STARLIGHT ･ﾟ✧ NESSY'S WRITING STORAGE

[nessy]

[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; font-size: 8.4pt; font-family:verdana; text-align:justify; line-height: 125%; width: 400px"]there's literally so much stuff in my main storage, i can't believe i haven't been putting it here

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Smoke fell past his lips, the burning embers of the cigarette bright in the early morning. He flicked the cigarette between his fingers, watching the flecks fall onto the concrete before sighing quietly. He didn't smoke often, but it was becoming a habit. He didn't care enough to stop.

And, it wasn't as bad as the habit that others had begun to have, interrupting his daily lone time. His eyes slid quickly over the man, unimpressed and flickering with annoyance. "Don't you have somewhere else to be, old man?" In the dark morning, his raspy voice sounds more foreboding than it would be in broad daylight.

[roy v.]

[align=center][div style="width: 400px; font-size: 9pt; font-family: arial; text-align:justify; "]He was a mess. A pair of bandaged knuckles and a storm of emotions that he never knew how to control. Kyle always said, Dad always said—he was a mess with his emotions. He wasn't supposed to let them rule him, but how couldn't he? They were all he was. He was the pride when he landed the punch. He was the sadness when he thought of his mother leaving. He was the gentleness when he cared for the horses in the barn.

[nessy]

[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; font-size: 8.4pt; text-align:justify; line-height: 125%; width: 400px"]umm...i wrote...aesthetic poetry since i was inspired by rupi kaur (go read her poetry).

aesthetic poetry part i.

ROY AVON VANTAS I. The morning light, gentle in it's rays did absolutely nothing to soften the teenager. He was sharp edged, hungry eyes. He was red hair, fiery eyes and a danger-dripping smile. He was red, red, red. You can't help but pity whoever had given him those bloody knuckles.

II. Soft wrathful blood, simmering beneath his skin. With smoothed features, he could almost be kind. He was always there but somewhere else, too. Where did he go in that troubled mind? Half-smiles, half-faced but you better to look past that and hold his calloused hands.

CLOVER MARYAM I. You were entranced by her beauty but when she looked at you, you didn't get caught in the slope of her neck or curl of her hair. You don't think that you'd ever forget the gentle curl of her mouth when she spoke words of intellect or the way her eyes watched and watched and took what she want from what she saw.

II. You were dull but when you looked into her deep olive eyes, a diamond reflected back. 

BURNABEE VAUGHAN I. He was the couch we would curl up on, fingers sticky from buns and eyes bright. He was the warm looks, the enveloping hugs. Dark skin the color of earth, the ground beneath your feet, sturdy and always there. He was a soft stone that could rub you raw but you'd never think he would hurt you.

II. Home. He was home.

III. Close your eyes. Picture soft. Picture Sunday mornings. Picture spring air. Think honey in your tea. He was all that and softer, the softest boy you'd ever taste.

EMMETT WADES I. Oh, that boy was full of desire. Adventure called his name and whispered possibilities of empty roads. Forgotten relics sung his name. Circling notes twice, the turn of a key in the lock. Laughter lines creased his eyes; they were older than the rest of him and dark with the knowledge of things no one had never known. Throw a dart at a map with a hand over your eyes and that's where you'd go. The creek of the floorboards made him wonder if he was alone.

II. Excelsior. Onward and upward he went. No one could stop him.

[nessy]

[align=center][div style="width: 400px; font-size: 9pt; font-family: arial; text-align:justify; "]"I never tell anyone how much I care because I feel like... I don't fucking know," He gives a short huff, raising a hand to grip his hair as he bends over. When he starts again, it's quiet. "I feel like if they knew, they'd be - overwhelmed, or something. I just―I care a lot. Too much." He shakes his head and blinks rapidly. "Too much." He repeats.

---

"Are you angry at her for dying?" He said.

A thoughtful look came across Pyrene's face. "I was fucking furious with her for dying."

Roy didn't really understand the way Pyrene loved her mom and vice-versa; it wasn't like the way he loved his Dad or Kyle was perfect. But he couldn't help but think maybe that's why he couldn't remember anything about his Mom. Even at three, he was mad at her for dying, enough that he couldn't remember anything about her. Pyrene seemed to pick up on his train of thought and right as her mouth open, he cut her off, "Shut up."

She smiled with obvious snark. "Alright then." He cuts his eyes off of her to roll them, before leaning back further on the roof. Wanting a good view of the stars, he rests his arms under his head like a pillow before looking up at the sky.

[nessy]

[align=center][div style="width: 400px; font-size: 9pt; font-family: arial; text-align:justify; "]"I can't—I can't do it." What if he messes up? What if he doesn't do it the right way and ends up hurting her? There's too much pressure on him.

"Listen—listen to me, Burnabee." The mentor grips his upper forearm and Burnabee wishes he didn't feel so weak, so vulnerable when he faces him. The man's eyes are firm. "There's no other way. Get it done."

The teenager takes an unsettled breath (Stand tall, Burnabee. Don't look down). He nods (Don't show it, don't show it) and looks back down at the arm, takes the needle and begins to stitch. His mind doesn't clear, in fact, it becomes so muddled he has no other choice but to focus on one thing so he doesn't lose his stomach.

His hands are steady, his face is stony—it's easy to call up that barrier like a circuit in his brain that's worn a groove so deep, it'd be impossible to forget. But his insides are as shaky and when he cuts the stitch off the needle, he feels like he's dying.

"Well done, Burnabee." He gets clapped on the shoulder. It doesn't fill him with pride; it only solidifies the growing stone of fear in the pit of his stomach.

---

"You've fucking traumatized him! He can't even go back in that room without shutting down. Do you see the look on his face when he goes in there? Completely blank."

"I was only doing what we're supposed to do—"

"You were supposed to teach him, guide him. Not force him to do something like that when he wasn't ready."

He probably shouldn't be hearing this. This conversation isn't meant for him—but it's about him and so he stays, and listens with his fingers tugging at each other to try and settle his nerves.

"So he stitched a scar up. So what?" He hears a sound that resembles a scoff. "It wasn't a scar. It was a tear in someone's arm and you made him look at that and stitch it himself?" Another angry sound reaches him. "You goddamn idiot. There's a reason we're going slow with the apprentices—"

Wouldn't he have just seen something like that anyway? But he's already backing away and leaving down the hall. He goes to his room and throws himself on the bed, before curling up with his knees close to his chest. He tugs the blanket over him and shuts his eyes, hoping he'll never have to see that much blood ever again.