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[softsweetwhispers]

The line is drawn on the body perfectly, meticulously — cold hands don’t shake once as their latex-covered fingers grip the marker. The air is frigid, and beneath the one in control, the body twitches. It won’t be able to feel anything under all that anesthesia, and it’s been put under for a long while now, so the reaction is strictly biological, but he hesitates nonetheless. You can never be too careful.

The next moment is silent, still, absent of any suspicion that anything could be alive in the room. The one in control grins — for it is a miraculous thing to be granted this opportunity — and sets down the marker. He picks up the scalpel next to it, both the odd shade of crimson red for different reasons, satisfaction settling in him as it gleams in the Gray Room’s lighting. 

The one in control feels adrenaline from the ends of his fingertips to the heels of his feet as he makes the smooth, red line straight down the subject’s chest. The sharp edge splits the skin and opens it, and the blood immediately rushes out. He watches in morbid fascination as warm rivers of blood flow down to the dip in the stomach, rolling off the ribs with a beautiful vibrancy.

He reaches his hands into the ravine it makes, gloves stained red and blood slicking up his arm and filling the room with that repeating shlck, shlck, shlck. The predictable shiver of pleasure he always gets slithers into his brain and activates something he rarely feels, but in moments like these. He takes a deliberate breath and pulls himself back together not even a second later; he can take care of it later tonight, if he’s lucky enough to be able to remember the feeling.  

He can’t help but wrinkle his nose in disgust at the way the intestines slime together, the familiar squelching of bloody fluids. It always gets everywhere — point in case, disdainfully, as it slips from him when he tries to place it on the plastic covered counter — and the inevitability only adds to his disgust. 

He shudders. In this line of work, very few things truly disgust him. This never fails to. There’s a reason why humans aren’t his favorite subjects. Rabbits, small dogs, even raccoons — they’re the easiest to handle. Humans are… probably the worst.

Regardless, this is what The Master asks for. What The Master Wants, The Master Gets. He will carefully package every part of this precious, beautiful body, from all ten carefully pedicured toenails, to the billions of billions of strands of hair upon the subject’s head. It’s what he’s asked of him. 

Besides, he'd be lying if he said a part of him — a rather large part of him (eight inches, to be exact) — didn’t enjoy it. There was a thrill to the chase. An excitement to the cut. 

@nosebleedclub april xv. vivisection

[softsweetwhispers]

With days spent waiting, I am overcome with sympathy for Rapunzel; pacing, alone and isolated, for a sign that may never come. Just a glimpse of what’s been promised, whatever sliver of an idea that gave her enough hope to hold on for all those years. I guess I’m not as strong as my hero from once upon a time ago, because my tether to you has begun fraying at the edges. Her hair held strong as her unexpected prince climbed up it, but mine has hardly bared the weight of you and I’m not sure how much longer it will last.  

I don’t mean to doubt you, but with days spent waiting, I could’ve built my own tower. My own prison within a prison, a physical manifestation of the cage you’ve put me in. I’d stand at the only window and look down, where you’d be on the soft grass of the Earth, breathing in air from the sky. Your favorite hobby is watching me, dangling the carrot with the promise of affection, calling out to me as if you ever really considered saving me. I am helpless, entirely dependent on whether you decide you want me enough to get me out. 

You have rendered me nearly helpless with days spent waiting. I am as isolated as that princess, ignoring others’ affection in favor of your temporary attention. Standing as alone as she in the room with merely the wardrobe and endless ceiling above for company. Just as her, I have no control over my life. I handed it over to you a long time ago, foolishly tripping over my heart to place it into your hands. You wouldn’t dare give it back now. It means too much.

At least I don’t have a Mother Gothel to deal with. 

Only you. 

Only ever you. 

The thought sends a nauseating bout of dread to my stomach. Somehow, that’s not as comforting as it should be. Somehow, that’s so much worse.

@nosebleedclub april xxv. days spent waiting

[softsweetwhispers]

The stage is alight with blue, azure beaming down from the lights and hitting the paint-splattered set floor. Underneath your feet, vibrations from the practicing band pulse in time with Ten Minutes Ago. A couple of kids fly past you, pushing the staircase set piece that splits in half. You can almost imagine Cinderella herself standing on it, leaning down to carefully take off one shoe as the music intensifies to a crescendo. Or maybe you’ve just seen the show too many times. Still, it seems vivid, you can’t help getting caught up in the fairytale.

Backstage, energy pushes itself to the center of attention. Anticipation hums through the air and thickens the tension, a feeling that might've been familiar if the stakes weren’t so high. Everyone is alright with nerves and excitement, the pride of showing something they’ve worked so hard on mixed with the fear of all the things that could go going wrong. 

Cast members pile themselves together in groups, laughing as loudly as they can before the house opens and they have to fall to a hushed silence. Grease foundation is smeared on their faces, counters, and brushes, highlighter and contour is being exchanged with a natural ease, people sit stock-still, hardly breathing as others help those that need it apply their makeup. 

Tech kids linger in the doorway as they eat what’s left of whatever dinner one of the mom’s brought. They fill the spaces that aren’t taken up with elaborate early-century costumes, bodies soaked in cologne, champagne, and BO, and props that need to be added to the ‘To Be Fixed’ list. 

The fast pace is familiar and you let yourself fall into the easy rhythm. You watch as they too, surrounded by people who are doing the same thing they are with the same kind of reinforced passion. They get ready for their first performance under the lights, with the smell of chalk and light background chatter. 

Opening night is officially a go. Here’s to hoping nothing too monumental happens. 

Opening Night (inspired by a true story)

[softsweetwhispers]

The closet is colder than I would’ve expected and when I hear the air kick on, goosebumps race each other across my arm. I shiver, tighten my arm’s grip around my knees, and curl impossibly further into myself. The gash on my forearm burns and my legs protest against me, but I only relish in the pain.

I wish I had a blanket, but there’s nothing I can do about it; I can’t leave, because he’s waiting out there, plopped onto the recliner sitting in front of the television, beer in one hand and cigarette in the other. I can hear the muffled sound of background music and people talking, the only company I have.

I’m not sure what time it is. There’s no clocks, no windows. Actually, there’s no anything — the closet is small enough for me to reach out my arm and touch all four walls, and was emptied out years ago after Mom left. The only thing that remains is the curtain rod that just barely brushes against my head when I sit up straight. The position forces my neck to be bent at an odd angle, but I don’t mind. I’ve been through worse.

For a second, I think I hear something out there — his heavy footsteps, or his low growl, or his obtrusive slamming — but I immediately shake the thought off. It’s impossible. This is my safe place, the only place in the house where it’s ensured he won’t come after me. If I tuck myself away in here first, I don’t have to worry about how hard he’ll throw me in. As long as I stay out of sight, out of earshot, out of mind, I’ll survive.

The thought of fighting back enters my mind with the traitorous taunting of hope. Even if I were brave enough, there’s no way I would win. I’ve tried before. My presence is as insignificant as the gum on the bottom of his shoe; he picks me up and throws me to the ground without a second thought. It’s better for me to stay put. It always is. 

Just until I’m eighteen. Just until I’m eighteen. The mantra repeats itself even before I know I’ve thought it. I’ve treaded these unstable waters before. As dangerous as they were, they were also familiar. All I had to do was ride the waves out. I can last longer than him. That, at least, I can do. I owed it to Mom. I owed it to myself.  @nosebleedclub prompts, april xi. “safe” place

[softsweetwhispers]

The sweet, heavenly smell of perfectly-baked goods drifts through the humble diner and into her nose gently. It smells like home, and she tries not to think of the streets of Italy, the farmer’s markets Mamma used to take her to before she got sick. Standing on the brown wood-grained tile, watching people bustle from table to counter to table, she is immediately taken to a different, happier time. The warmth reminds her of the pulsing heat of the sun on her back, the press of her Mamma’s presence at her side. 

Somebody bumps into her from behind and she mutters an apology. She is pulled out of the fantasy, just as she reaches for the coins her Mamma is handing her — going to the markets was always a special occasion because they’d never had money, so she held her hands out with a sort of reverence as ten euros were dropped into them — and suddenly, she is back in the diner. The atmosphere is pleasant, but not home; the people that are just a bit too American for her to really be able to pretend otherwise; the food, while delicious and wonderful in itself, was not the food of Italy’s streets. 

Under the delectable, yet overpriced menu decorated with practiced calligraphy with low hanging bare bulbs hanging from them, is a display case full of already made food. Oversized blueberry muffins with chunks of purple-blue deliciousness poking out of its golden brown crust, steaming chocolate chip cookies she could imagine melting in her mouth, coffee cake that crumbled just the right amount in just the right way. 

They’re not the goods she’s used to from her old home, Italy, but they are from her new home, America. She’ll miss the sweet custard filling of Zeppoles, the way she took a bite and it melted in her mouth, she’ll miss the almonds, and the candied fruits, the elaborately beautiful designs ingrained into flat, soft pazelle. Still, her stomach growls quietly as she walks up to the counter, pulling money — dollars, not euros — out of her pocket. 

Today she decides that she will get something new: she is here, in a new country, with new cultures, and new baked goods — she might as well embrace it. She points to the curious looking pastry, some sort of fried dough with a sweet white cream sandwiched between it, topped with melted chocolate. The tiny chalkboard in front of it reads profiteroles in that same cursive, with a little heart over the eye. She points to it and her shadow hovers perfectly over it, the light making it look like an innocent child’s hand. 

The cashier is friendly enough to feel familiar, and he smiles at her shyly as he hands her the bag. She thanks him and walks back to a table in the corner with a single chair. She carefully takes out the profiterole, with the same reverence she’d held her hands out for Mamma’s money, and takes a deep breath, relaxing at the heartwarming smell.

When she bites into it, it tastes like heaven — the perfect balance of fried and sweet and soft. It reminds her of when her Mamma used to get a box of bigné alla cremas, that same custard-smooth vanilla flavor. Mamma’s offering her one with that same secretive smile, the same twinkle in her eye, the same soft don’t tell your father laugh. She takes it and closes her eyes. When she takes another bite, for a moment, it all feels like home. 

@nosebleedclub prompts, april vii. profiteroles

[softsweetwhispers]

You whispered I’m scared of ending up like Mom, and you spoke with more conviction than I could even fake. It filled the space between us along with the other unspoken agreements and admittances we wouldn’t dare say out loud to each other, let alone anyone else. The words grew louder and louder in volume, until they were bigger than the both of us and echoed off the walls Dad repainted after the divorce.

The house is empty, like it always is these days, so we don’t have to worry about prying ears listening. Not that it matters to you — I’ll never say it because maybe part of me is embarrassed to look up to you as much as I do, but I’ve always admired that about you. The only time I’d ever say something like that is when it’s just you and me, but you've always been the better of the two of us — all blonde-haired, blue-eyes, kind boyfriend, not afraid to speak your mind and argue against what’s not right.

Sometimes you and I seem so different, I can convince myself we aren’t related. When I’m standing next to you, all my already jagged edges grow sharp enough to hurt someone and cruel enough to go through with it. I’ve only gotten worse from the things I’ve been through, only allowing myself to become more calloused. I watched you take everything bad that’s happened and wrap them around your limbs to keep you tethered to Earth as you grew. I’ve never been able to do that. Plants wilt under my absent-minded touch and refuse to grow, too scared to come out into the sun. Not only did yours grow, but they thrived, just like you. Purple flowers peek from the vibrant leaves that curl up against you, needy for your attention. You’ve always been selfless enough to give some of it away, but smart enough to keep the rest for yourself. 

I’ve watched you change and grow, becoming less and less like our father. You got his green thumb, his ability to change. I can only hope my dying weeds don’t tangle with the beautiful roots you’ve fought so hard to grow. 

These thoughts hit me with such a ferocity, I am left speechless. With a whispered truth that’s just as much yours as it is mine, I am harshly reminded of all the things that make you my sister. I’m hopeful that there might be something good to come out of this family, but scared for what that might mean for you. 

I can’t possibly do what you’ve just done easily and be that honest. I struggle to find the right series of words to string together. The only things I can think to say only has the potential to make things worse. How do you reassure someone when what they’re worried about is an inevitability? So, in my predictable, cowardly fashion, I don’t say anything; I let your question go answered under the guise of letting my silence speak for itself. I know it doesn’t bother you, anyway — whatever I might’ve said, there’s no doubt you already know. After all, you’ve always understood me better than anyone.  @nosebleedclub prompts, march xxv. DNA

[softsweetwhispers]

In the beginning, things were different. 

I wanted to spend every second of my tedious days with you, wanted to make the tunnel vision I was witnessing real, wanted to prove to you that I could be everything you wanted when you were the same for me. My love for you grew under my nails and in my ribs and pounded through my heart with every love-addled beat. I used to see you in every face that passed by, whisper wishes of our union during every 11:11 and on the wind-lifted beauty of dandelion seeds. I spent my afternoons ripping up flowers and whispering he loves me, he loves me not, while beautiful yellow butterflies, what I’d convinced myself were sure omens of my love for you, fluttered around my head and hands. 

It was soft. It was simple. It was what I wanted. What you wanted. What I thought we wanted – what we both wanted.

Or I had thought. 

Now, it’s not the same. Being with you no longer means what it used to. Navigating what you’ve allowed me to have has taken careful consideration. You’re faltering, unsteady terrain takes cautious treading, something that’s hard to do when I’ve worked myself raw trying to make myself smaller for you. You’ve given me a lot of things — the bags under my eyes, the shakiness of my resolve, the relenting of my unrelenting. But one thing you never gave me was what it is you’re looking for. In my attempts, I crushed my soul in the space between my bones and made me easier to hold, easier to handle; it was only ever for you. In the effort of clambering over myself, I lodged my shoe in my rib. There’s a bruise there now, in the shape of your handprint, darkening into a garish purple. You may not have delivered the blow, but it wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for you. 

It didn’t turn out how I imagined it would, of course not; it never does. Still, I thought you’d be different. I didn’t expect you to hurt me like they did, and now that you have, I’m not sure I have the strength to take a step back. I’ll let gravity push my soles into the Earth and use it as a tether to you. I’ll follow you around, even as my own insecurities and inability to understand leaves seeds of doubt to grow. 

Was it all just a ruse? Did the thousands of wishes mean nothing to you? Was the time I spent just a waste? Did you place a cruel spark of hope in me only so you could watch it burn out?

Did you ever really love me? Does it even matter?

After all, it’s not like I’ll leave you; you’ve got me exactly where you want me, trapped in your unmistakably kissable maw, seducing me only to spit me out again, shaking and dependent and scared. The little girl who sat in that field too big for her, using all her afternoons to pray for love in the hot grass. I’d tell her now if I could, how much of a waste of time it all is. 

Whether he loves you or not, I’d say, you get to have him. It’s just different, not what it used to be. Not what I wanted. Not what you wanted.  Not what I thought we wanted — what we both wanted. And now I’m paying for it.

| k. - @nosebleedclub march prompts, xxi. clamber.

[softsweetwhispers]

When we drove through the rain, the water hit the roof over and over, washing us in a muted silence. The repeating, uneven, patternless sound could be heard clearly, even through the rusting metal of your car’s frame. It served as an unsuccessful way to fill the tension, a backdrop of white noise against our palpable fear. Thunder rolled below us from a distance, echoing through the streets and under the car tires like an omen. The dark clouds hung low in the sky, building something more than just rain, overlapping each other and dipping just beneath the top of the treeline. 

Silence wrapped its slimy tentacles around our mouths and coated the seats and the windows. The inside of the car was stale, the kind of quiet that made everything feel heavier. The way we tried to pretend everything was okay, how we tried to hide all our secrets, what I’ve been too scared to say aloud when you can look at me. 

When we drove through the rain, your skin was close enough for me to reach out and touch, if only I wasn’t so scared. You’re closer to me than you have been in for the past two months, and yet when I look over, you seem a million worlds away. I’ve been trying to close the distance you’ve been incomprehensibly focused on making bigger. There’s a crack between us that spreads with every argument you start and every touch you pull away from. I am going in behind you with a naive hope, uselessly pouring concrete in behind you, trying to fix the irreparable damage.

I was foolish for hoping it might’ve been the beginning of redemption. I thought the muted, forced proximity of us – what we’d been trying so hard to avoid, this elaborate chess game of denial and avoidance – would make us acknowledge our problems. But maybe it only allows the opposite of what I’m wanting; you’re using it as a shield, an excuse not to look at me, like every other feeble excuse you never would’ve prioritized before the incident. The headlights paint across your lips and nose, making you look gaunt and tired. They prevent your carefully blank face from being hidden from me. 

When we drove through the rain, I tried to put onto it what we can’t find for ourselves. I’ve rendered myself helpless trying to make things better. I’ve used all my resources, given up everything, no longer own any piece of me that doesn’t belong to you – and will continue to do so. Despite your uncertainty, I will keep fighting against the intangible monster that’s taken you away from me and swallowed you whole. I won’t leave you to face it by yourself; I was here before, I’m here now, and I will continue to be here. 

Maybe we'll never find what we can’t fix for us, but you’re still here. Even though we’re in different universes, even though you’re struggling with a fight I can’t see, even though these past few months have been one inescapable tragedy after another; you’re still here. So I’ll stay. I’ll stay and wait for the rain to get worse, and I’ll weather the storm like I always do, with you by my side like you always are. 

| k. - @nosebleedclub march, xxi. clambering

[softsweetwhispers]

You left behind nothing but a pair of old shoes when you left. 

They sit next to the front door, pressed neatly together, left foot next to right foot, the same place they always were when you came home and took them off. They were the ones you were obsessed with; the ordinary, plain gray fabric, with not a single visible smudge of dirt, no sign that they’d been worn at all, except for the wisteria that you embroidered on the heels. You told me that it reminded you of home. You said you could smell the Japanese blossoms opening as the stars burned like tiny fires in the night sky. 

The day we got them, you confessed to me that you’d never owned a pair of American tennis shoes. You were fascinated with them, and with the way the shoe stores had lines and lines of the same brands, shoes that had laces and shoes that had velcro, shoes that were nonstick and shoes that had cleats. I’m convinced you would’ve bought one of every kind, if I hadn’t been there to stop you. When you finally found them — my shoes, you said, like you’d whispered my green card over and over in the passenger seat on the day you got it — I’d never seen such a look of joy. I felt myself fall in love with you just a little bit more as I asked if you were sure, if you wanted those instead of blue ones or red ones or green ones. You brought out your embroidery kit that night, told me I had to appreciate the unappreciated, and turned something ordinary into something beautiful, as you often did.

You always found a way to find virtue in everything. Even in something as simple as shoes.

You treated them with such care, such respect. You never would’ve allowed them to just sit there, if you were still here. I always admired that about you. You were careful with the things you loved and you always said everything had a place, we just had to find it. It was the same thing that drew you to America; you believed if we could find a home anywhere, it would be here. 

Your focus on the little things was something I never understood, something I never grasped fully. Maybe there were just too many differences between us, or maybe whatever made you grow up to be kind and good was what was lacking in my childhood, or maybe it was always supposed to be this way — you and me, completely different, alone in a brand new world.  

Now, it’s just me — completely different, alone in a brand new world. 

There are pieces of you I can’t let go. The shoes are part of a bigger problem, I know, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Some days I can hear you chastising me to get rid of them, but I can’t make myself. They’re all I have left of you, and it’s easier to leave them there, a reminder of everything I’ve lost and the pointless waiting for you to come home.

| k. - @nosebleedclub prompts, xxiv. old pair of shoes

[softsweetwhispers]

Vanessa’s house is the biggest on the block. It sits at the top, overlooking the rest, a beautiful white gate growing unidentifiable purple flowers that change to yellow and blue as the year drags on. The gate is always locked, but the contrasting garden that thrives in the front yard makes it all seem welcoming anyway. I’ve never been inside, but the rumors say that there’s a life-sized painting of Vanessa’s great grandaddy hanging above the real fireplace, that Vanessa has a trust fund in her bank account, that the only reason they live here, instead of somewhere where they’re surrounded by people like them, is because of Vanessa’s daddy’s work. 

Her’s may be the biggest, but Charlie’s and oSamantha’s are pretty close. They were no small feats, even looming next to Vanessa’s, with their tall structures and shameless flaunting, even more so considering the other buildings they stood near. The rows of houses get bigger and bigger the further you drive up the hill. The people are haughtier, and the grass, in an almost funny way, is literally greener on the other side. 

We live at the bottom, and not very proudly. Stock gray tin roof that causes water to run down its tilted surface, across the rusted gutters, into the house in a way that drip, drip, drips into the bowls we place on the concrete floor. There are only a few houses that look like ours, and the kids sit at the curbs and play jacks and trade dimes and nickels for quarters at the corner store. Past that, the road tilts at an almost 45 degree angle, and another layer of wealth is added for every new house. 

It was hard to get used to at first. In Illinois, there wasn’t a Vanessa’s house or a Charlie’s house or a Samantha’s. Our old neighborhood wasn’t divided from those with money and those without. Everyone there had the same gateless front yard where nothing but weeds grew, the same hole in the big toe of their shoe, the same fifty-cent deck of cards to entertain themselves. 

I never used to be ashamed of where I lived, because I never had to worry about looking good in front of kids with money, but ever since we moved here, it’s been different. Vanessa told me I could pretend her house was mine, so the embarrassment isn’t as bad, but that doesn’t change the fact that I know where I live. No, I say, pointing to the sad, poverty-wracked building, that’s not where I live, I actually live there, and I’d point from my bus seat to the top of the hill, admiring the way Vanessa’s gleans in the sunlight like gold underground, feeling pride in a place I didn’t even live in. After Illinois, when Mom needed a change of scenery and Daddy needed a reason not to drink, that’s the place we picked. The biggest house on the hill. The one that overlooks the rest.

| k. - @nosebleedclub prompts. march v. drive up the hill

[softsweetwhispers]

You prop your hip against the door of my Papa’s truck, the faded blue denim of your overalls a sharp contrast to the truck’s peeling red paint. The pencil tucked into your ear peeks through your brown curls and your fingers tap a mindless, restless pattern against your thigh. You smile when you see me, sparking green eyes and left cheek dimple and teasing charm.

You look cute like this, oil smeared across your forehead and cheeks, hands covered in dirt stuck under your nails, work shoes not really screaming fashionable, but pulling them off anyway. You look good in everything, I’m convinced, even if I won’t hug you until after you’ve had a shower. 

My Papa’s truck’s alignment is off and the oil needs to be checked up on, and there are a plethora of a bunch of tiny, little problems — just the cons of not letting go of this decades-old vehicle he probably should’ve sold for parts a long time ago. My Papa always holds onto the things he cherishes longer than most. Steadfast with a strong grip, but never quite knowing when enough is enough. This truck is the same as my mother’s picture on his nightstand, the way he still makes three breakfasts in the morning, his adamancy against those damned dating sites. I’ve tried to change his ways, but my attempts are futile; now I’m at your auto shop, with you in front of me, and a list of things that need fixing in my hands on yellow legal pad paper written with Parkinson’s shaky handwriting.

I could’ve taken the forty-five minute drive to the square, or I could’ve walked down to Jones’ and had him make a house call, or I could’ve had my cousin, who’s currently in school to be a mechanic, look at it — but none of those places have the reason I’m here, which I’d never admit out loud. The only reason I’m here instead of my Papa is because I wanted to see you. You, in all your oil-covered glory. 

If you knew my ulterior motives, you’d make fun of me endlessly. Papa already does, while I carefully spread jelly over my buttered test in the early-morning hours, and I sputter through an excuse — no, I’m not goin’ to see him, ‘Pa, I’m only goin’ ‘cause we know he does good work. Which is exactly why you’ll never find out. You’ll keep smiling like you’re doing, I’ll hand you the list, and you’ll get to work, giving me the perfect view of your ass, and your face, and your hands, and all the ways you expertly navigate the truck when you should be expertly navigating me. 

| k. - @nosebleedclub march xxviv. auto shop

[softsweetwhispers]

This was supposed to be more than I expected it to be. I was supposed to look back on this when I was old and think about how the prom I never wanted to go to was the best night of my life. The boy who’d asked me—the boy who’d asked me; you, that was supposed to be you—would be in the kitchen, making french toast, and I’d look over and not bother hiding the smile as I reminisced on how we kissed on that magical night.

Instead, I got exactly what I bargained for. What was I thinking, showing up to the school’s most important event, as if I’m anybody? Flirting with an older guy like a stranger, blushing at his advances and teasing him for being so tactless. I suppose this is what I get. I should’ve never come, I knew better, it wasn’t…

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. It wasn’t supposed to end with my dress stained red in places I can’t hide, with my hands trembling at my bruised thighs. I wasn’t supposed to find out how much violation could hurt, and I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be left here alone. 

But—

I am standing in an emptying gymnasium, boys and girls smelling of too-heavy perfume and cheap cologne and distinct body odor pushing up against each other, pushing up against me, clamoring over each other in an attempt to get out the doors. The lights have turned on and the music has been turned off and it feels like a revelation of secrets, illuminating what the dark hid. Exposed teens sit under the bleachers, vaping and hitting carts, couples tangle together like they need skin-on-skin contact to breathe, and chaperones pretend not to notice it all. Empty, tipped red solo cups and no longer lit glow sticks are scattered across the sticky floor. 

It’s the scene from every other teen movie, except there’s one thing missing: You. You’re not here. Unexplainably, inexplicably, unfairly—you’re not here. And, despite what you’ve done to me, despite the way my eyes won’t focus on anything and my head pounds like a wrecking ball is ramming into it and I feel disgusting, unworthy, stupid, like a selfish little girl who was too naive for her own good, there’s still a part of me that wishes you were. There’s still a part of me that needs your validation, your presence. 

I never even knew you existed, but now that I do I feel like I need you. You put yourself where you didn’t belong, squeezed my wrists with a grip like a viper, played into the fantasy I wanted. And you ruined it. Ruined me. I’ll never be with another man again. I’ll never go to prom again. And it is completely, deleteriously your fault.  | k. - @nosebleedclub prompts march iv. but—

[softsweetwhispers]

The house is unwelcoming. The grass has curled and dried around its edges, what once was a beautiful lawn meticulously taken care of, now only remains gray and sad. The plants are permanently dead along the perimeter, weeds no longer thrive and tangle with the wood boards, dandelions are no longer blown into wistful messes, flowers no longer bloom in nature’s beauty. 

Ever since the new neighbors moved in – a son, his father, no mother, no pets –, nothing’s grown right on the land. Something about the environment not being safe. Whatever could’ve possibly thrived is killed before it has the chance. 

It rings ominous and dark, like an omen. The plants aren’t the only thing dying in that house. The plants couldn’t be the only thing dying in that house. It exudes a stifling silence, a promise that there’s as much sunlight as there is hope, and there’s a reason those damn plants aren’t growing. 

Like the boy. The boy who was always there, the one that stands in the window and people-watches like it's a hobby rather than a necessity. It is, after all, a necessity; with the way things die outside the house, it’s no surprise things die inside the house as well. 

The boy is this town’s charity case, quiet and always covered in one too many bruises for it to be a coincidence. All his pants have holes in them, his eyes are wide, off-putting, like they can see through your soul from across the street. He’s young, maybe twelve, maybe fourteen, not yet in highschool. Nobody knows his name, or really his face – we only know what we can see from inside the house. It all comes from inside the house. He never leaves. 

He stands, just visible through the cracked glass, barely peeking out through the curtains, feet planted on unstable floors in an unstable home. The house seems to wilt around him, close to collapse, the foundation threatening to collapse. He looks over the black lawn that stretches and spreads across the neighborhood like a disease. He is alone, except for the dead things, the ones he fits in with.  | k. - @nosebleedclub march viii. the boy who was always there

[softsweetwhispers]

The wind brushes against the baby cherry blossoms in the trees, featherlight teasing causing them to shiver. It carries with it the scent of camellia and daffodil, a sign of blossoming hope and the beginning of spring. 

The air is painted with pastel colors, hues of green and yellow and blue. The weather, once biting and cold, is now something inviting. It wraps around her playfully, its ministrations barely felt under the soft fabric of her jacket.

She’s not one to put meaning into the seasons changing, but even she cannot deny the beauty of the world opening up around itself; like the hidden, unrivaled wings of a butterfly, colors staining its delicate form, emerging from its cocoon. The way the animals stir, the way the plants turn towards the sun, which seems to brighten under the attention, the way everything seems to wake up, livening under spring’s life after winter’s long drag. 

March is here, with its undeniable optimism and renewed possibility. Without it will come, undoubtedly, the trials and tribulations of starting from the beginning, the hardships and challenges that will threaten to tear her down. 

But for now she is new and enlightened. She will gracefully embrace this change and all that comes with it, and she will survive, only to come back stronger again, as she does every year. 

| k. - @nosebleedclub march i. blossoming hope

[softsweetwhispers]

Memory lies in the base of these cliffs. The old stone has been here longer than I’ve been alive; decay tests at its defenses and causes craters in its surface. Its shape carves itself as a potter does with clay. The land’s hands reach up to push its fingers in the perfect spots, creating a beautiful masterpiece. Its base is wide and thick, darkened and weathered, and it grows upwards, reaching for the sky. It sits sturdy against a gray-blue backdrop. The end of the cliff curves down back towards the bottom, like a child reaching for its mother. 

The shores bash unsteadily against the rough rock. The water is a brittle kind of cold, a hypothermic-inducing temperature, and layers itself with a complicated combination of beautiful hues. Powder blue and cambridge blue and flint gray and slate gray. The angry wind pushes it forward, and pulls it back, a dangerous cycle. Sea foam curls together in an attempt not to be separated, white and frothing and strong enough not to be pulled under the current. 

Fog dances along the shore, rising up through the chilly air. The wind teases it, sharp and cold, as it lays thick and heavy. It climbs up with a sort of certainty; it’s been here long enough to know every inch of this place. It's nearly completely opaque, a haunting white, and wraps itself around the cliff like a blanket. It’s a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, and the rock clings to it with a strong ferocity. 

The rock, the cliffs, the sky – they’ve become intertwined together so that one cannot be without the other two. Together, they’re a breath-taking sight, something that could never be put into words. They are a part of something bigger, something made with the intent to be more. I am merely lucky enough to witness it.  | k. - @nosebleedclub xxv. memory of the cliffs

[softsweetwhispers]

that night, for the first time, you held my hand

bright red blush covered by the shadow of the snow moon.

and even though it wasn’t something magnificent or grand,

i hope you’re brave enough to do it again soon —

i would do it myself, but i’m too scared,

and the feel of my fingers interlocked together 

doesn’t feel the same as when you show how you cared —

i know through even hard times, we will whether.

| k. - @nosebleedclub xxiv. snow moon

[softsweetwhispers]

I bought a neapolitan ice cream, candy pink and vanilla bean white and oak brown, a perfect scoop of tooth-achy goodness, topped with a bright red cherry. My hands, one wrapped around the crispy waffle cone, the other wrapped around you, fingers clinging to your arm. You pulled back, but I didn’t let go, stumbling a clumsy dance into your arms. 

I gasped as the ice cream, teetering dangerously in my hand, nearly got squished into your coat. You laughed, loud and unapologetic, even at the looks of others. Let them look, I thought, for their eyes don’t matter as long as yours is on me. 

You finally relented and curled yourself around me. Your arm snaked around my waist, and a warmth like no other spread across me. I could feel it through the cold material of your jacket, through the flurry of angel white falling from the sky, through the numbing temperature of my dessert. 

You bent down your head and grabbed the maraschino cherry, all without letting go of me. Your white teeth scraped against the juicy red and you peered up at me. I wanted to kiss you, fruit and all, just to see the heat rush to your cheeks. To see them turn the color of, well – cherries. 

Instead, I smiled. That you don’t know how much you mean to me smile. That I would buy a hundred icecreams if it meant seeing you like this smile. That I wanna be that cherry smile.

| k. - @nosebleedclub x. maraschino cherries