via negativa — writing

[waiakea]

hi taking a break from my drafts to show you what hell looks like:

sanguine 02:06:11 AM Viewing Who's Online.
crows 02:03:50 AM Viewing the board index of bearbones ☾.

[crows]

at last, ,, , we're alone

[waiakea]

crows 02:10:40 AM Viewing Who's Online.
sanguine 02:10:40 AM Viewing Who's Online.

we're evolving

[crows]

imagine dragons' album evolve is quaking right now

[waiakea]

yee doggie im shaking in my boots

[waiakea]

back outta my sad mode to get things Done

[waiakea]

[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: 355px; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 125%; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; color: black"]savory — tw for gore, animal abuse/death

today, it was almost difficult to get ready, but you remember how suffering puts you off.

you quickly learned how little sam appreciated the messes in the sink, so three times a week since you both moved in, you've left the house at eight and come back at fifteen 'til — when you think of it like this, it sounds sort of like the desk jobs many of your peers are by now interviewing into. the only real humor always comes to mind on the corner of palm and valley view: that you wouldn't do too well to take this into an office setting. if one thing is clear about all this, it's that it isn't entertainment.

the streetlights by now give passerby halos — angels brushing past, bumping your shoulders, the slightest, strangest of touches, but all welcome. they give you something physical, for you have long since stepped three feet above your own head, and, maybe, you'd drift off if the vacationers and drunk students weren't tying you down with their accidents. somewhere within, a woman laughs, careless, and not relating to her will be over, for you'll soon be where you need to go.

eyes cast down, it feels momentarily like you aren't wearing the right shoes for this; everyone on tv wears the edgy little sneakers that make them relatable somehow, despite what they do. would wearing them make you relatable, too? dressing all cute emo teenager might help them process you, but the question is meaningless; you don't like being associated with them. you aren't... a murderer. not really.

somehow after all this time, you still start to shake at the gate, a sensation so heavy it rattles the iron under your hands. not fear, no, but something arguably more cruel — anticipation? whatever its name is, it flares up when you hear the scuffling under the odds and ends scattered about the alley, and you find your hand tight on the handle like the sound was a threat. this particular switchblade found its way to you a year ago, more or less, and has seen its fair share vermin ends already.

they're all quick, raised on a lifetime of running from things like you, but you do manage to trap one underfoot and scoop it up in your free grasp. a psychopath would play with the poor thing, but you're determined to prove you aren't one of those, even if only to yourself; the blade sinks in, mercifully, like butter, spilling over much faster than you thought it would and sprinkling the hem of your sweater in your surprise. the stain would have been a shame, if not for the next mouse, or the one after that, and definitely not the one you get a little bolder with, where you force your thumb through the wound to meet slick insides. another, harder to catch than its brothers, gets to show you what a rodent's stomach looks like when it pops.

a cautionary check of the time sets your composure a little straighter; impossible as it is, a half-hour has passed, and while usually you would take another five examining your results, a lone message sitting at the top of the screen takes priority tonight:


please come home.


everything is pounding: the voices in the street, the blood in your ears, your footsteps up the stairs, and your hands can't seem to be calmer with the keys until you're inside and frozen at the sight of... a smile. he's smiling, shy as a child, as if he's done something wrong and isn't too sorry about it, but what that wrong could have possibly been, you have no idea. on light feet, you're over the threshold and at his side — in your place reserved on swings, buses, and now the old couch — and feeling the weight of his fingers tracing the bloodied lines of your palms. "if you ever need me...", comes, but he shakes his head. he knows.

[waiakea]

what a nasty sub-par drabble  !!  but now that that's over i can sit here REELING OVER FULLMETAL

[bxhemia]

HI IM LOV

[waiakea]

SHOOK