3am, meowing for you to let him in, I want to be that same door, I want to be the one thing between you and the world, I want to be the world

He wants to be anything, anything Will could ever possibly want and need, Adam's legs shake under the desk, the hand holding the pen all sweaty and trembling, vision too blurry, mind too hazy, but he looks up and stares out the window anyways. The moon is as bright as always, as bright as the boy who birthed his yearning and night terrors.

Above all, I want to be yours, I want everything and anything, I want to be the reason you regain your heart, I want to be your after hours conversations, I want to be the lover you will take back to your mother when you finally have the courage to tell her you won't ever need her again, I want to be the one you wash the dishes for wearing that silly stained cat-themed apron, I want to be the one you fight about the wet towel laying on the mattress, I want to be the one you cuddle on the couch while watching television, I want to be the one you walk home after nights out. I want you when it's dark and I want you when it's bright, and I want this to be the place in time I finally get what I want.

Adam finishes, then folds the paper four times, when he is over the shape is a perfect square. He writes his name in it, and then Will's. The boy stands up and carefully places his letter inside the novel resting on Will's bedside table, the paper still peeking out a little, just so he will notice.

The calico cat meows at Adam as if it's singing when he finally leaves his best friend's apartment, he wonders through each step of his feet as he leaves the building what name could he gift to the confession that was just written - and it finally comes to him - along with a hopeless, silent, miserable giggle.

For all the things I wanted.

You're in a prison cell with a beautiful Vulcan and you're trying not to tell him that you love him

one of the best realizations I have had as I have grown up is how amazing it is to show up for the people you love, unashamedly and unapologetically. show up to their classical music productions when you don't know anything about that kind of music, their chemistry club meetings when you are a literature student and don't know anything about chemistry but your bestie is doing cool experiments with copper sulphate, the very alluring blue portion you were tempted to drink in school cause it looked so magical. show up when they wake up from a long nap and have missed dinner and are feeling shitty, make them maggi and get them their fave chocolate. show up when they rant about animal documentaries excitedly and listen when they tell you the plot of jujustu kaisan at 4 am during exam week. take a walk with them at 11 pm in night because they told you you have no classes tomorrow so come down (it's their emotionally suppressed way of saying I miss you). cuddle with them to sleep because they are scared of thunderstorms. make them an art piece and write them a love letter for their birthday to show them you love them so much and you will never stop probably and that scares you sometimes but their presence will reassure you always. I know you know that they know that you love them but when you gift them your "an incomplete list of things you love about them" in your shitty handwriting they will smile and cry and choke you in a hug for 5 mins, it will be a smile spilling out of the sun and it'll be so worth it always. reply to their messages of hey "your name" except your name gets weirder and weirder cause they are bored and miss you and wanna talk and even if you are busy and tired , do return some of their affection with a small message that yes, you missed them too even though you are too tired to express. give them your fave drawing and you'll see how they have hung it up on their cork board in their dorm room. tell them to spam their earring collections and marvel over their strawberry earrings. send them a video message when they send you their jiggly caramel pudding video because omg they can cook now and you are so happy for them that you want to portal through the phone and hug them (you're gonna give them a recipe notebook for their birthday). let them rant on the phone while you fold your laundry, it's manageable mostly.

there are days when you can't show up and it's okay and they'll understand, most people who love you do, they should. but gosh, putting in effort in any relationship isn't that the best thing? because they are not just worth your love, the point of worth never even comes cause they are the very meaning of love. because God remember what Miyazaki said when you love someone you inspire each other to live and grow even when you recognize how hard living is. growing is difficult but you love growing with them.

I used to think I love people too much but you know what they love me too much too. so when someone asked richard siken what do you do when you love someone too much he said congratulate yourself. and today I am congratulating myself cause I know the loves of my life are doing that too.

on the end of the boeing 747 and the humanity of innovation

ornithopter, richard siken / the first roll out (1968), boeing / youtube user bob devreeze / boeing 747 begins flight testing phase, the aviation week archives / youtube user blue sky country / i have seen the tops of clouds, quinn norton / the final roll out (2022), paul weatherman / ornithopter, richard siken

I STILL CANT ENJOY THIS IF ITS WITHOUT YOU. You proved your fucking theory. i hadnt found the right person but now i have, i love you and i found you and youre missing and I am collapsing in on myself. i can’t be yours forever i cant just wait for the right person i need to settle for the wrong thing far too quickly. I NEED TO THROW MYSELF IN AND DROWN. lets wrestle. weve kissed before. weve fucked before. i told you i loved you whilst your mouth was on me. lets wrestle. LETS WRESTLE.

- weird style writings from january

on art and suffering

Edvard Munch, Jen Mazza, Yun Hyong-keun, Richard Siken, Anaïs Nin, Lisa Wright, Vincent van Gogh, Edvard Munch, Aldous Huxley

buy me a coffee

"The Deal", Mitski" / "Diorama of Ghosts", Paige Lewis / "The Torn-Up Road", Richard Siken