Lie down.

Feel all of it.

Play your favorite song on repeat.

Let your stomach be nervous,

your heart be thrilled,

your brain be fuzzy,

at least for just this moment.

Let their words feel like the brook;

flowing, tranquil, soft.

Let their smile be the ray of sun

peeking through the treetops.

Bask in it,

all of these moments that lead

to something ethereal.

Your death took everything.

I forgot how to smile, how to laugh,

forgot the meaning of joy

and forgot how I'd found it in the first place.

Your death took everything.

I forgot how cleanliness felt

as I dug into my own flesh

and tried to excavate all of the pain trapped inside.

Your death took everything.

I forgot what life was like before you,

and wasn't sure that life could even go on without you.

I forgot about the old notes I wrote "just in case."

I sat and asked why until I didn't know the meaning of the word anymore.

I cried until I didn't know what the point of the tears even was anymore.

I screamed until I couldn't hear the sound of my own voice anymore.

The pain of losing you was too much,

so, when you came to haunt me

I welcomed you with open arms.

I never told you what had happened.

You sat there, blissfully unaware and,

in all the joy I found in seeing any version of you sitting next to me,

I told you nothing was wrong.

You were sitting next to me again,

showing me the same friendship.

We laughed at the same jokes

and cried at the same movies.

Reminiscing on the past, I forgot what the loss was like.

Now, here you sit. The dust has settled.

You know that you are not the same, and you don't know why.

You no longer speak to me.

You are no longer spending the night in the amber glow of my bedroom.

The only sounds I hear come from the kitchen utensil drawer.

I found a suicide note written in morse code

on the misty bathroom mirror.

Your death took everything.

Poetically incomplete as I am,

Let me bear my soul to you.

Every thought reveals more but,

Are we going to acknowledge this?

Sure, you may stop me but,

Entertain me with the fantasy.

Beautiful soul--

Ethereal being,

May you call me yours?

I know that we are worlds apart,

Nevermind the distance.

Entertain me with the fantasy.

Armed with a brush and a dream,

I paint with fast, powerful strokes.

Love pours onto canvas as your body takes shape.

I line your veins, dot freckles on your skin,

and as I paint your face I wait for our lips to touch,

painted in that familiar pink.

Your half-colored heart completely fills my hollow one,

bringing colors I've never experienced

and colors that make me a better painter.

I stare at this fragile piece of canvas

backlit by the evening glow,

longing to touch you.

Longing to taste you.

My love, my muse,

I love you as I create you, just as you've created me.

You color my life as I've colored yours.

You've given me this power, these colors, this light.

I will give you my dedication,

the promise of my love,

and as many paintings as my hands can create,

until we are united once more.

For you are the most beloved piece of art that I've ever laid my eyes on.

I whisper how much I'd like to hold you

as if these words have never carried dread.

As if the simple thought of them

isn't admitting a thousand little musings.

Like how I see you in the stars and water,

and how I'm a wreck with guilt that my hands are just that;

just hands.

You have always deserved so much more

than thinly veiled confessions,

these desperate little notes,

written only with these hands,

written only on paper,

written only in pencil.

Head migraine foggy,

rainstorm blurry, misty mountain cloudy--

I sit, making coffee.

A splash of this, a pinch of that,

reminiscent of childhood potion-making.

Wood chips, inedible berries,

water from the hose, rosebuds, dandelion blossoms...

Everything swirled into something fantastical.

All I have are beans, water, cream, and sugar.

Nowhere near as colorful,

just simple and mundane.

Perhaps adulthood has just conspired

to pull childhood away, bit by bit.

I won't let it take the rest of my strands.

I feel them dancing between my fingers

as I stir my coffee and dream of magic.

The town of Oflen, home to many races, was not often a place that one would find the Dwarven race. Even still, the quaint and quiet town was home to a young Dwarf named Kithri. The streets were their playground, the gutters their resting place, and the locals their entertainment. This was how Kithri liked it, and, being the only Dwarf around, they learned at an early age the benefits of being low to the ground.

Sneaking around was never really a necessity for survival, but Kithri learned how to manipulate their stocky frame to be undetected to any passers by. It became a sort of game for them, seeing how many people Kithri could successfully hide from, and just how far they could push the envelope.

Kithri was born into a family, they think. They were orphaned before an age that allowed for solid memory. In reality, the only glimpse of their parents that Kithri could make out was by staring at their reflection in the river and imagining themselves as an older male or female. This never lasted long, though, as Kithri would come back from the daydream and cringe at the actual thought of themself as either gender. Obviously, they knew that gender was a concept that existed, but they never attached themself to either gender. Growing up Kithri didn't feel like a little boy or a little girl, but rather felt like they were beyond the concept. This got roped into their sneaking game rather quickly, as they would introduce themself and wait in anticipation to see what others would gender them as, often ending the conversation early when the other party grew confused by their seemingly random cackling.

When Kithri wasn't entertaining themself with daydreams and innocent trickery, they were sitting by the local forge, mesmerized by the craftsmanship of the swords, shields, and armor made from various different metals. The warm glow cast off of the gold, the almost-reflective sheen of the silver, the rainbow of colors that gemstones came in; the entire world of smithing was an enigma that Kithri wanted their own share of. At the age of ten, Kithri decided to use all of their practice sneaking around and fiddling with disposed machinery to attempt to break into the forge. In the dead of night, with only the occasional chirp of a cricket, Kithri made their move. The lock was harder to pick than they'd expected, yet they were eventually able to pick it open and open the door slowly enough to avoid the creak that they knew the hinges were prone to making. The world was their oyster after that day, and they would spend multiple nights a week acquainting themselves with the feeling of tools, gemstones, metals, and using scraps to craft various trinkets and small weapons. The weapons were so small, they weren't even very practical even for someone of such a short stature as Kithri. Still, this went on for three years until Kithri felt confident enough in their abilities, that they asked for an apprenticeship. The blacksmiths laughed, but still allowed Kithri to join them. What they thought would be a chance to finally get their hands on better materials quickly went south. The blacksmiths decided that Kithri would make a better errand person at their age, much to their chagrin. One year later, however, Kithri had managed to stash away a small amount of materials, little by little, until they could craft a proper weapon. Their semi-nightly trips to the forge were enhanced by their ability to now access better materials, undetected, during day trips to the miners. The sword that Kithri crafted was a thing of beauty; a golden handle, silver blade, and a sheath unique to Kithri alone. The sheath disguised the sharp blade as nothing more than a decoration. Made purely of soft and inexpensive moonstone, it would surely deter anyone from stealing it. Kithri decided to quit their apprenticeship only when he discovered theue next passion; one that they felt even more strongly about than smithing.

Kithri was no stranger to the bustle that happened on weekends in Oflen. The otherwise peaceful town would gather in the square and light up the night with music, laughter, and, of course, plenty of ale. It was on one such night as this that Kithri happened to look inside and lay their eyes on a magical sight.

Perhaps they were just too young to appreciate it at first, but Kithri loved how this place seemed to enchant the townspeople. He recognized the faces of some that often walked past them in the mornings, tired and melancholic, now with large smiles on their faces and warmth in their cheeks. The one thing that every one of the smiling faces had in common? They all just so happened to be holding a brown mug with a white froth sloshing above the rim.

Dwarves didn't reach their age of maturity for forty years and, at fourteen, young Kithri knew that this would have to be their next venture. Waiting for twenty-six years seemed agonizing, so Kithri began plotting. They didn't like breaking the law, but had done so before at this point. Breaking and entering as many times as they did in years prior would have definitely been enough to see a jailhouse or two, but the decision to do so was always justified to them. So long as nobody was hurt by their actions, was there harm in it? Accidents happen and things go missing all of the time, was it so wrong to take half an ounce of silver here and there? To Kithri, the law was important, but happiness and freedoms were much more just in some cases. Their plan came to fruition four years after the fateful day of discovering the tavern life.

The town of Oflen, home to many races, was not often a place that one would find the Dwarven race. Kithri had always known that, and used it to their advantage. Their status as a minority helped shape them into an impeccable rogue, and the town not seeing many Dwarves kept Kithri from being questioned when the then eighteen-year old lied their way into becoming a bartender. Later, they would go on to own the tavern known as The Golden Mug. Many years passed, and at the age of thirty-one, Kithri decided that a change of scenery was in order. There's only so often they could find joy and excitement seeing the same things and same people day in and day out. Their uncanny natural ability with bar tending was sure to land them a job elsewhere and, when eavesdropping in on a conversation at the bar top, Kithri learned of a mysterious town called Blade's Refuge. There was some sort of disappearance there, yet Kithri felt almost called to be there. They didn't know what would come of a life there, yet they still gave away their beloved tavern and packed up their things in the pursuit of change.

Seize the night;

It was made for us.

It was made to be the servant of our desire,

To bend before our will, to pander

To our whims.

Seize the night,

And hold it tightly; tie it

With the bonds of our love.

Let's bite it, scratch it, feast on it,

Until we're breathless,

Until we're exhausted;

Like it were only one night

With the craving for living

Another and another

Over and over again.

I am a butterfly that can experience

Eternity in one day, mea vita,

And, just like a butterfly

That chooses the most beautiful flower,

I will perch on your hips with a hunger

For nectar even if it's poisonous.

I would rather lose my mind

Than live without you.

In all of the books I've read:

Philosophies, doctrines...

I explored and could never find

That the greatest happiness is

In the delicious curve that goes

From your nape to your shoulder,

In the addictive attractiveness of your hands,

In the mesmerizing sound of your voice.

Anything that's yours is my delight.

I only yearn to seize this night with you

And let its essence pour into me,

Clinging to each instant, lingering on the bliss

Of our bodies encircling each other

In an eternal embrace.

If you are thinking about being in a relationship,

be prepared for the rotten fruit of their labors to pick your bones clean.

Your saccharine eyes will lure them in with their sugary glaze,

and then they will blame you for cavities that were already there, yet

You will stay.

You will stay because your tears will taste so good as they pool at your lips

that you will forget the bruises that were left on your lungs.

Your bones will become so brittle that the next time they tell you "just breathe,"

a rib may snap into your tender, empty stomach.

Skipping meals will become easier when you no longer have to hear death threats

if you dare to enter the kitchen at the wrong time.

When they insult your passions, it will be your fault

for seeing them as anything worthwhile.

You will stay because the next time that you say goodbye,

they will mail you their death certificate and cry "murder."

Every breath you take near them will fill your lungs with whisky tears

when they tell you to never leave.

You will stay because maybe you deserve it.

You will stay for so long that injected poison will leak from your veins,

and you will forget which of you held the needle.

They will convince you that you are a princess and numb your reactions

so that they can lock you in their home and call it your tower.

When you open your scars,

all they will see is an opportunity for target practice.

They will see that you own the exact ammunition

to fit the gun that they are concealing.

You will stay even when they morph into something inhuman before your eyes,

because they will still manage to be just the right amount of charming.

They will bring you on the deadliest ride you have been on,

and tell you that the restraints do not unlock.

A glowing exit sign will be visible seconds before it is too late.

If you are thinking about being in a relationship,

be prepared for the possibilities.

A blazing fire could be lurking behind a beautiful pair of eyes but,

so could a cool and gentle ocean breeze.

[Originally posted in 2019, on an old account]

Back in my childhood days, I would dream of when my time would come.

My mother would brush my hair and tell me about her blossoming ceremony. Family and only the closest of friends would gather outdoors and shower their loved one in fresh spring water, unearthing their first personal foliage. Flora would sprout from anywhere sunlight could reach. Heads, faces, arms, legs, shoulders, hands, feet, sometimes even ribs and backs. It was all so fascinating to me back then, and I used to crave the gardenias that my mother had on her thighs and the azaleas on her chest. I would braid her hair and color pictures of flowers and run in the grass barefoot.

When my time came, I was a late teen. I invited two of my friends to attend my ceremony and I fell to my knees upon being showered in cool water. My first blossoms were peach daffodils, a linear patch going down my left leg. Later, in my twenties, I received purple calla lilies that framed the back of my head as they sprouted. My thirties brought me two beautiful children and the same gardenias that my mother had on my stomach.

My mother fell ill in my mid-thirties and her flowers wilted three months later. My tears grew pink carnations that flooded my cheeks like freckles and her grave grew mossy. I still think about her when I look down, and it brings me solace that we share blooms.

I look to the future, excited for my children's first ceremonies; excited to see what kind of people they become and how their flora reflects their experiences just as mine have. My daffodils, marked as a renewal from when I had finally found myself and was comfortable in my own skin. My lilies, ever so vibrant, shown the passion I felt for my partner that I was already certain I’d grow old with all that time ago. Gardenias that represented strength grew clustered on my stomach after I finally welcomed my beautiful children when we were told there was a low chance that they would make it. The carnations upon my face, I firmly believe, were my mothers parting gift to me. We still are unsure of how we came to grow these natural beauties but, I know that my mother gave them to me. I always get asked how this could be, and I tell them that the pink carnation carries the meaning of a mother’s undying love. I carry her with me everywhere, and all that I ever hope people see now when they look at my face is just that: a flower that will never truly wilt even after I am gone.

Love.