The best course of action to overcoming the insurmountable glass house which sprung up around you somewhere between your 12th and 17th year of life is not shattering it, as you are not willing to risk the cut and make such a huge mess of things. 

You feel it is more or less harmless to press your small hands to it. You then make sure it is clean—at least passersby will be able to take a peek inside and perhaps for one moment, they will recognize a glimmer of humanity in you. They will stare in awe as you take the ribbon out of your hair and wild mass of curls tumble down your back. You’re a strange one, a bit like an alien or a doll, although, unlike with a doll, they must acknowledge the asymmetry of your face and moments like those make you very thankful for the walls of glass which are strong and keep you safe. When the passersby are gone, you feel lonely, but still certain that no one can ever hurt you. 

To celebrate the arrival of spring, you purchase a new dress and spread it out neatly over your bed where you stare at it until it loses its meaning. When you find it hard to open up your heart to the ones you love, you rip the dress to bits and use it to clean the glass that surrounds you. At this point, all you can do is convince yourself—once upon a time, your body tore a hole in the sky. You’re a little alien girl with big eyes and small hands. It makes you feel a bit better to tell yourself that somewhere, you were once special. The dress was the loveliest shade of light blue and you tie one of the scraps into your hair. It makes you look like a child. 

Every time they stare in disgust and confusion, you remind them of your beautiful curls and from the other side of the glass house, they wish to press their hands against yours. Gravity pulls your lips into a frown and you remind them that you are a little alien girl from very far away; your top priority is to stay safe and secluded until you are able to finally go home. It is not in your best interest to shatter the glass around you and risk the cut. 

If Ambrose could detest his sister, he certainly would.

But he couldn’t, and he would not allow himself to try.  Still, he told her, he hated her, he never loved her, and every single day she found new ways to ruin his life. “And I wouldn’t mind so much,” he said, “if you actually cared to help me back up every once in a while.”

“But I do care,” and her word was enough. She never showed it; her palm against his cheek stung and she left her mark. She dug into his flesh. He did the same, dug and dug into his own flesh, pulled himself apart piece by piece to find out what Nataliya loved the most and he destroyed it all.

Mother used to worry—Ambrose was a bit too reliable and he was a bit too unattached from the people around him. He could say goodbye whenever he wanted to without any feeling. If he promised to be home at midnight, he would be home at midnight, and there was almost always a pretty girl with kissless lips left in his wake. He said goodbye and goodnight to many pretty girls because he already had one waiting for him—he couldn’t detest her, though sometimes he liked to pretend he did. Nataliya waited by the door and the clock struck twelve. Ambrose was always home on time for her and the other girls meant nothing at all.

And Mother wondered and wondered, would her little baby boy be alright?

And now Ambrose wondered and wondered, what could he ruin next? What could he tear apart with his bare hands (and Nataliya loved his hands, and he would love to get rid of those as well) until she cried and cried and cried, and she asked where he went—where did her sweet little Ambrose go? 

i was made to believe that it was not possible
for me to love a girl and God
though that night i decided i was through and took too many pills i heard Him
in her voice and i loved them both when i realized
i was still alive

my body stayed weak for days and for weeks after
the weight of my dresses pulled me to the ground while i was told
that i was a worthless faggot
and a filthy dyke

i hid underneath flowers and bows and prayed
that no one would find me
and i began to believe
that i was not real  

Tate knows that she is there, under every creaking floorboard and in every doorway, and he swears that he met her once between the pages of a book that he did not finish.

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sorry for the lack of activity on this blog! i’ve been stuck behind a writer’s block pretty bad lately and can’t seem to get anything down!

as usual, i would be more than happy to take requests or prompts or whatever! concrit is nice, too, or just general questions about my writing? anything to get my mind working. thank you so much for sticking around even though i haven’t been updating. it means a lot and i really appreciate it! ლ(╹◡╹ლ)

I was there when the angel
burst out of your chest and surrounded us in mist and grey
and I loved you so
I stitched you back up
It made you weak—I pleaded, “Let the angel go,” and hoped
it would never happen again

And I watched you
as you tried so hard to catch the angel,
to press the angel to your skin
I worked so hard and you tore out the sutures—put the angel
back in

There was sunshine
No more mist and grey, but instead a slight drizzle
of rain and I said, “The Devil is beating his wife,” and you
had never heard of that before

When there is silence, I hear your chest thump and ache
as the angel fights a war with your heart
You will die, chest torn apart, surrounded again by mist and grey
and I will put the angel back inside,
stitch you up,
leave him alone in an empty vessel
to make him pay for what he did  

Suddenly she decides that she is someone else.  

“I’m a frog!” she giggles, pressing her hands against Shoma’s cheeks. “Kiss me—so I can be—a prince!” She throws her arms around his neck and he plays pretend, tries to get away and tells her that she is slimy and gross. She slides off the couch and grabs on to his ankles and he trudges through the house dragging her on the floor behind him.

Kanba comes home late today. “What’s this game?” he asks, kicking off his shoes and shoving his coat against Shoma’s chest. “This has a rip. Can you fix it?”

“I can fix it!” Himari offers, still clinging to Shoma’s ankles. “But I am waiting for a kiss. Right in the middle of my forehead.”

“What for?”

“So I can be a prince!” Kanba looks like—something, Himari can’t quite place it, but maybe he’s already a prince, and for a moment she feels weak and small under his gaze. He loves her, and she knows this, but he’s always been a little further away than Shoma.

“That’s silly, Himari, you can’t be a prince when you’ve always been our little princess.” Kanba smiles and again Himari feels so small.

“It’s not—silly!” Shoma says, wiggling out of Himari’s grasp and dropping to the floor, tossing Kanba’s coat to the side. He kisses her on her forehead and says, “There you go, Himari, now you can do all sorts of princely things!”

“C-can I?” Himari asks. She sits upright and looks at Kanba, arms crossed and vacant smile still resting on his lips, then at Shoma, eyes wide and sweet and close to Himari while Kanba seems so far away. “For both of you?”

Shoma makes a little promise—“Always. Even if you’re Kanba’s little princess, you can be my prince if you want. And Kanba… well, if you ask me, Kanba will always be a toad and he’s a little bitter about that.”

“Not a toad,” Himari giggles, “a frog! There’s hope for him!”

tonight i died and i watched it happen
i had planned it, dreamt it up and decided to be frozen in time so the glass broke around me and i stayed perfectly still
and my cuts healed because i prayed and prayed and i died beautiful and cleaned up the mess so mother wouldn’t fret, very carefully i picked up the glass so the baby wouldn’t get hurt later on

i died in several different ways, 20 to be exact, and each death is an easter egg that i dare you to hunt for, hunt all day and into the night, because if you don’t find easter eggs—

they rot 

but i
won’t

because i died beautiful and frozen in time

(i prayed hard enough for it

thank you mother thank you for the advice that i so eagerly took to heart before i left everyone heartbroken and ran off looking for glass—and stockings—and godless kisses)

tonight i prayed, and died, and prayed 

“Prettier than you, prettier than you.” Skip speaks in little sighs, her voice is scratchy. She takes the dolls and cuts their hair. “Prettier than you, prettier than you.” She pulls off heads and arms, scratches off painted lips until they all look like her. 

And she—

hurts. 

And she sings, little sighs, “Lost my partner, what’ll I do?” 

Skip moves, sighs, scratchy, ugly to see, cold to touch, little sighs against Junior’s chest while he tugs so lightly at her hair—she’s prettier than them, he says, and she is ugly and he hates her. She hurts. 

Junior leaves—and he lies. She’s his pretty girl and he’ll come back later with dresses and treats. He is sweet in the mornings. One, two, three kisses and he pleads with her to go back to bed. Kiss, kiss, kiss. 

In little sighs, she whispers, and he doesn’t hear. She’ll kill him.

“If you leave me, I’ll kill you.”

There is a doll in her hands, without a head, ugly. “Prettier… than… you…” Punctuated by snapping plastic limbs, she sings her song.

Junior is hers, her boy who gives and gives, hers to pet and scratch and she sighs, her lips against his ear. He comes home. He is hers. He told the truth and he will again. 

They are honest—disgustingly so. He will come home with dresses and treats. If he leaves her, she will kill him.

Every morning it’s three kisses before he leaves.

“Prettier than you,” she sighs with the loveliest doll pressed against her lips.

One day he will be late and the dolls with be scratched—and scratched—and scratched.

It will hurt for a little while, punctuated with the smallest sighs, she will sing a little song as the color leaves his face, she will sigh against his punctured chest. 

“Lost my partner, what’ll I do?”

It will hurt. He will hurt and she—

hurts.