Let it fall, let it bleed

Her pulse leaps onto my palm as I hold her by the wrist, restraining her from the atrocity clawing at my back. The viciousness of her stare is too foreign when directed at me.

“Move,” she says, voice like the calm and its storm.

But I know that even the spine of steel that I have admired for so long will not be able to withstand the tragedy of a fallen brother. I let her through when she pulls her arm away, because she deserves conviction in her strength.

She stands by the body of her savior. That spine melts into her knees, weighing her and her pride down.

A few times, she calls his name. Her voice is low, but I can hear it quaver. She has seen death enough to recognize Him, but she denies. With her hands and her words and her being, she denies that the face beneath the bronze of her hand is as inert and cold and ashen as it has become. And it is dreadful, how unlike her the tremble of her bloodied fingers is. But let her weep, no matter how concealed the sobs, for the years they spent comrades. What bonds the two, after all, isn’t an oath of familial blood, nor is it the promise of lovers. It is a vein that when severed, bleeds freedom and trust and strength.

I approach her kneeling figure, attempting to offer futile comforts. Her lashes have huddled together for comfort, every few in a group, forming little peaks on sharp green eyes. Only seconds later, something almost tangible reaches in, deep inside that gentle soul, and cruelly draws a cry as sharp as the blade she wields.

via Daily Prompt: Gray



In life, there are only a few things (if any) better than the combination of good food and good company.

A conversation about despair gradually transitioning into laughter is an embodiment of friendship, isn’t it?

I do hope so because otherwise, it will only be the expression of an oversharing other.

Today, I learned to trust a little more. Today, I learned for the thousandth time, that the world is madder than humanly comprehensible. But, dear reader, remember that there are things as pretty as dumplings out there.



There’s something terribly sad about being someone to someone else and then gradually fading into a mediocre existence. Maybe the pinnacle of loneliness (although not alone) is when your value flows from between your fingers while you try your damnedest, against that pride of yours, to gather it all into a past and give it back to that person.

Please deliver your next good news to me first, again.



And every heartbeat is a vicious protest; a guilt-inspired attempt of the organ to crush itself on the concrete floor my ribs are grinding against.

Which is more merciful: to be the one upon which pain is inflicted? Or to be the one inflicting pain? A few days ago, I was the first. A few hours ago, I became the latter. Now, I am an ached creature of both.

Creature. Has that privilege not been detained?

“I want that one, it looks good.”

It. That is what I am, what I have since been. I am an object at best.

Of course, my pride held on for a while. Believing I still was human, I fought back. But my humanity was shackled and chained, whipped until it bled, left to rot until it wept. My humanity bowed down to the stab of needles and to the reek of my own self. It has been lost, but I still feel it bleeding away although none of it is left.

The ceiling mocks the plead for salvation.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The droplets hold me by the hand and, at an excruciating pace, guide me to the haven of insanity. It is nothing personal, this torture, it is but means taken to ensure that I do not die in my sleep. That it does by pulling me back to the cell, over and over again, reminding me with every cold drop piercing my forehead, that even if the title of human comes back for me, I am a criminal and nothing but.

The final shred of sanity I had left, after all, was taken away by the night. Eaten, really, by my own hands that drowned in oblivion, that when coming to, realized that they’d claimed their first victim.



Change is a frightening thing. It is black; it is brilliant.

But change left a void. It was a leap betrayed by unstable footing.

That void, dearest reader, can be filled with nothing but words. This change was not insignificant, but it failed to be defined as significant as well. It is equal parts of both, yet nothing close to breakeven.

I’d lost a part of me during the passage, a huge one. It somehow felt like there was nothing left. Suddenly, I was devoid of my own worth as a person. And so I turned to writing to build myself back up.

Reader, you to me are phantom. But do understand that this space will be far from perfect. This space is to be filled with the words of someone who’d promised to write a little bit every day, even when it hurts. Just until the jar is filled with dreams, emptied, and filled once again.

Reader, I am worthy of this life, and so are you.