I am detached
and I’m so sorry
I let myself
get in the way
of things that
but won’t be
because I shouldn’t
say I love you
just to hear another
I told you so
letters to myself
these were supposed
to be the better days
but I’m not okay
and it’s not your fault
you shouldn’t have
to put up with me
you shouldn’t have
to love me
for what it’s worth
we could’ve been
something so much more
than just another poem
that I can’t write
these are Shakespeare’s
last words with a spin
and a twist, remembering
ways to not grab your hips
to not kiss your lips
there is poison slipped
into my pens,
I don’t write love poems
I write we’re kinda
I don’t write prose
I write the story
of the dying rose
If I give and give
If you take and take
If I love and love
and you trust and trust
which parts of us
will understand me
when I’m alone and numb
without you clogging up
my heart with another
apology that sounds like
I’m sorry, I wish we could’ve been
I wish we could be more
than just a pile of lust
and sin that won’t happen
dear Heavenly Father,
forgive me for my wicked ways
if I pray and pray
if I duck and dodge
your solemn words
that sever ties
that paint the walls
of my soul into crispy gold
into melted snow
my thoughts will follow
some lovers have hands
that I could hold
but I can’t stay
if I’m still not
over the mountain
of regrets and no,
I’ll leave by sunrise
even if your clothes are on
and we didn’t make love
we’re naked to the truth
you can see it in my eyes
I hate telling lies
so I don’t talk much
I hate small talk
so I don’t make friends
I don’t trust people
I barely trust myself
I’m a sinner that knows
how to love,
I’m an angel that fell
and we’re still far from this place
baby, I’m detached from you
you deserve the moon and the stars
I cannot give you the universe
I cannot give you the sun
but maybe somebody else can
I cannot be in love with you
I cannot be in love with you
if I still don’t understand
if I still don’t know how to love myself
and if you love me for how I am
and if you have stayed this long
and if you really are in love with me
then understand that I am detached
a loop, a maze, a graze on your lips
I wear us thin into the pen
A pen is my weapon
and these words
are the cuts that I am made of
some truths sink into your skin
this love is razor sharp,
I’m out of bandages
I’m all out of love
I’m with shadows
near the shoreline
looking for inspiration
slowly now, slowly now
into the sunrise
one day from my ashes
I will rise, I will rise
okay but since it’s on my mind for the obvious reasons, let’s just talk about golden statue Ford for a second.
Did Bill just entomb him within a layer of gold? Or did he literally transform every cell and atom of this poor man’s body into actual gold? Was Ford conscious while he was a statue? Did he still have awareness of what was going on around him? Could he feel when Bill was picking him up or clinking him against his martini glass? Or did Ford essentially go comatose during all this?
Well, sadly there’s no answering the first question by what canon tells us, but I have a hypothesis on the second one.
I would argue that Ford was NOT conscious of what was occurring around him while a statue.
Right before he was frozen into gold, Ford was suspended in the air by Bill’s magic. Captured. The last thing Ford would have seen is the energy pouring from Bill’s eye coursing towards him.
And then when Ford is finally released, he immediately begins shouting for Bill to “let him go”- which is perhaps what he’d begun to shout immediately before being frozen- and then he pauses… confused and not knowing where he is.
“What… what is this place?” he says. Which means he’s never seen it before. Not even when Bill brought him in there. Suggesting that no, he is not conscious while a statue.
We see this again later on, when he’s frozen after begging for Bill to not torture the kids. The gold melts off him, and he has that same slightly disorientated expression.
Because just moments before for him, he was standing on a throne made of all the townsfolk and Bill was going to destroy his family and friends. Then suddenly, he’s standing on the floor of the Fearamid and everyone is free. The kids are in front of him. They’re alive. Bill is nowhere to be seen. Ford’s surprise tells me that he literally does not know how this happened and has no memory of witnessing it because he was comatose through the whole thing.
Clint x Reader where she and Clint go on vacation and Clint gets lost and she flips out.
A/N: i feel like the avengers should not be let out of the base without supervision bc this is the 3rd (?) chat where one of them gets lost and i love it.
Clint has created a chatroom.
Clint has added Natasha, Bruce, Tony, Steve, Thor.
Clint: Guess who’s lost?
Clint: Lost again.
Clint: Clint is lost.
Clint: PLEASE DON’T TELL MY GIRLFRIEND.
Thor: I’M TELLING LADY Y/N
Clint: Oh c'mon! What have I ever done to you?!
Natasha: Thor, I don’t think it’s wise you piss me off any further.
Clint: Ohhhh snap, you made Tasha angry!
Thor: I do not fear for the Black Widow.
Bruce: Stop lying.
Thor: Fine, my
apologies. I shan’t inform lady Y/N that her boyfriend lacks direction.
There is no need for Lady Natasha to become angry… I doth not
Natasha: If Y/N
finds out, she’s going to freak out, and then Tony will start freaking
out, and then Steve will start freaking out because Tony’s freaking out
over Y/N freaking out, and then Thor will start freaking out because his
tiny humans are freaking out, and then Bruce will start to freak out
and then I will start freaking out because Bruce is freaking out over
Thor freaking out and Thor is freaking out because his humans are
freaking out and Steve is freaking out over Tony freaking out for Y/N
and Clint will leave the chat and disappear, becoming a hermit because
that’s better than being the cause for his girlfriend freaking out and
the team losing their minds. Now do you get why, Thor?
Sometimes I think about how you’ve begun to open up to me. Do you even realize how special I feel just knowing that you consider me a safe enough place to deposit your secrets? My insides melt to pure gold knowing that pieces of your soul are being dropped into them like rain. And I don’t know how I could ever repay you for this gift.
if i were barbra streisand i would wake in a bed of silk every morning and bathe in melted gold as i rub luxuriant butterfly oil all over my larynx and then i would glide across my kitchen floor which is ice but the coldness does not touch my feet and i would feast on the finest pomegranate seeds from an island that no human has ever laid eyes on, they are harvested by birds and flown directly to an old blind man in a schooner
I wrote this based on the comic “SEP Days” that my friend @vapewraith drew - I love silly SEP and Crisis interactions between Gabriel and Jack so I loved this comic and really wanted to show how much Vape’s art and colors inspire me.
Thank you again, Vapewraith - thank you for nearly nine months of your wonderful Overwatch art!
“Soldiers, line up here.”
There are tart groans and muttered whines as the SEP candidates shuffle to a stop and the group practically collapses against the walls and waist-high concrete barriers. The exhaustion and aches are practically tangible in the air as the supersoldiers-in-training ease themselves into sitting or leaning or even lying positions - Number: 37 practically throws herself on the group even though it’s as miserably comfortable as sleeping on broken groundstone. Number: 123 next to Gabriel rolls his shoulders, hissing every time the right one moves back too far, exactly where one of the rubber bullets had hit him earlier. Number: 88 on the other side of Jack seats herself and then curls up into a ball, pulling the drawstrings on her hood to shut the world into what Jack assumes is blissful darkness.
They’re in one of the halls of the SEP facility - tucked away into a deep mountainside “somewhere out west,” the building is hard angles and brutal concrete and cut-steel, as soft as titanium and as gentle as the injections they get every morning and evening. Yet even here, in “wherever’s-range,” there is still beauty: the massive windows, normally just cold, crystalline glass, are open to the sunset, bleeding colors across the land and sky, dripping into the hallway with the vibrancy of oil paints. Reds smoke into bright, endless pinks, golds melt into bold, sunshine yellows, oranges shift into liquid amber, and at the edges of the atmosphere, velvet purples sigh into silky blues, tinting the more vivid colors and steeped clouds with the dusk of night and the emerging stars.
It’s a sight neither Gabriel nor Jack will ever get tired of -
No matter how exhausted they are.
“The doctors will see you shortly -” the SEP instructor starts to say, reappearing at the far end of the hallway, before he looks up from the papers on his clipboard and scowls at the group of crumbling supersoldiers, snapping, “Is that what you call ‘lining up?’”
“Maybe if y’all didn’t work us so damn hard,” Number: 141 growls, his voice climbing into a hoarse yell, “We’d still have the energy to fucking stand!”
They walk back to the dorms between rain showers, the backs of their hands brushing. Derek’s heart beats too quickly in his chest. He keeps swallowing, as though he can dislodge the ache of anticipation that sits tight against his throat.
It is very persistent.
They part to step around a particularly large puddle, and when they come back together Derek can’t tell if Dex’s eyes linger or his own. He wants to reach out, tangle their fingers together. Hold on and ask if this is–finally–it.
He doesn’t. He could–Dex basically invited him to…allow himself–but he doesn’t.
The world is gray around them, spring taking its time, until the sun dips below the clouds, above the horizon. It turns the water accumulated in the street and on the sidewalk gold. It turns Dex’s hair into something bright and burnished. It’s a color Derek associates with signs that say ‘Do Not Touch.’ Derek’s fingers itch.
“What’re your plans tonight?”
Derek blinks. “What?”
The corner of Dex’s mouth nearest Derek quirks up as he ducks his head. Derek catches it before the collar of his jacket obscures the view, and then Dex is shrugging and straightening. “Your plans, Nurse. For tonight. What are they?”
He’s got reading he should do, an essay he should at least outline. He was going to lie on his bed and read and think about Dex’s tapered fingers and the curve of his spine. But something changed at Annie’s; he’s not sure how to ask if the curl of those fingers and the dip of his spine are on the table now, Dex offering himself up as easily as the muffin he’d pushed toward Derek.
Derek swallows. “Nothing much. Thought maybe I’d just, y'know, go back to my room and chill.”
It makes Dex snort, the sound somehow fond and not cruel out here among the trees and wet grass, the sheltering sky above.
They’re quiet for a moment, nothing but the sound of their shoes on the pavement, traffic, a dog barking. Dex’s breath. Then Dex says, “Do you want to come back to my room?”
You gonna let yourself have other things you want?
Derek’s fingers curl against his palm, empty space wanting to be filled.