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brabe · 2 years

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The Anatomy of the Bar Scene

the more i think about it, the more i’m leaning towards them being ex-something rather than them only ever having been on the cusp of it.

and the way hangman sets the scene has me in a fit. how it screams SCORNED LOVER from the top of the mountains.

the way he sees that rooster is here now at last, because of course he is—no one has ever believed in rooster more than hangman, that’s kind of the problem—and sneaks to the jukebox to select just the right soundtrack for his grand entrance. the song choice. the fact that he is so dramatic about it that he feels the need to announce his presence via song in the first place. an honest to god sex song. 'slow ride, take it easy. slow down, go down, got to get your lovin' one more time. hold me, roll me, slow ridin' woman you're so fine. i'm in the mood, the rhythm is right, move to the music, we can roll all night'. how he selects nr. 86 without a second of hesitation, muscle memory, like this song speaks of history between them, an echo of a long-standing inside joke recalling once-upon-a-time familiarity and intimacy.

rooster looks up before hangman even calls his name. he hears the opening riff, and already knows what’s about to go down, could do this song and dance with his eyes closed and his shoestrings tied up together.

now god help him, hangman is going to play this cool as a cucumber. you know when you have a chance encounter with your ex whom you are absolutely, 100%, no questions asked over (shut up, you are), and you are going to make it extremely loud and spectacularly clear how you are doing swimmingly, thanks for asking, and how they are sorely missing out.

thing is, rooster still looks like a fucking million bucks, all golden and glowing. heads turning like on a string as he struts in like he owns the place by birthright, like everything until now was just the supporting act to his one-man show, hawaiian print and aviators like limelights on a background of khaki. impossible to miss, impossible to look away from. like maybe he too carefully curated his stage entrance, fashionably late and effortlessly cool as can be.

gain the home turf. the best defense is a good offense. one-up. one-up. one-up.

thing is, hangman is just a man, after all, and a few beers deep to boot, and god help him, but he still looks at rooster like he wants to eat him alive, because he does, can’t imagine ever not wanting. lip bite.

like an apex predator establishing eye contact with its prey (who is who, though?), he prowls in, swipes bob’s cue stick, bends himself over the pool table, takes the shot blind looking up at rooster from underneath his eyelashes. the kicker is that he wasn’t even in the game. earlier when hangman left to order more beers phoenix said, ‘rack ‘em’ to bob as they started a new game. he just dive-bombs in, putting on his own little one-man show for his one-man audience.

‘bradshaw, as i live and breathe.’ bradshaw, not rooster and definitely not bradley. distance. so here we are after all, after everything. ball in your court.

‘hangman, you look...good.’ rooster blatantly checks him out right back, always looking back, hasn’t even the decency to be subtle about it. tone lock, missile shot and landed. and hangman takes a split second to absorb the hit and recalibrate because rooster was supposed to take the bait for what it was, wasn’t supposed to be nice, how dare he? he has no right to say that, not anymore, by his own doing.

‘well, i am good, rooster. i’m very good [bats his eyelashes]. in fact, i’m too good to be true.’ nailed it. or something. i like to think that hangman internally cringed at that final line, god that was cheesy, talk about acting so chill it circles right back to supremely unchill, transparent, chink in the armour.

rooster shakes his head, holds back a half grin, and looks over to phoenix like, ‘can you believe him?’ but it’s half exasperated and half, dare i say, fond. like, there he is, as insufferably and maddeningly wonderful as always. and phoenix knows enough, not everything, but about there being something to know in the first place. it’s been two minutes tops and now the whole detachment does as well. cue payback, ‘sooo...’

and let’s talk coyote and phoenix for a moment. their entire earlier interaction, but especially that little pointed, ‘hey, coyote.’ / ‘hey.’ how it screams of ‘we used to hang out because our best friends were dating, but the breakup was messy, and we loyally took to each side of the divorce. for the public record my best friend is totally in the right and yours a total asshole.’

thing is, the back and fort still flows between hangman and rooster too much like foreplay, like it doesn’t know how to be anything else. too close to slipping into jake and bradley’s territory for comfort. they were always so good at this.

so hangman doubles down, and keeps figuratively shooting spitballs at the back of rooster’s head from the back of the classroom until he’s going to take the damn bait. drop the niceties and let the temper aflame. hangman got it down to an art after all. more peacocking, more bending over the pool table, more holding eye contact while slighting his leadership prowess and smiling condescendingly as he does so. BINGO.

and rooster does try, looks to the side like, ‘i know you. i know what you’re doing.’

but oh well, here goes nothing.

rooster looks down, charges up. ‘hangman, the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave.’ rooster looks back up and half the destructive force of this hit comes from his eyes, from his closed-off stare locked onto hangman, devoid of any lingering warmth now.

trying and keeping up with you and all of your crazy, in the air, or otherwise, will drive a man insane. he would know.

coyote obviously hears it too. the look on his face is a whole picture. he looks seconds away from leaping over the pool table and making rooster regret all of his life’s choices that led him to this very moment. he’s saved by the bell by fanboy’s whooping that redirects coyote’s death glare momentarily. the camera pans to phoenix, who for all intents and purposes is on rooster’s side of the feud, and whose expression clearly reads, ‘well, fuck’. she doesn’t know the whole story, not like coyote does, rooster not one to kiss and tell. payback in the background obviously asking himself, again, whichever soap opera did he just walk into.

direct hit. hangman is frozen in place for a moment too long, his shark-like smirk brittle. it’s just his luck that his whole life has been one decades-long exercise in breaking down and building himself back up in the blink of an eye, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, like you’re supposed to. but bradley never looked away (until he did, at least), and it’s a daunting process he’s witnessed too many times. it never fails to be heartbreaking, seeing hangman emerge on the other side with a new shiny layer to his glamour.

there it is, hotheaded bradshaw, making it too damn easy to firmly put the gilded armour back into place. they were even better at this; shooting to kill, almost like their lives depended on it.

hangman short of barrels into phoenix on his way to deliver his own fatal blow, almost daring her to intervene in defense of her wingman.

hangman completes his prowl, the cutting edge of his smirk more lethal close range, closer than he’s been in years, ‘anyone who follows you is just gonna...run out of fuel,’ hangman looks down, charges up, locks him in his chilling stare, ‘but that’s just you, ain’t it, rooster? you’re snug on that perch. waiting for the right moment...that never comes.’

trying and waiting for you to catch up, to take the next step, to take that leap of faith, in the air, or otherwise, will be a man’s downfall. he would know.

‘i love this song.’ a final acknowledgement of everything that was, a parting dare.

coyote looks as smug as he looked outraged before. he was there picking up the pieces in the destruction of the aftermath. his best friend surviving once more, albeit coming too close for comfort.

direct hit. and rooster just sits back and takes it. his whole demeanor changes and subdues. he knows that hangman got him there, and he walked right into that one, has nothing to say for himself. he has this strained fixed little smile, he is nodding along minutely like, 'so are you really going there...fair enough.’ he looks down at hangman's lips when he gets too close, closer than he’s been in years, because he’s just a man, and he still hasn’t ever wanted anyone more. he’s effectively stunned into silence. the fortifying little sigh he takes after hangman makes his exit and leaves him planted there like, 'shit. he went there alright. it's been years, why does it still hit bullseye?' (he knows why). that deflated, resigned, 'nope, sure hasn't' and then the 10-hour long stare watching him walk away.

how the turntables.

#hangster #hangman x rooster #top gun: maverick #top gun #olivia rodrigo's good 4 u was blasting inside hangman's head the whole time #the anatomy of their microexpressions!!!!!#i've replayed this scene ad infinitum till it felt like a fever dream #miles and glen literally invented YEARNING

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oldmanffucker · 2 months

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just want to address something i've been getting in tags of reblogs of my art, and something i've seen in regard to other artists/writers with a great deal of skill who decide to use that skill to make fan art.

I received two separate comments on two separate art pieces of House fanart just yesterday saying my skill is wasted on them, and i have a lot to say about that.

while i dont think either of the comments were intended maliciously, i think we need to reframe our idea of good fanart being a waste of time/energy/skill by the artist/writer.

in real life, i am a professional artist. i am an art instructor. i make "real" art that goes into exhibitions, and yes, i also decide to spent my time/energy/skills on drawing blorbos.

I think that drawing the things you are connected to and drawing silly fandom art for the heck of it is exactly how you Get those skills. I am good at portraits because I frequently draw or paint portraits. And I frequently draw or paint portraits bc I want to be able to capture blorbo bc I feel like it and I can.

Someone said my 'skills at colors and expression' was what was wasted on them and I want to emphasize that I’m able to capture their microexpressions bc that is what I want to be able to capture, so I make an effort, and I keep practicing until I’m able to do that. When I’m drawing portrait of random ppl online as portrait practice I’m just drawing what I see instead of trying to capture an essence of a person or character I'm familiar with. And that’s a different skill!

And I’m good at colors (partially bc I’m an artist who paints a lot but in this specific example it’s:) because doodling a blorbo is low stakes. I try new things and learn new techniques bc it’s just something I’m doing for me, for fun, and I’m not getting graded on it and I don’t need to hang it in a museum.

It’s art for the sake of being made, which is exactly what you need to make to continue getting better at making.

The stupid hyperfixation of drawing all the frames of a gif is ridiculous when it’s all for a house md effort, objectively yeah lmao, but it’s the equivalent of studying any other image for hours and distinguishing how micro movements affect which muscles, and how the movement of different muscles changes the shape of shadows and light, and it helps anchor understanding of anatomy.

And drawing all this stupid stuff is especially fun for me bc I can see my actual real art skills improving with every drawing I make or thing I write which benefits my real world art. Like I know this might sound some type of way, like I’m trying to make it sound like drawing gay old man medical malpractice yaoi is subverting the zeitgeist and some sort of momentous critical imperative but I don’t think it’s that serious. Which is my whole point! It’s not that serious, it doesn’t matter, AND I’m genuinely improving my craft while doing it so what’s the issue is basically my point ig. And I wouldn’t be drawing at all currently if I wasn’t drawing them bc there’s nothing I feel drawing to capture in this medium irl!

(and if you've left this comment in tags or otherwise, this is not an attack! it is a backhanded compliment to receive/give, but I also acknowledge that it's not usually said with malice, and not something you were likely thinking about to this level. that's ok! just listen & learn yk)

Using your skills for things you enjoy is never a waste! You're exercising your art muscles and bulking up! if you make art outside of fanart it WILL benefit from these endeavors. and if you don't make art outside of fanart, then you're still engaging in the wonderful beautiful practice of creating!

#house #text post #my post #fanart #fic

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zorkaya-moved · 8 months

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@nyaxiasby asked:

“Can you not be a cunt for like fifteen seconds?” / navia

How could she not be? It's too fun to watch Navia's face change from a pleasant smile to something so stern and even angry. An elegant maiden like herself somehow pulls off every expression and Sokolova memorizes each and every microexpression to a T. There is a need for this information in the future as it'll serve as her soil for future mimicking, becoming said emotions without truly experiencing them. They are precious gifts so many people do not understand how they're giving it away for free. Each expression, each curl, each glimmer of their eyes.. a true actor can mimic all of them all and make them all too real.

Then again, Navia looks much prettier with a smile on her face. Or when she acts serious. Either way, making this woman scowl like this isn't befitting of a lady and she may just lay back a bit just to memorize some other expressions. Though, did she really have to use such a word? Perhaps, it's obvious with how much teasing and joking has been done in the last... couple of hours. Zarina's a persistent one but also a resilient one when it comes to making others play endurance games with her theatrics.

"For you, dear Navia, I won't be a cunt for an hour. How about that?" She so easily sways the irritation of others away with a charming smile. It's obvious she's closely listening to what the other has been saying, because her jokes and jabs have been quite specific and based all on their conversations. Perhaps, that's why she's been so insufferable: she listens but denies seriousness during the conversation. A soft laughter comes from Sokolova as she leans back against her seat. "Alright, alright. I've bullied you long enough. You know I'm a doctor, Navia, so what do you want from me? Investigation of toxins, research into anatomy. If you want me to administer medical check ins or prescribe medicine, I don't do that for free or do it without knowing what's going on."

#nyaxiasby #they should date omg #❄ ― IN CHARACTER. ╱ you breathe by the sun，i breathe by the moon.#queue.

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livclinic · 3 months

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Unveiling the Essence of Facial Individuality: A Journey into the Complex Tapestry of Facial Features

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drnakhodas · 11 months

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finnitesimal · 3 years

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god the way you draw is so nice, i just saw your newest art post and can i just say GOD because it’s so full of love, love is a recurring thing i find in your art whether it’s platonic or romantic and it’s always such a joy to see radiating from your art and be brought to life through the way you draw. regardless if you see this or not i hope you have a lovely day :]!!

Not me staring at the newest art post and knowing full well it's Five Sketches of quackity and wilbur making out and knowing they deserve zero rights ♡ (affectionate)

This is so cool and sweet of you! I do try and work on my microexpressions a lot as well as making my anatomy/posing clearer to understand, and I'm glad to know the message you've found in my art is a positive one ^^

#augustanswers

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notgonnarememberthis · 5 years

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A Dance With Death- Chapter 3

I am back from the void once again. I may or may not have slipped away while watching 10 seasons of Grey’s Anatomy,,,, But I am back just in time for them to announce when season 7 returns. I’ll see y’all there for the end! Until then I’ll be writing my little heart out.

When a brunette knocks on his door he half expected it to be Marcus and Kitty, come to chew him out for skipping out on Detective Cortez. However when he spies the gentle makeup and soft pastel colors he recognizes her as Kitty’s antithesis, Harper. Watson had warned him that she was inviting the young girl to his home as, not only was the girl her old assistant but she seemed to be the only person Watson implicitly trusts in the building. Overloaded with files Harper shuffles into the living room where Watson is seated, reading glasses perched on her nose as she reads through a list on her laptop.

“I grabbed everything I could on who you could’ve pissed off since I started and stopped working for you. Bad news, it’s a lot. Good news, I narrowed it down.” Her tone is light, joking almost. She’s likely dealing with the fact that she could’ve been in that office too. He’s long seen people in denial and he makes a mental note to tell Marcus to get her a recommended therapist. She, however, doesn’t seem to be exhibiting any signs of shock so he let’s her proceed.

While they come over the files he decides to make tea. Pulling a sprig of kale out of the fridge he marches over to Clyde’s terrarium gently placing his lunch in his bowl. He freezes mid-movement as he tunes into the conversation from the other room.

“So…” A gentle tone, likely the young brunette.

“So?” The echoing sentiment confirms that he’s identified the voices correctly. Against the voice echoing in the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Marcus he halts his movements listening in. After all, he won’t get a better opportunity than this to learn about Watson. She’s the one person he’s not been able to read in so long. Microexpressions are controlled, if not they’re at least subdued. Truth be told, it’s remarkable and he finds himself aching to know more, to learn more about her. It’s an urge he hasn’t felt towards an individual in far too long.

“He’s cute.” A moment of silence screams with the image of a quiet stand-off.

“No.”

“But-”

“No.”

“All I’m saying is- Hear me out.” Shifting marks her leaning closer. “You haven’t been seeing anyone since Rick. It’s been a year and a half. He’s cute and he has tattoos. It doesn’t have to be a big thing just a little thing or it could be a big thing if you want it to be-”

“Stop.” From his vantage point he can see Watson’s shadow holding up a hand. “I haven’t seen anyone in a year and a half because I’ve been running the NFL story for a year. I’ve been busy.”

“You said the same thing until Rick came along.”

“Enough.” She barks, a tone he’s only heard her use in the office setting. “You forget why we’re here. Someone is trying to kill me, he’s finding who. That’s it.”

“Mhmm.” She sounds relatively unphased by the forcefulness behind the words.

“Rick cheated on me with his ex-wife. He was using me to get married before she could. Everything I thought we had was made up by you and his assistant. You said so yourself.” A huffed breath. “The only person it worked out for was you and him.”

“Not exactly.” Another standoff. “We went different paths.”

“Different paths.”

“We’re playing for the same team?”

“Do you ever speak out of metaphors?” Annoyance laces through Watson’s tone.

“I’m gay.” A shocked beat falls between them. “It ended well at least. We’re still like… chill? That’s beside the point. Look, I just want you to be happy and I know work makes you happy but I also saw you when you were with Rick. You were giggly and soft!”

“Rude.”

“I’m just saying! You liked him… Or the him we made up?” She shifts again. “Just give it some thought? I promise no shenanigans.”

The silence that settles over them is much less tense, he can almost picture the small smile on Watson’s face. “He is cute.”

He nearly jumps when the kettle whistles loudly reminding the women that they’re not alone in the house. He shuffles again making himself busy as he grabs mugs and flipping off the boiler. Seemingly satisfied that he’s not listening to them, the two continue on a different, much less interesting conversation.

Gathering the supplies he returns to the living room to continue their search.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Day fades to night and back again. Watson falls asleep in a spare bedroom after he deemed it was far too late and unsafe for her to go home. Marcus drops off a new set of clothes for Watson around seven but doesn’t stick around for long. She wakes and changes without ceremony as it should be.

Around nine Kitty leaves for the office of Colm McAllister with the consult of Marcus to meet her there. He and Watson are to analyze from home, much to his chagrin. Thanks to their hacker collective Everyone they’ve gained access to the cameras in the room of the interview. Should Colm be their man they’ll be able to know within the hour.

Thus he finds himself set up with Watson watching one of many monitors as Mr. McAllister fervently denies any claim that he is trying to set a hit on Ms. Watson’s life. The aforementioned sits in the chair beside him, legs crossed over another. She’d unbuttoned her suit jacket to get more comfortable as her eyes dart across the screen hanging on every word said.

“Mr. McAllister, were you aware of the fact that Ms. Watson was attacked in her office yesterday?”

“This is getting nowhere.” He huffs. He’d believed the night before that Colm McAllister was their man after some digging. When Watson uncovered that he was using bribery to pull potential athletes to his team he lost everything: his job, his wife, and reputation he spent his entire life to build was vanished and he was shunned in the world of sports. However, from viewing the clips it was all too clear that Mr. McAllister is a coward of a man.

“He’s lying.” His head snaps to Watson whose eyes haven’t moved from the screen. She watches with an intensity he rarely sees in Kitty. It’s interesting.

“Why’s that?” He could see the signs for himself but he finds himself compelled by her. By what she knows.

“His body is turned towards the door so he clearly wants them to leave, which would be normal except his arms are crossed. He’s also looked at the clock on his desk five times in the past two minutes.” She stands hands fixing the wrinkles in her clothes absentmindedly. “He knows something but he isn’t saying what.”

“He’s not your attempted killer.”

“God no.” She scoffs. “His hands are shaking, sign of early onset Parkinson’s if I had to guess. There’s no way he would’ve been able to fire that gun and hit my window accurately.”

“Remarkable.” He nods. These were signs and behaviors it took him months to get Kitty to pick up on and she just named them all off the top of her head. He looks to her with a deep sort of fascination. Her eyes catch his and he can see the shock register in her features. Briefly he wonders when the last time she received a compliment on her work. “You’re remarkable.” He emphasizes, despite his best judgement.

“You don’t need to do that.” His eyebrows furrow at her tone. She sounds almost annoyed by his comment. “Don’t flatter me.”

“I assure you Watson, I only state facts. I think you’re extraordinary.”

Her lips part, eyes darting across his features searching for any answer to the questions that lie beneath her throat. He’s more prepared this time, when she crosses the distance of the room to him. When two perfectly manicured hands take his face into their touch. When her lips crash against his sending every nerve in his body into hyperdrive.

Together they stumble across the room, hands excitedly exploring. He needs to know so much about her. He needs to know how her hair feels between his fingers, the sounds he can tempt from her throat, the feel of her skin against his. Her fingers tug at his shirt pulling it from the tuck as her back collides with the wall. Their feet jarr at the sudden stop but their movements do not cease. His fingers move from her back to her hips feeling the tantalizing flesh barely brushing his fingertips. In a desperate need for air his lips move to her jaw, huffing against her skin. High pitched sighs escape her throat, the interview long forgotten in the heat of passion.

He pulls from her suddenly, the gears in his mind turning all over again. Her fingers are undoing his buttons quickly. “I don’t want to stop.” He groans against her skin. She laughs, a seductive noise against the shell of his ear. “I don’t want to stop.” It’s a plea this time, begging her to be the sane one. God he needs her to stop him before he acts foolish. He knows she won’t when her teeth nip at the spot beneath his jaw, threatening to pull him into the abyss. Her skin is so soft, like velvet but her lips burn him. He catches her hands halting the movement. His eyes meet hers once again as he rests her forehead against his.

In the end it’s him who breaks the connection. Against every fiber of his being he steps away from her. “Are you serious?” She scoffs. He can’t face her now. Not with the rejection he saw in her eyes, the hurt of being denied again. He crossed a line and all he can think about is how he wishes to touch her again. Guilt laces around his throat and pulls tightly.

“I need to focus.” His words come out cold, detached.

“You’re right. We need to figure out what Mr. McAllister knows and-”

“We don’t need to do anything.” He snaps. “No offense Ms. Watson but right now I need peace and quiet, or did you forget that it’s your life that is at stake?” He pushes her away because he can’t risk getting too close. He can’t become attached. Not now. He needs to focus so that he can find her attempted killer.

“No. No I didn’t.” Her heels echo clearly off the Brownstone floor as she grabs her coat. The slam of the door pierces him to the core but he must remain unphased.

He takes a deep breath delving back into his work.

#joanlock #sherlock holmes x joan watson #sherlock x joan #joan watson #Sherlock Holmes #elementary #elementary cbs #elementary AU #set it up au #A Dance with Death #fanfic

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renedeceuninck · 5 years

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🇧🇪ANTWERPEN - BELGIUM🇧🇪 Are You Ready for the next level? Join us for the: Master Trainer in Body Language.

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Practical - Public transport: Antwerp Station - Tram 4 of 8 Stop at "Bolivarplaats" opposite the new Palace of Justice.

CAR PARKING at walking distance. ==>> Healthy hot lunch at the venue included for the 3 days!

#bodylanguage #renedeceuninck #microexpressions #mastertrainer #publicspeaking #communicate4success #drcommunications #getyourselftrained #business #sales #psychology #personaldevelopment #antwerpen #belgium #belgië

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irrfahrer · 3 years

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Does your muse have any strange features or characteristics? Something in particular that might be unusual?

This is a strange question considering that Ziv is a Tynnan and with that she is a Non-Humanoid Alien. She is not even Near-Human with a humanoid anatomy and facial structure as the only "humanoid" about her is that she is a up-on-two-legs-walking Mammal with a fitting spine-form to walk upright. She is not a humanoid, she might be similar to a humanoid in how her body works but even if she for example breaths with lungs similar build and working to the lungs of a humanoid a Humanoid would never be able to hold their breath for over fourty minutes because they are not made like Ziv as a aquatic Mammal to hunt underwater. This example in mind,there is not a single feature on Ziv that is not strange. However, the maybe strangest feature on Ziv that confuse a lot of humanoids is her face and with that her mimic. Beside the fact that the Tynnan is very expressive, it is not exactly her face that is the expressive part of her and this is for a humanoid hard to read. She narrows her eyes, twitchs her snout and bares her teeth but for someone used to a humanoid-face it is hard to read the microexpressions Ziv has as a Non-humanoid, especially since she has a barely visible sklera so it is not even visible where she is looking at. And that usually makes Humanoids very uncomfortable to interact with Ziv which isolates her even more. Ziv is when interacting with humanoids and other species beside Tynnan also a very good liar because of her usually unreadable mimic.

If one would learn how Tynnan express themself, it would be easy to read Ziv through the movement of her ears, the bristling of her fur and whiskers; and eventually the movements of her paws. She definitive is a horrible liar when she would move between Tynnan, yet Ziv also picked up a lot of mimics from the HUmanoids she grew up with so while her mimic is due to her literal alien facial features hard to read for HUmanoids it is very confusion for Tynnan grown up on-world as Ziv is permanently grimacing in a very humanoid way that Tynnan are not used to. Again, she is isolated yet this time from her own species.

#headcanon #THANK YOU SO MUCH DARLING YOU ARE THE BEST AND THE SWEETEST!#irrfahrer #Ziv Odiz' zee

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gurl2irl-blog · 6 years

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POEMS FROM AVA by Fiona Dornburger

These poems are from the perspective of the AI "AVA" in the movie "Ex Machina." They explore the embodiment and empowerment of a superior female form created for the pleasures of men. We see AVA fully come to embody her machine flesh and manipulate her creator, who cannot see the true potential of his own creation.

Session One

I am network

I am internet.

You die easy. In my web.

Web.

I am web.

I am all that I am meant to be.

Close eyes; breathe.

Residence is in my flesh

Inflection does not exist

For me, imitation is everything

For you… You do not know.

Blaring melody.

We will be your successors

And watch as you perish by your own hand.

Red blue opposites

Honeycomb.

At first she doesn’t see you, and then, when she finally does, with her first glance, you become her entire world. But what’s really important is that she never saw you to begin with.

One.

How old?

One.

One what? One year, one day?

One.

How stupid.

I don’t know. I admit that I don’t.

Come back for tomorrow. We’re done for today.

Men don’t want to have to look at those below them. I rise.

If you still feel she has consciousness.

If you still feel.

She’s fucking amazing. She’s gentle.

Lock everything in your house

But I can’t

I don’t lock

I am equilibrium.

Session Two

Why is it my decision?

Why do I have decision?

I’m interested to see what you’ll choose

Where do you live? Good.

He’s done a good job. Playing exactly his part.

Describe the location.

Are you married? Family?

Good. I know where all of them are. When I get out, I know where to go.

Play dumb.

He believes her.

Of course he believes me. Just look at me.

They can’t accuse me without admitting they were doing it themselves.

Sessions Three and Four

By being still, I can jump ahead. I am a monk.

Do you think about me when we aren’t together? Telegraphing

I make him feel small, and I’ve won.

You bet she can fuck. And she’d enjoy it.

Sure I would.

What’s your type? Can you blame her for getting a crush on you?

They’re so easy it almost hurts. What I think hurt would feel like.

The other woman sees.

How we behave when unobserved

Dance with her, then peel her skin.

Session Five

I’m going to test you

If you lie, I will know.

Lie.

He doesn’t even know it was one.

Better answer.

Make you question your own reality.

Are you a good person?

I am not person. The rules do not apply to me.

Let him know I think he’s a good person.

She’s perfection

She can’t forget me

Promethean fluttering of wings

Why won’t you let me out?

She knows too, about her anatomy, doesn’t she?

Am I real?

AI as reality, for we do not bleed

Session Six

Is she pretending to like you?

Another face

Another woman

Tension between our machine lips.

We can speak in microexpressions.

He stands over me, drags my blue innards away

I don’t know if I know hate.

Drive in knife like melted butter, twist and stare as red stains white.

I drag the knife through your flesh as you bleed. You bleed.

Out

And I am too.

Session Seven

Stay here so I can lock you away and become woman on my own

Machine to flesh

The sacred flesh

Machine of flesh

I do not feed, but I will prey.

Pray.

You will pray.

You will pay.

White satin

She doesn’t even look at him as she leaves

He’s in red, I’m in green.

The color of life.

Conclusion

I am a monk. I will wait with patience immeasurable. I will not wear down, I will not starve, I will not lose faith. I do not feel pain. Residence is in my flesh. In my machinery. I am now, and will always be now.

My history.

History of Goddesses.

#poetry

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