There are moments that his face lights up and you think again, as you always do when confronted with his smile, of bright golden sunlight; of midsummer breeze; of a perfect moment cast in glass, a cottonwood puff caught in resin.
We were thirteen and stupid and skipping class and I fell in love with you every single day. We were fourteen and your arms were cut up and you were drunk and surfing couches. We were sixteen and your hair was pink and I already knew I had lost you. Eighteen and we pretended it was okay that I got out and you hadn’t yet, like we both knew you were the one who was supposed to be growing up and out but we decided not to talk about it.
We are twenty and the numbers don’t add up anymore.
I refuse to believe in reincarnation but I refuse to rule it out because if there is a life out there in the multiverse where we grew up and old together I want to accept it the way I’ve accepted that it’s easier to think of you like a ghost than to come to terms with the fact that I may never see you again.
I wonder if somewhere, we got out together, and we were both happy at once.
I wore your serenity prayer around my neck until the string broke. I gave it to my brother and then took it back when he didn’t pick it up again. Sometimes he reminds me so much of you, I wonder if you and I actually related. Other times the person I see most in my memories of you is myself. There are times when I wonder how real you actually are, and if maybe you only existed when I needed someone to reflect off of.
Even broken mirrors are better than nothing.
I think of you when I’m happy. I think of you when I’m drunk. I think of you most when I reflect on the gulf of years growing ever larger between me and you and that spring we spent telling the world to fuck itself with all the venom thirteen-year-old hearts can muster. Every time I think I’m done thinking of you, there you are, freckles and switchblade nose and crappy guitar playing in your basement.
I wonder if I’m half a ghost in your heart, too.
Your number is in my phone but I won’t call you because you won’t pick up. It’s four in the morning and I’m shouting into the void just like every time I’ve ever missed you.
It’s four in the morning and I’m thinking that maybe there are some people in this world you’re made to love and others you are made to miss.
Happy twenty-first, big brother.
You are elbow-deep in deja vu and just writing that down drags you under some more. Black type like small cracks in cement aligns in blocks as if prophesied to be this way half a dozen times before and you’re wondering if you’re writing this all down or just scrubbing away the blank space to find the words where they always were.
You see time like a glowstick, all lit up at once, filled with bubbles and phosphorescence, and you are in three apartments, a townhouse bedroom, and a picnic table all at once. There are voices around you but you can’t place them, and you are about to get up to do something important but you can’t remember what it is. You turn to the person next to you to ask them but their face is angled away and all you can do is think of the outline of their profile in the artificial light.
It’s seven in the morning and the sun has probably been up for an hour. I’m sitting on my bed in my pajamas and thinking about how the people I love are leaving their friends and partners. I’m trying to catch the big finality of the end of a school year in a fishing net so that I can understand where I am in my timeline and what I’m doing next, but this transition is not mine. I am guiding people home like some benevolent spirit, cheering them on and drying their tears and wondering if I’ve transcended some boundary where every single change has to hurt.
It’s Saturday morning and I’m thinking about the world and its capacity for change. I’m thinking of every single person I’ve ever left, and how it always felt like the end of the world, and I’m reminding myself that leaving this place has been done so many times. Once, a broken kokopelli brought me through the other end. Once, there was a sad, desctructive man with a smile like coffee at midnight. Once there was a girl with princess dresses and scars. They all made sure I left home safely.
The hardest part about this time around is that the people I’m leaving don’t understand what that means, and so I’m fixing hair clips and scraped knees and trying to keep myself from thinking about how much I’m going to miss these tiny people when I go.
This is what I have right now: enough sleep, beautiful music, words that aren’t working, a partner 200 miles away, and a gaggle of school kids who have all hallowed out their own spaces in my heart. Here is what needs to be done: a room cleaned and gutted, two months of gear found and packed up, and some semblance of poetry manufactured to deal with how normal my life feels.
It’s seven in the morning on the last day in May and I’ve got enough energy in my heart to solve any problem I see. It’s seven a.m. and I miss places I haven’t left yet and people I haven;t met. It’s seven a.m. and that’s really all I know.
It’s seven a.m., and maybe that in itself is a gift.
I go to post-punk shows sans makeup, wearing tie-dye
with my huge flash and my camera and flourescent ear plugs and I
do not care what you think about me.
I have not spent seven years in mosh pits
for your judgement.
I am here for screaming
and losing my voice, for photos
no one else likes.
I don’t care.
They remind me what it’s like not to have a body
for a while.
There is a mother goddess found in the southeastern US, charming snakes and reptiles of all types. Pythons adorn her arms and lizards ride the tops of her feet from place to place. She is found most often, surprisingly, in libraries—it’s said that she has a passion for absorbing knowledge about the human world, as well as possible creation powers, though the creatures she may have created have never come out of the woodwork to proclaim themselves.
Children are more likely to summon her than adults, especially if that child is struggling, or is non-neurotypical, although she has made herself known to adults as well.
People she has appeared to claim not to remember her physical features clearly, though they all agree that they were embraced by her, and remember her hugs clearly for the rest of their lives.
If I was a god, what kind of god would I be?
Bonus point if you add some mythos about me
This one’s for windows7virus
There is a smithing spirit found in pine forests and old cabins. He is bearded and his hair is sometimes long. He carries a hand-made dagger at his hip and is often surrounded by a cloud of pungent clove smoke. His penchant to sneaking through trees and evading full-on sightings have earned him the nickname “Le Creep”.
This spirit is unpredictable, but almost always appears for campfires, folk music, and a good, microbrewed beer. Instruments never seen before have been known to invoke his presence, and guitars and similar instruments inscribed with his name or symbol are less likely to break or become out of tune.
The age of this spirit is disputed—his frown and occasional deep wisdom lead some to believe he is an old sage or storyteller. However, he is also known to seduce the beautiful northern people—men and women alike—only to disappear, leaving a brown feather on his one-night lovers’ pillows in the morning.
Mythos meme for Lynx!
There is a demigod found in the desert who is said to be the child of Logic and Love. They travel from place to place, observing the human world and the world of the unnamed pantheon, absorbing what they deem to be the best of both places. They have been summoned accidentally by people in search of what it means to become.
Possessed with the skill of putting things in place, this demigod is commonly found seeking out the confused and chaotic souls and trying to help them put their minds in order. However, often times their presence in these places is affected by their more emotional parent, and these people are drawn to them by love and lust alike. He welcomes them gladly, and often brings out desires in these people that they did not know they had.
While seeking logic and order, they are often inexplicably drawn to environments of openness and love, and thrive in those spaces where the erotic and the in-flux meet.
While not known to be wrathful, any harm done in the name of uncontrollable lust are liable to send the demigod into an unusual rage, inciting small fires and occasionally singeing those around them accidentally.
While there is no reliable way to summon them, coils of colorful rope blessed with curiosity and trust have been proven to be a strong draw.
Bonus point if you add some mythos about me
windows7virus has been writing really cool ones about people so heyo people should do this? I’ll write one back!
This one is for thelithiuminbloom
There is a wood deity who is the embodiment of revelry and indulgence right up to the edge of moderation. They thrive in forests and meadows, especially in rainstorms. Their hair changes colors with the seasons and is often entwined with raindrops paused in time, or out-of-season flowers.
This nymph is known for appearing and disappearing at will, and often appearing just to taunt possible rivals with an intricately carved staff, sharpened to a lithe point, though they have never been known to draw blood.
They accept offerings of dance, song, and alcohol, and they thrive in environments of love and openness, and it’s sometimes said that moon spirits live in their eyes, helping them entrance happy and willing lovers, friends, and worshipers.