via negativa — writing

[waiakea]

howdy pardner, welcome to rine's second writing storage. i'll be putting warnings before each post as needed bc it can get sorta.. graphic? in ways. feel free to dump yourself in here as well.

[code=for me myself and i][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"]title that shit yo — warnings[/code]

[sunrise skater kid.]

hi idk why you made a new one but cool beans zucchini

[waiakea]

the old was was already clogged with garbage and i wanted to start Fresh
and also are u psychic bc i came here to post a edgy story and suddenly you're here

[sunrise skater kid.]

ah i Understand

& yes i am. now give me an edgy story zucchini bih

[crows]

i am Here but i was promised something

[waiakea]

ah yes, i am Hard At Work typing up some quality garbo fuck content as we speak

[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"]america's youth is depressed — general unpleasantness


it doesn't take long to wear him out.

by six, you're already settled in the window, watching the sun dip under the thick clouds on the horizon. somewhere below, a snippet of a song you vaguely remember shakes the carpet, but there likely isn't any sleep to wake him from. you know how he lays there, breath even but eyes fluttering under their dark lids, like they're looking for something. a mimic of a dream.

the sunlight burns over the little hairs on your folded arms. when you hold a hand up to examine it, red shadows appear in the creases; you consider the colour for a moment and shove it back under the other arm, fighting against the bunched-up fabric of your sweater. it was red, too, when you pulled a stained shirt over your head one night and pressed each of the young bruises thrown over your shoulders. it's harder than it should be to believe it's been three months since then.

you cast a heavy glance toward the kitchen, eyes falling on an open cabinet. the dishes are all neatly stacked — sam's doing, no doubt. he lost his mind only a few times before banning you from putting them up, but whether his decision was out of care or guilt, you couldn't guess. three months. you still try to remind yourself when you're alone to think like this, when your hands aren't carding through white-blond hair or smoothing over skin, but saying it now seizes your chest instead of making you feel like you aren't just dancing around the things that started all of this. the new plates were just a bandage over a bullethole, and the both of you know it. no number of blind touches or soft smiles can change the fact that you can't make up for anything you did to each other.

by now, the sky has faded and the night's cold is beginning to seep under the window, and while it isn't yet unpleasant, it drives you from the sill. as best as you can with needles prickling your numb legs, you shuffle in view of the bedroom door. just in there, in the next room, a boy with a blush-dusted face and eyes that make you tremble needs you to undo a year's lies, to dive in and pull him up into your nervous arms to let go of everything you've wanted to say. you could make more right than a twenty dollar set of dishes ever could... or, you could go down trying. it would be more than waiting for him to get up alone and relieve you from your vigil.

so, as usual, you don't.

beaten up by years of sitting in a neighbour's basement, your body sinks into the couch farther than it probably should, but the comfort, however questionable, is welcome. in an hour or so, the man you promised your love will slip silently as ever into the room, take his spot at your side, and flip the channel to sigh over the news of a shooting, a flood, politics; and you will sigh along with him, but it won't be out of sympathy. you'll watch him cross and uncross his arms, shift his slim weight, drum his fingers against the worn microfiber, and you'll sigh for when those fingers trusted yours enough to lace with them, and how you have none of the drive to stop another night of edging around the memories of strangers that have taken so much more than you can give each other anymore. another night of laying together and remembering the touch of someone else. counting the times his eyes move when he thinks you aren't watching.

you think you know what he's searching for.

[sunrise skater kid.]

WOW

[crows]

that was mcfricking depressing

[waiakea]

yes but consider this: isnt everything