i've always been a good listener

my heart is open for that

(but

when you talk about people you love

i will admit it's hard

not to feel something like longing

because i am a safe space, i suppose

and that is an ache i live in

and i think i lie to you, sometimes,

because i want you to stay here

i need you to inhabit my haunted halls

ghost me, i think, to keep me guessing

so i don't run away when it hurts

you can dig tunnels like arteries

poison my bloodstream

for you, i'll set aside my fear of needles

i'll walk into the fire, i promise

i can make my skin your canvas

i'll paint the picture of your life on my wrists

i want to be your whispered secret

-keeper, secret keeper, keeper)

but to be truthful

it's not hard for me to fall

sandy wastelands all their own

i see myself in your desert eyes

dry, red, scratched by overdue fingers

longing to bury themselves in your skin

golden sand dunes, pools of honey

a thirst that isn’t readily quenched

i listen for your much too familiar song

a ghost drifting through sandy white ruins

oasis water drips down your bronze cheeks

casting fragmented light across your lips

and it storms in the desert one final time

lightning strikes gritty sand, fire in the sky

leaving only a glass monolith to recognize

the dying embers of a newly flooded sea

i read the universe in on our conversations, because oh, how it feels to bleed

when your words crumble at the corners of my mouth like stardust i fall again

for that soft curve of your cheekbone, sharp eyes that cut through the silence

and the fall is more like a tumble than a float, and i break and bruise all over

when i thought i hit rock bottom again, you sing sweet melodies and there

i go, tumbling, crumbling, bruising and breaking, and the damage rings loud

in my crimson ears when my note falls silent on your singing tongue

these are probably not that great, but i love those gothic posts and have only ever done ones specific to long term works in progress. feel free to use and adapt any of these in any way, as i literally just spat them out for practice. you can even use these as prompts, if that’s your cup of tea. no real trigger warnings but obviously there’s some dark imagary in here.

there’s a folder on your desktop that you’ve never opened. you’re not sure how long it’s been there, only that you definitely didn’t download it. it could be malware, but you’re pretty sure it’s not. the folder name is sins.

you get an ad for knives. big, long knives with serrated edges and glinting steel blades. sharp knives. bloody knives. knives that you’ve seen. knives you’ve touched. knives you’ve used. you get an ad for the knife, the one you’ve only ever seen in your dreams.

your facebook friend sends you a message. it’s spam. their account must have been hacked. another friend sends the same message. and another. you get emails with the message, from friends, co-workers, family, companies. the message is a threat. a warning. it only consists of one image. you.

you downloaded a game from steam. it’s a popular horror game; all your friends play it. you’ve seen reviews for the game, raving reviews. they say that the game changed their lives. they say it’s revolutionary. you open the game. it takes a minute to load. your overhead lights flicker, and the power goes out. you’re alone in the dark. your computer boots.

you’re chatting with your friend on skype. you’re laughing, having a good time. you see something behind them, some kind of figure. lurking. ever closer. your friend is still laughing. you point, speechless, at the screen, fear grasping your throat like cold, clammy hands. or, perhaps, actual cold, clammy hands. you feel a warm breath on your neck. your friend laughs harder.

your friend sends you a cat video. you watch it, laughing at the cute cats playing. pouncing on bugs. mice. small birds. that’s not a cat. what is that? how long is this video? you try to check, but you can’t move your cursor. you sit, frozen, horrified. that’s not a cat.

your cousin just posted a status update on facebook. engaged. your cousin has been dead for seven years.

#gothic #dark #horror #creepy #computers #writingprompts potentially

He’s soft like a warm summer day, all wildflowers and willows and golden sunlight. His honeycomb lips drip with sweet honey. He’s yellow and auburn and dusty starlight. He is the sunset at the beach, sparkling waves reflecting the reds and golds and pinks of the last light.

She’s electric like dark summer thunderstorms, all shadows and glass and television static. Her bloodred lips sing songs of rebellion. She’s crimson and cherry and neon lights. She is the sunrise in the city, skyscraper windows reflecting the reds and golds and pinks of the early morning.

I find myself daydreaming again of them, and how they felt on my lips, soft and sharp and anything in between. Their memories fade closer into the foggy haze of one who is prone to forgetful slumber. Each a tipping point in my life, each a last light and an electric sunrise, each their own and never again to be mine.