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When a Character Is Grieving Someone They Never Got to Say Goodbye To

✧ They talk about the person in past tense… then correct themselves. Then stop talking entirely.

✧ They touch things that belonged to the person like they’re fragile, sacred, about to disappear.

✧ They hoard the last voicemail, last message, last anything. Play it. Don’t play it. Just knowing it exists hurts enough.

✧ They leave something untouched, an empty seat, a half-packed bag, a coffee order that isn’t theirs.

✧ They get irrationally angry when someone else seems to be “moving on.” As if forgetting is betrayal.

✧ They don’t let themselves cry all at once. It comes in pieces. Like they’re afraid too much grief will drown them.

✧ They over-apologize. For being quiet. For being distant. For not being okay.

✧ They become hyper-aware of time, dates, anniversaries, time zones, the exact moment everything ended.

✧ They get superstitious. Ritualistic. As if doing things "right" might reverse something.

✧ They smile when they talk about the person. But it’s brittle. And it never quite touches their eyes.

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sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four

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Freefall

you're pale as marble and just as warm. when you smirk it's pierced by one glittering dimple. looking at me with eyes like cathedral glass, leading into the rudderless dark.

i'll never escape you, won't recover if you go. my sides and hinges are long stiff with old blood. i keep catching my hands between the gears that put my heart in perpetual motion.

we've shared secrets on shared breath; confessions on a cloud that never rains. it won't cover the both of us, which is why you pushed me off, isn't it?

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Messaging people for the first time is so hard. What am I supposed to say? Like, "You seem really odd and your blog intrigues me. Do you want to have philosophical conversations or perhaps talk about fictional characters?" What! Whatever. I will just follow you back and stare at your blog with my big beautiful brown eyes.

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Please reblog and spread as much as you can about Palestine, if you feel you can do nothing this isn’t true. Use your voice and the privilege you have comms and socials to call for ceasefire and the liberation of Palestine!

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breaking vow(el)s

you promised to --

-- teach me blackjack. i watched you play in the back of a moving car; on jostled laps and cards scrambled from two separate packs. the days pass away.

-- forever stay together. every weekend we shared a bag of jelly hearts. i held them beating in my mouth, between my secrets and my rotten teeth. it's the end of eternity.

-- write me songs. when will i hear back? my stickered pink guitar sits in your window, with five strings still missing. when, not if, you sing again, will i be immortalised in your lyrics?

-- not mourn me. from books you told me stories of war so holy that i go to bed hollowed of thought. none of the orphans that you spoke of found other orphans to lose.

-- run far away. but you're still here, umbrella full of clouds and growing numb underneath. the sun is dancing on the dust; why don't you hum a tune?

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meteorite

unsheath the knife from

between my ribs. apologise

like it’s a prayer. kiss

the ichor from my skin,

hunt absolution where it's extinct.

but you want to be

god's favourite again,

don't you? white-eyed wolf

licking at bite marks

on the hand that feeds

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River Red

i enjoy the visual texture of the sky

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untouchable(s)

You are no more holy than The dust on every hand That carved those jewels from the earth And lifted bread from land

You are no more mighty than A pebble by the sea With each sequential drop the stone Pays mass for memory

Goliath who walks the ground With eyes up high and tall The lamb you bleed so readily Waits eager for your fall

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butcherson

i was weaving a basket

on the step facing dusk

when i looked down and saw

my father's hands, creating

his don't look like this

anymore, withered in the ground

or in the ghosts long past

where they made their home

in the crowns of hair, in the clutch of a throat

as the painter of bruises, as the sculptor of fear

it's strange to see them

heal and comfort, give and

make

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i built for you an empire and

made of you a god. i think and

do so much for you but

what do you think of it, of me?

i am afraid of dogs and heights and

asking you to love me

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London-based student Lewis Hornby is a grandson on a mission. When he noticed that his dementia-afflicted grandmother was having trouble staying hydrated, he came up with Jelly Drops—bite-sized pods of edible water that look just like tasty treats.

Each of these colorful “candies” is made up of mostly water, with gelling agents and electrolytes making up just 10% of their composition. Available in a rainbow of colors and presented in packaging reminiscent of a box of chocolates, Jelly Drops are an easy and engaging way to avoid dehydration—a common problem for those suffering from degenerative neurological diseases.

“It is very easy for people with dementia to become dehydrated,” he explains. “Many no longer feel thirst, don’t know how to quench thirst, or don’t have the dexterity to drink.” With this in mind, Hornby set out to find a solution. In addition to seeking advice from psychologists and doctors, he opted to “experience” life with dementia himself through the use of virtual reality tools and a week in a care home.

Once he was familiar with what dementia patients need, he brainstormed what they want. “From my observations, people with dementia find eating much easier than drinking. Even still, it can be difficult to engage and encourage them to eat. I found the best way to overcome this is to offer them a treat! This format excites people with dementia, they instantly recognize it and know how to interact with it.”

Case in point? Hornby’s own grandmother’s reaction: “When first offered, grandma ate seven Jelly Drops in 10 minutes, the equivalent to a cup full of water—something that would usually take hours and require much more assistance.”

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you called me a god, but you

pray like you're begging

what do you want from me?

i can't give you love, but i

can make you a saint

they'll pray to you too, would you like that?

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i think a lot of it's also a personal pain and/or injustice that the Bad Guy TM reminds some people of. we tend to turn ourselves inside out to strangers who, by result, see the yolk but not the shell, and it's hard to name a mess of organs without labels. some of the mess is the familiar old scar tissue of 'it's not fair that they get forgiven when i wasn't' and some of it is ' the same hurt was done to me and this victim is still hurting' and some of it something else entirely

tldr: a lot of us are walking around with open emotional wounds and bleeding toxins on every growing thing in sight and it shows

Some rando: This character should not have the chance to become a better person

Me: Why

Same person: Because they are a bad person!

Me: But what if that character was allowed to become a better person so that they are no longer a bad person?

Same person: You’re an abuse apologist

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gifts

last week i gave you

my heart, fresh from the ribs

you set it down and asked for soap

and then baked my favourite dessert.

do you love me? i can't tell

you feel like the sun

and i can't ever seem to look you in the face

i'm scared to get too close but

i do it anyway, i love you

please don't leave

my heart by the sink

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dust you shall eat

there stands an angel at the gate it's knocking on my door it's looking at me like it knows i'd never prayed before . there sits an angel at my table eating all my words the sun is setting through the wings of countless silent birds . there sleeps an angel in my bed and i must drive it out for if i let it stay too long this house comes burning down . standing on the edge of heaven asking if i should jump off i'm looking at the devil but i'm seeing shards of god . there stands an angel at the gate it's knocking on my bones i'd answer if i could, you see there's simply no one home

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Ouroboros

The thing about growing up without

the parents that everyone else seemed to have

is that you partake in your own creation;

you become both

the cloth and the weaver. Adam and god. Dam, sire, and

child. Sometimes you hate the creation (and the creator)

but you've seen and been these hands at work

and it wasn't easy.

(You build yourself up just to

pick it all apart again. Is this what it means

to be alive?)