of all the words of tongue or pen

a prose poem about ghosts

we’ll help you, my mother tells me, but you’ve got to want to help yourself too. my father, standing by my bed, saying, play the piano again for us, for your mind. i think of what it will mean to take medication: the white pill between my fingers like a secret, a pearl pressed flat on a train track. the cold water glass. my heart unfurling.

i dig through the dusty piano bench. pressed in a yellowed 60s copy of preparatory exercises are loose leaf pages, a secret. titled sebastian in someone else’s handwriting, scanned copy of notes drawn in pen on printed staff. sebastian, meaning: basket of marigolds, summer as rich as wine, brideshead, in the time before depression when my tongue was a moon crater still learning to how to taste the word man.

here, by the keys, my bones hum. melancholy is a night with no wind pressed up against my ribs. i hold on to my body as if it were its own secret, me, my blood, and all the words i cannot say. take my time with each note. my hands wreaths of rust, the dust spilling out of me. i think again of the pills, my heart prying itself open to reveal the real heart nestled inside, the red one, the one that beats.

summer is only a word, but it’s an orange word, a kind of burning. i play softly. there’s a ghost in the room somewhere. he might be sitting on the bench. he might be evaporating.

Petrichor [Yoonmin - M]

Author’s Note: This became way longer than intended, but enjoy university!au Yoonmin; apologies if at times they seem a bit out of character. This is for the lovely fic exchange with @btsbound.

Word Count: 11,861 (lord help me)

Originally posted by myloveseokjin

pet·ri·chor ˈpeˌtrīkôr/


a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.

There are very few things in the world that truly grate on Yoongi’s nerves.

  1. When the sunlight creeps in his bedroom window, on the days when he was up far too late the night before; albeit the countless number of times he’s shut the blinds (he’s positive he did), some always manages to sneak through, successfully waking him hours before his mind was ready.
  2. When his roommate (and best friend) Hoseok always steals the last banana milk, even if Yoongi writes his name all over the damn bottle. (It’s not that big, there’s not that much space to scribble on, you’d think he’d get the point after four years?)
  3. And finally, when his favorite study room is taken in the library, the one by the far back window where it’s warm, and honestly, the best place for Yoongi to sleep in between classes.

And as his luck would have it, one of the three things happened to him today. Needless to say, he was in a shitty mood.

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utopia // stiles stilinski

Summary: Stiles & Y/N escape their perfect city of Utopia only to face the dangers of the supernatural

Requested: no, but @sincerelystiles gave me the motivation to post this & @stilinski-jpeg was beyond supportive with this idea

Pairing: Stiles & Y/N

Warning: yes, mature language, themes & smut throughout


By definition, it was suppose to be a perfect society but it was far from it. The concrete walls acted as a prison and the citizens were it’s inmates. It was originally suppose to be a temporary solution to the growing outbreak of the supernatural. That was 5 years ago. It was a now permanent solution as two races competed for world domination.

Each citizen was stripped of their individuality, each given a similar set of clothes and a number to replace their name. Women had to wear their hair tied back in a bun while men had to keep their hair free of any unnatural product. They were all served the same meal everyday and no matter what job they did for the colony, they all received the same amount of pay. There was absolutely no way to strive in the Utopia, making it a perfect society in the sense that everyone was equal.

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Wanna Be Yours, 4/7 (Olicity, College AU, Explicit)

Summary: College AU. Felicity’s car breaks down in a major rainstorm, sending her walking to the closest house she can find. It just so happens to belong to Oliver Queen, and he’s having a ‘Skivvies Only’ party. (See AO3 for Author’s Notes.) 

My eternal gratitude to my amazing beta Margaret. She’s the best.

(read on AO3)

(read from the beginning)

Wanna Be Yours, Part 4

A thin slice of consciousness slowly woke her.

The bed was soft where it cradled her, conforming to her every inch. And it was warm, like it was made specifically to retain just the right amount of heat. Felicity hummed under her breath. It was perfect and she didn’t want to move. She shifted her feet, enjoying the soft sheets against her toes, reveling in her bed cocoon. She loved mornings like this, when she didn’t have to get up, when she could stay tucked in for as long as she wanted.

She was vaguely aware that she’d kicked her comforter off at some point, but she wasn’t cold in the least… although she was tangled in something. Her shirt. It was twisted around her in an awkward bunch right under her ribs, making it uncomfortably tight in the shoulders. Usually that bothered her so much she had to sit up and unwind it, but the idea of moving was just unacceptable. She was too lazy to do anything but scoot closer to him.


A bolt of awareness cut through her chest and with a sharp inhale, Felicity awoke. Her eyes were dry and sticky where her contacts stuck to her lids and she blinked rapidly, waiting for the world to right itself.

When it finally did, she stopped breathing.

She was pressed right up against a bare chest, a very warm, very naked chest. A chest she was currently drooling on.

The reality of where she was hit her and her heart jumped to life.

Oh…” Felicity breathed, a fine tremble lacing her voice, “my god.”

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novishu  asked:

"paint" for andreil :^)

they have an..issue with back touches. it’s an understandable issue, one neither of them really press, but neil is running out of suitable canvas space on andrew. he doesn’t say anything as he turns andrew’s hands palm up and traces little fox paws on the hardened skin there until andrew quite purposefully twitches his fingers.

“andrew.” neil goes back to his little fox paws once andrew’s fingers resettle.

another, more purposeful twitch. “andrew.”

“something’s on your mind.”

“i don’t know what you mean.” he scribbles a small ‘yes’ on andrew’s ring finger. it’s a prompt and a promise; andrew pretends to ignore it.

“just say it, neil, or else i’ll destroy all your work in the sink.” he never will, they both know it, but neil’s black ball point pen stills while he weighs the words on his tongue. it’s always intrigued andrew, though he’ll never admit it to anyone other than renee, how neil can weigh his words when they don’t matter but just throw them out to the wind they many would say they do.

his man is confusing and he almost wants to return him. he thinks he would if the confusion wasn’t so fucking interesting.

“you’ve got two seconds.” he prompts when both neil and the pen stay still for a few beats too long. andrew minyard will not be confused for a patient man today.

“can i paint your back, yes or no?”

it’s an odd request – see: the back issue – but one rooted in a trust exercise fundamental to their relationship. andrew knows he can say no, can tell neil to go find matt to play painting guinea pig, but he doesn’t. besides, he wants to see what neil will paint for him. “so long as there’s no fucking fox orange.”

neil smiles, tilting his head mischievously as he stands to grab the paint. “but you look so good in it, andrew.”

a firm roll of his eyes. “198%.”

I Can Do It

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1670

Warnings: Angst, serious injury during a hunt, and loss of hearing…I think that’s it.

A/N: This is for @little-red-83 ’s Love Your “Flaws” Writing Challenge. My prompts are Deafness and Human by Christina Perri. I grew up with a sister that has been hearing impaired since birth but have never really experienced what it is like first hand. That being said, I hope I got what this experience is like close to accurate and if not I apologize. Many thanks to my wonderful beta, @inmysparetime0, who also submitted the gif to me quite a while ago. It’s been a long time coming, this fic has haunted me for months. It has taken me several computer crashes and three times longer than usual to get this posted using my daughter’s computer…but here it is. Hope you like it.

Dean’s words echoed in your head, “If you can’t protect yourself, then you shouldn’t be hunting.”

But that was years ago and wasn’t directed at you, but damn if it didn’t apply to you now.

You know that it wasn’t your fault that this has happened to you. It was a freak accident that no one saw coming. It was a risk every hunter took every day. You had never stopped to think of this outcome though. Death, sure. Major injury, absolutely, but not like this.

When the explosion happened the last thing you remembered was Dean yelling out for you, then darkness. When you woke up nothing but pain and silence. It was different than any silence you had ever heard before. What most people think is silence, isn’t. There are still tiny noises in the air that are so small the average person doesn’t register them. A true silence was void of all noise. That was exactly what you were experiencing now and it was terrifying.

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AU #2: Telepathy Isn’t Special (1)

this one i titled Telepathy Isn’t Special. Ain’t that fun? ITS A KURT FIC GET EXCITED

Also it’s pretty much another soul mate au sorta thing but this soul mate thing is a presence in the mind, like you’re linked and can access each other whenever you want but it’s not always.

You grimaced, the weight of another mind pressing against yours and your fingers clenched around your pen.

I’m busy. You shot to the sudden presence and you felt it wince, the unhappiness at being forced away. Your heart twinges and you send begrudging affection toward the presence, feeling it light up.

I missed you. The presence answers and your stomach flips, your lips turning up helplessly. You let the presence bath in your matched feelings before you remind it that you really are busy. This time, it recedes happily, wishing you good luck and you return to the page feeling settled, easier than you were before.

Your pen touches the page before you remember your drink, your eyes scanning the area around you for it only to see it resting, sweating, on the kitchen counter all the way across the room. Your nose wrinkles unhappily and your fingers twitch, the glass disappearing from the bench and reappearing to dampen your fingers.

Taking a sip, you set it off to the side and return to your work, your hand writing out the words as if it was your native tongue and not a long dead language.

“It’s got what we need.” Scott mutters, his face upturned as he glares at the building. Beside him, Jean runs a palm over his shoulder and down his back, easing him and he smiles at her.

“I think the it you’re talking about is a person.” Storm glowers, always displeased with his attitude and Peter nods along with her.

“And why don’t I just go get it?” He adds, offering the girl beside him a goofy grin that she reluctantly returns. “I’m no professor but I can move it.”

Kurt snorts at the half joke, the group recalling the previous nights dance party where most of Quicksilvers moves had been blurs.

“We need the person. They’re a mutant. Their mutation isn’t important, though the Professor told me we need to be careful of it.” Scott butts in, talking over the beginning of Kurts sentence and Storm shares a look with the young man.

“The professor told me.” She mouths to him, poking her tongue out obviously and Jean sighs, the entire group able to feel their leader grind his teeth.

“Here’s how it’s going to be-” Scott begins, the words the same at every debrief, no matter what was happening around them or where they were. Last time, someone’s bullet had just grazed Storm and she was about to go nuclear when he’d cut in with a mission update and calmed the group enough to take down those against them. “Jean’s going to the door, she’s inconspicuous and actually nice.” A pointed look spears Ororo and she growls softly. “Once she’s got the girl talking, she’s going to blank her. From there, Kurt needs to grab her and put her in the car. Then we go home.”

“Why’re we here then?” Peter hums, drumming a rhythm on the street light they were all congregated around.

“In case anything goes wrong. It’s a flimsy plan but it’s the quickest and simplest. We don’t want a fuss.” Scott answers and the group nod, easy understanding filling them.

“Off we go.” Jean grins, bumping her shoulder against Scotts softly, his eyes soft on her, as she turns and heads across the street. Her hands fill her pockets, head down and just slightly nodding, as if she can hear music.

Come on Eileen!” You sing laughingly, sliding and bouncing from spot to spot as you prepare dinner. Your hand flies out, salt appearing in it and suddenly becoming your microphone. “Toora Loora Toora Loo- Rye Aye!”

A knock sounds at the door just as the presence pushes against your mind and you stumble, the salt slipping from your fingers as you catch the counter. The smash echos and you jump, worry pushing against your mind, almost chafing.

“Just a minute!” You try and call over the din, hoping your voice carries over the music. Waving a hand, you dart for the record player, the salt and glass shards disappearing to reappear in the bin behind you.

Panting, you open the door and smile at the red headed girl before you.

“Hello, sorry. I… Uh, was cooking.” You manage, brushing off the fumble with a smile. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for a girl named Emily?” She asks, voice clear and precise. Very precise for someone who’s supposed to be confused.

“She lives on the floor below. Exactly below actually.” You answer with a furrowed brow, suspicion in your voice and her cheeks colour.

“Oh, right. Sorry.” She answers almost instantly, your words barely out of your mouth. Her cheeks get a little redder and you’re about to question her when the presence shoves against your mind and you make a small sound of fury.

“Stop.” You whisper harshly to it, the words escaping your lips accidentally and you’re the one to blush this time. Your eyes meet the girls in the doorway awkwardly and she grins at you.

“Soulmate?” She asks with ease and you know she’s had practice with it, more than likely that this girl has met hers already.

“Yeah. Likes to butt in all the time.” You answer gratefully only to blush again. “He’s great, he really is. Really nice.”

She nods and the tension eases in your shoulders, your momentarily bitter slip having brought a tenseness to them. You hate when people hate him, when he vents to you.

“I’m so sorry for kidnapping you like this. It was advised that we stretch our legs after last weeks incident.” The strange girl offers apologetically and you rear back. Kidnapping? Incident? You’re inside your home, you have no idea about an incident. What is-

The world goes dark.

“Now Kurt.” Scott orders, the dark skinned boys face drawn and unhappy, but he disappears all the same, reappearing moments later with Jean who supports the stranger in her arms.

“Jean.” Scott chides, moving forward and taking the load from her with an unhappy expression and she smiles at him warmly, opening the car door to settle the body in the back.

The team grumbles as they settle into the seats, Jean taking her place beside a driving Scott and Storm at her side. In the back, Kurt rests his head against the window, worry etched in the lines of his face while Peter makes smart comments that have Scott grinding his teeth.

“It’s okay.” Jean promises, turning to face Kurt, who meets her eyes momentarily before turning back to the racing landscape, the tree’s giving way to a stone wall.

“We’re home.” Scott announces, another ritual, as they drive through the gates.

“Y/N.” The wheel chair guy before you greets and you scowl at him. You’re well aware of who he is. Renowned mutant activist, Charles Xavier and by his side- Raven Darkholme. If it weren’t for them, their entirely recognizable faces and more recognizable acts in support of Mutant rights, then you’d be ditching this joint.

“Mr Wheelchair Guy.” You greet cordially, the scowl almost set into your face by now and Mystique matches it.

“Read this, if you could.” He smiles, ignoring the name calling, and offers you a piece of paper.

“I could. But what’re you going to offer me?” You smirk, taking the page and scanning it. Words highlight themselves before you and you flinch from the page, holding it like a bloody knife. “What the hell is this?”

“That’s what we would like to know.” He answers cryptically and you nearly snarl, wanting to throw the page away.

“I’ll tell you what it looks like then.” You snap, barely holding the paper now and knowing if there was a stiff breeze you’d lose it, not that that would be too terrible. “It looks like a signed confession to mutant genocide. And it’s descriptive as hell.”

Ravens brows furrow and she glances at Charles, who meets her eyes for a moment before looking back at you.

“If you could read it? Aloud?” He asks gently and you hiss a breath, inhaling sharply.

“They’re like the wild sheep in the hills.” You begin, teeth clenched between sentences. “Unclean creatures muddying the bloodlines we’ve fought to maintain. Like the sheep from the hills, we clear them. Like the sheep from the hills, the stones are stained with their blood and we paint our houses with the rich colour. The sheep scream, though never as satisfyingly as those plaguing our streets.”

You pause, looking up at the pair as they watch each other. “I don’t want to read this.”

“You’re the best translator in the country, we must ask you to continue.” Charles says with a blank expression and you wonder what he’s hiding, what thoughts are nestled in his mind.

Your heart stutters uneasily and the presence returns, pushing against your mind nervously and you welcome it. Your longing and affection reaches for it, colliding with it’s own and a smile settles on your face.

I’m sorry I snapped earlier. You apologize and warmth fills you, assurances bleeding through your thoughts. Your heart picks up at the attention and instant forgiveness.

I am sorry I pushed so hard. You flinch from the words, denials bursting from your mind to his and you can feel the small laugh that leaves his lips.

“Please continue.” Charles pipes up, ignoring your moments of silence without a word and you change positions before continuing, a thrum in the back of your mind keeping you warm and safe.

“Talking to your lover?” Storm pipes up from beside Kurt and he jumps, popping out of existence and right back on the other side of her. A laugh tinkles from her lips and he watches her dazedly. “A very lucky girl? Boy?”

Kurt hums at the question, he’d never really cared. You knew he was a boy but he’d never pestered you for that kind of information on your own. He doesn’t even know your name.

“You don’t know.” Storm frowns, a pause after her words before she nods understandingly.

“I went through that, for a while. It doesn’t matter who they are on the outside, just the person they are on the inside. The one that your soul recognises.” She explains and his shoulders droop at the confirmation, an agreement with something he’d never been able to voice.

“That is exactly it. Thank you.” Kurt smiles, Ororo copying it without hesitation before she launches into another topic, his famous mutants education.

there you have it. number oneeee

english is difficult

summary: peter has a crush. said crush is the daughter of playboy, billionaire and philanthropist; tony stark. 

a note: this is pre civil war typa thing so tony and peter have not formally met yet. also, hey! i haven’t posted in ten years, what’s up my dudes? :) 

“did you finish the english thing yet?”

this had become routine for them, facetiming till the early hours of the morning. a lot of the time they did their homework together, or they just sort of talked until one of them fell asleep.

y/n sat at her desk, hair messy with a facemask on (peter thought it was funny), mindlessly browsing the internet, “yeah, it was easy. i like writing. when you like something, it’s a lot easier.”

peter didn’t know the first thing about poetry or writing, so he was struggling. the project was open ended, meaning you could write whatever you wanted and about whatever you wanted. short story, poetry, novella, pretty much anything.

“okay,” peter tore out yet another page from his notebook, crumpling it up and throwing it behind him, preparing to start fresh on a new page, “but i have no idea what to write about.”

“pretty much anything. the project has no theme, no nothing. go crazy.”

“crazy isn’t really in my repertoire, of well, anything,” he sighed, “english is difficult.” 

“okay, i’ll help you. just write about something you love. that’s easy enough is it not? you could write about how much you love sandwiches for all i care. just write down the thing you love at the top of the paper,” she paused, waiting for him to do so, “got that?”

peter looked down at his paper, where he messily wrote y/n, “yep.”

“okay, so now write down all the reasons why.”

the way her smile could light up times square, how she fiddles with her jewelry when she’s nervous, how shy and giggly she gets when i compliment her, her eyes….

“slow down there bucko, i’m sure that’s enough.” she laughed. peter kept writing out his reasons and couldn’t stop himself, he had so many. after filling up half the page, he placed his pen down.

“there. i think that’s good. now what?”

“take all those things and make it into a poem. a free verse one, meaning it doesn’t have to rhyme or have a specific form.”

“okay, i think it got it,” peter started scribbling out random lines and verses, “this is easy.”

she could only wonder what he was writing about, he seemed pretty focused on it. his tongue was stuck out ever so slightly as he wrote down the words on the page, she thought it was adorable.


she was surprised, “really? that fast?”

“yeah, your advice really helped.”

“that’s good.” she smiled.

her smile could light up new york city in the dark

“y/n!” tony’s loud voice shouted, “did you plan on going to sleep anytime soon? you have school in the morning, or this morning i should say.”

“oh my god, is that your dad?”

in the background of the video, peter saw tony standing in the doorway. crap, he’s definitely gonna find me and throw me in a dumpster or something. tell me again why i thought crushing on tony stark’s daughter was a good idea. 

she looked behind her, seeing him looking less than impressed, “yeah, uh, i’ll see you tomorrow.”

she turned back to her laptop, lightly smiling at peter before she pressed end call and slowly closed the lid. she waited a moment, hoping tony would just walk away, but she could still feel his presence behind her.

“just friends huh?” 

“yep.” she dryly said, keeping her back turned. 

she had no idea how long he had been standing there for, it could’ve been for the last hour and she honestly wouldn’t have noticed.

“just friends.”

e n d 

another note: bad ending? some things never change. 

the language of my pen

in college I wanted
Fitzgerald’s heart,
Hemingway’s pen
Bukowski’s liver,
I thought you only needed
eyelashes to kiss foreheads,
pages with slight tongue bulges,
porter stained napkin rhymes,
I just wanted my print in a journal
I didn’t even read,
another student loan
for another degree,
another night out to turn
into a person that wasn’t me

I made a lot of mistakes,
I sacrificed the wrong things
all in the name of Poetry,
if I could then I would
go back in time to snap
every pen I’ve ever owned,
I would burn my journals
to feel your arms again,
this is all I have now
so all these words are
to her
for you

I love your mother in a way
that would jam Fitzgeralds typewriter,
I love you in a way that jams mine
I don’t constrain my voice anymore,
I let my words mix with the wind
I don’t drink anymore
that’s not the person
I want you to ever see

some poets write about sunsets,
some write about the moon,
others spell Love with fingertips,
I write so one day we might sing
the colors of morning,
so we can admire the moon’s
beauty in her black dress,
maybe your mother and I
can hold hands again
walking with you
on a Saturday Golden Hour park path,
even if we’re just friends,
that’s what Love is all about

don’t love because you expect
to be loved back,
love because your hands,
your heart
your soul
wouldn’t know what to do otherwise

you are the ink in my pen
your mother is the reason

it never runs out

Damn it! (Wayhaught)

The human mind is truly the scariest thing of all. What’s more scary? When it’s not you driving that mind. Something is different, wrong with her. I can’t figure it out. It’s like a word that’s on the tip of my tongue that my mind simply can’t remember. 

“Nicole.” Waverly’s voice pulls Nicole away from her thoughts. She looks down and sees that her pen has been hovering over the same case file for the last half an hour. 

“Hey,” Nicole put down her pen. “I didn’t know you were stopping by.” Nicole walked over to Waverly and gave her a quick peck on the lips. Things were so different. Was this her Waverly? Was this whatever thing lurked just beneath the surface. 

“I thought I’d surprise you. Since you’re all on your lonesome here.” Waverly wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and Nicole couldn’t help but smile. 

“Nedley will be back any minute.” Nicole replied, though her eyes flashed over to the office where Nicole and Waverly had first gotten very well acquainted one shift. 

“That’s a whole minute for you to put those hands to good work.” Waverly moved Nicole’s hands to hips. 

Nicole felt her resolve crumbling when she looked into Waverly’s lust-filled gaze. “Waves…” 

“Maybe you should stop talking.” Waverly whispered as she leaned in and pressed her lips firmly against Nicole’s. 

Nicole couldn’t help but melt into the sweet kiss, pulling Waverly closer to her body. 

Waverly pushed them back toward Nedley’s office door and Nicole felt her heart start to race and he stomach tighten. Maybe losing her job wouldn’t be that bad.

Waverly tugged on Nicole’s bottom lip and without thinking Nicole picked Waverly up and carried her the rest of the way to the couch in the office. 

“This is insane,” Nicole breathed, kissing Waverly’s mouth and neck. 

“Only from a logical standpoint.” Waverly countered with a gasp as Nicole sucked on her pulse point. 

“Damn it guys.” Wynonna’s voice, almost like a physical presence, pushed Nicole to the floor of Nedley’s office. “I can appreciate a good work place hook up as much as the next person. But do you two ever keep it in your pants?” 

Nicole jumped up from the ground and straightened her uniform. She looked at Waverly with a sheepish grin. “I’ll call you when I’m done here.” 

“We need to get you a bell.” Nicole muttered to Wynonna as she passed the older Earp. 

fic: Hot For Teacher

Hot For Teacher

warnings: blowjobs and swearing

word count: 2700

rating: nc-17

summary: “One-Night Stand.” - ‘A sexual relationship lasting only one night.’ 

So why was the guy Dan slept with two weeks ago stood at the front of his classroom announcing that he was his new teacher? It was when he told the class to call him ‘Mr Lester’ and he broke into a hot flush that he knew he was in trouble.

a/n: for cafephan (kirsten), because studentxteacher is her favourite and i promised her this fic ages ago and it was her birthday yesterday so i spent a fucking month writing this in preparation. enjoy. my favourite, beautiful best friend.

p.s. this follows the english school system of two/three years of college and then university just fyi.

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For: @babydollvalens21
Characters: Amaro/Reader
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 1, 453
Note: Request was for a female reader.

“Why are you acting so weird?”

“Excuse me?” You stammered, shoving your hands in your pocket as you shivered against the cool spring breeze.

Nick shrugged, stopping under a streetlight and eyeing you curiously, “You’ve been quiet all night and tripping over your words. It’s not like you. Normally things are so,” he paused, pursing his lips. “Easy when we hang out.”

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you can stay

You haunt me every day, but it’s not your fault. I sit in the shade because if I walk in the sun and turn around, you are my shadow. You haunt me every night, but it’s not your fault. I sit on the porch because if I don’t chainsmoke to keep my hands busy, I’m afraid of what they will do. I feel your cheeks against mine in those seconds between dreams and what we call reality. Sometimes I know it’s just your ghost and sometimes I expect you to be there when I open my eyes. I write books between heartbeats with stories of all the things I should’ve said years ago and my hands shake under the weight of your name. I try to hold it all in. I try to hold it all together, but the pen is a tongue for words I can’t pronounce. The dialect taught me that these fingers were made for lighting matches and dropping hearts just to watch them break. Your ghost is in my shadow and it smiles with every 2AM exhale. It pulls me from dreams, but only visits them when I remember how your curls felt on my breakfast time chest; I can’t drink coffee anymore without burning my tongue on your fingertips. Your ghost translates every pump and page with unbroken giggles that reverbate off of syllables the pen chokes out. Your ghost haunts me. She is covered in flames pointing to the empty space in her chest and I see a smile there that I no longer have the muscles to make, but it’s not your fault.