old gravestones


The Old Zakopane Cemetery, located in Zakopane, Poland, looks like it belongs in a magical fairy tale. Polish cemeteries certainly are unique in the sense that they are often overtly decorated with quaint sculptures and momentos. It’s extremely rare to see an unkempt gravesite. There are over 500 uniquely decorated gravesites, some of which are the final resting places for notable characters, such as Nazi resistance fighters and war heroes.

February: The fall starts easy. I took baby aspirin, and a rusty spoon to my head, and smoked the stale weed my brother left in a broken vase before he left for college. Night comes fast, and tells the creation story. I ignore her this time. I don’t give a fuck about how I was made anymore tell me how I fall apart.

March: Nobody can ever find the raw spot on their leg until they start itching. I remember 6th grade when the mosquito bit my calf. Larvae and laps on the soccer field in early spring. He is oozing into my shoes with the mud.

April: My mother buried my rusty spoon, and took my brown hands. the clothesline was dripping carbonated orange soda sun, the wind was soft, the mice were sleeping warm beneath the floorboards; she spread my tarot on the floor with the forever broken and gnarled thumb she stuck in a blender when she was 5. That spring I walked home alone some nights, the heatwaves followed me like the labored breath of drunk men who don’t take no for an answer, I turned over The Devil and someone dropped a wine glass next door, she gasped, white eyes, the mice began to scrape and scream, the heatwave killed their children like it split my shoulders open and ate the youth inside.

May: The month of falling out of trees, junior high was gonna shipwreck any day now. There is a fast food place where the milkshakes taste like cough syrup and the skater kids cheat death on 3 feet of concrete stairs. There is a crack in the sidewalk in front of it, and he kick flips on it to break the back of the mother who left him at 13, he breeds violence between his fraying vans and then something in his ankle snaps, my oxygen goes tar black. He bleeds, he. Makes this sound. Like a dog when you step on its foot. I want to hold him, put a butterfly on his cheek, give him a band aid, something, God, something. He looks like he’s in pain. I want to. I don’t know. Help.

I walk away trembling and put my head between my knees behind a dumpster full of shitty milkshakes.

June: The neighbors fuck like rabbits while I’m trying to cry to joy division. I pray for a lightning strike. This type of poetry is for pretty girls, anyway.

July: my birthday flies into the glass of my bedroom window and breaks its neck. mom said the only things you can grow in summer that won’t die are grapefruit and hair, and I made a garden, I cut my chest open for Demeter each full moon. These locks were watered with gulf stream sea spray. I fed them bludgeoned daydreams. I threw my head against church doors trying to send Jesus some red flowers for his funeral, or maybe his birthday, doesn’t really matter, we celebrate both.

August: I got kicked out of high school knocking myself out on my desk. People carved hearts into the enamel, I carved my heart out of my chest and turned it in for my midterm. I slam dunked my skull into the bleachers on game day, and when the bleachers fell, into my history textbook, and when the book was mushy with blood, into the track field. I’m grinning ugly, dancing to the 80’s synth in an empty gym after homecoming, with a nosebleed dripping love songs down my yellow teeth, like words on old gravestones: here lies a moontoothed lover who will never rest in peace, every night she claws her grave and hears the call of western waves.

September: I’m high on concussion flavored car races in a stolen low rider, bluebirds fly in circles around my head after we crash, I wrote a song on a 5 dollar bill called blunt force trauma and it is about skater boys with broken noses, snarls of shaggy Jew fro his friends make fun of, and hands. that graze los angeles highways while he rides asphalt waves, slam his locker, and give the finger to the education system he keeps tripping over like untied shoelaces. he pricks those hands sewing together the lackluster parties private school kids throw. he puts his dewy rose bud lips to the jack daniels bottle, and kicks the drum kit over, gives it mouth to mouth, pump his fists into someone’s chest, gives it a pulse again. hands big enough to steal grapefruit with, the size of my swollen heart. I didn’t know it could get that big but he bumped into me, buzzing like a light saber, sky walking out of the grocery store with a grapefruit. with my heart.

October: do you have a girl do you? have a lover? Jupiter is orbiting around whatever this emotion is called, the rollercoaster one. when you look at me. We spend Halloween turning into werewolves at the library, you were moshing in the kids section, bleaching your hair in punk rock, I was banging my bruised and knuckleheaded love poems into a paperback copy of Romeo and Juliet, brushing my hair with broken glass. That was the first day the blood on our hands was not our own, she shushed us and we laughed. High on Shakespeare and Jupiter gas, we dug our fangs into the dewy decimal system. You ask me my name, I tell you, you smile. We had matching bruises and I floated home.

November: You make me. Feel. You make me feel like I can speak to snakes. You make me feel like my hips have a purpose besides balancing bins of laundry, and bowls of fruit. You make 17 stop feeling like a suicide note no one will read. you make me banshee scream and lick like fire against young pines, when you. dance. when you. kiss her, let her ride your double dutch hips, and your skateboard. She is a new coin, tangy on his numb tongue, and he tucks her in his pocket, his lucky penny. I’m the bubblegum he scrapes off his sneakers and throws into a storm drain.

December: I still cower into my pillow and smile a crooked smile, and go red at the cheeks, you. You put the red in my cheeks. I’m here, I’m exploding, why can’t you see me? Just put the bottle down, take your hand from your eyes, I won’t ask you what happened to your face, or how you got that scar, I will just like you and like you. we can buy angels wings in Hollywood, make an apartment out of crumpled homework pages at the bottoms of our dirty backpacks, we can drop out of high school, I will like you and dissect your sadness like frogs in freshman biology I am used to the rotting smell in your ribcage, I reek of it too. I will like you. until I know how to love you.

January: I switch schools, I cut my hair, bleach what little is left. It makes my mother unhappy, she thinks my spirit world is severing ties, she thinks my planets are discordant. I ask somebody back home about him, she says he dropped out and started working on cars.

I come down. Softly.

February (again, again, again): He was born to a rabbi and a beauty queen. I was born to a chemist, and a witch. Ammonia, bleach. Don’t mix them unless you want someone to die. Blood, adolescence, summer saltwater. Don’t mix them unless you want to make somebody wish they were dead.

—  2. a crush. and nothing more.

anonymous asked:

Today is the anniversary of your younger bro's untimely death. Every year, you visit your bro's grave and just sit down & get lost in thought. Today, your lover, ut/uf/mt skelebros get curious where you go every year and follow, only to find you in front of the grave with silent tears falling down your cheeks. How do these skelebros react and help you overcome your grief?

(Aww shit, that’s sad.)

UT Sans: He didn’t really mena to follow you, he just saw you while he was walking home, disappearing in the crowd and wanted to surprise you. So he followed you, speeding up a little, but then you took a weird rout. He hasn’t been in that part of town before. At least not very often. His curiosity get’s the better of him and he decided to follow you, jsut to see what interesting place you might be going to.

Then you enter the graveyard and…oh….oh no. He stops at the gates, torn apart. He feels like he is intruding on something he shouldn’t be, but at the same time he feels like an asshole for justl leaving you there. So he decides to follow you. He approches you slowly, you are sitting infront of a gravestone, your gaze locked firmly on the name engraved there.

He walks up slowly, reading the name. It’s the same last name as yours. The year of birth was after yours….the year of death was shortly after. Way to shortly. There should be more years inbetween, but there aren’t. It clicks for him, and a shiver runs down his spine, his soul pounding. You had a younger sibling, and now they are dead. He..doesn’t know what to do. He lost Papyrus himself a few times, but those timelines are just a faint memory, more of a distant dream. He never even had to worry, Papyrus always came back. But your brother won’t.

He sits down beside you, wordlessly. There are no words for something like that. There can’t be any words and there shouldn’t be any. So he just sits next to you, his hand on yours, until you are ready to go home again.

UT Papyrus: Papyrus wasn’t an idiot. But he also wasn’t rude. So when you told him you will pick up the mail, he knew you where lying. There is no mail on sundays. And it definitly doesn’t take a couple of hours to get it. But he is also friendly skeleton, so he let you have your white lie. But when you are gone for a long time, he starts to get worried. Where could you be? You never do this, if you go out for long you tell him before, because there is no reason to keep this things a secret. He does the same.

So he goes out himeself, asking around in the neighbourhood if somebody has seen you. A few friends and acquaitances pointed him in the right direction and he found himself at the other side of town. There was a small little graveyard here, quiet and sorroundet by manhigh bushes. He suddenly feels very wrong for beeing here. But it feels worser to just leave you here and go back home, pretending he hadn’t seen anything. So he makes his way inside, looking around until he spots you.

He goes over to you, his usually uplifted demanore not present. He never had to deal with something like that, but he knows he should be taktfull. He shouldnt push you. He sits next to you on the grass, looking at the ligth grey stone slab you are starring at. It’s a name and surename, the same as yours, two dates and a small, engraved bird. Whoever it was, they had a very short life, and Papyrus soul twists in sympathy. He asks you about them. 

You tell him everything, about your little brother who died to soon, how you visit him here every year on his birthday. You came here more often in the past, but your visits became less frequent. You rather remember the good times, then seeing this grey piece of stone. But you couldn’t leave your brother alone on his birthday. He listens to everything, a few tears escaping his eyesockets. He want’s to tell you that things will get better, lift your spirit like he usually alway does. But he doesn’t know what to say. So he puts an arm around your shoulder and listens to stories about how you two where chased by the neighboors dog or how you build sancastles by the sea.

UF Sans: Sans was to lazy to get his nose into other peoples bussines. But it was a completly othe thing if that bussines made your hands shake and your face look so lost. He let you go wherever you wanted to go, not questioning your halfassed excuse of taking a walk. But he wasn’t letting you go by yourself, just hell no!

He followes you with a short distance between you two, always teleporting when he risks beeing spoted. man he could have been an awesome detective…if it didn’t involve that much footwork. He follows you trough a small fence gate, a gravelpath leading up to somewhere he couldnt see yet. Trees framed the path on both sides, you had already left it. He stepped out into the open, and felt sick. Shit, he shouldn’t be here.

He was on a cemetery, some of the very old, weathered gravestones rigth at the entrance, the farther he walked the newer the dates were. He wanted to run, but some morbid curiosity pulled him along. He spotted you, sitting infront of a gravestone in the far back corner of the graveyard. He watched you from behind a tree, he just didn’t had the guts to face you rigth now. He saw your mouth move, whatevery you where saying to quiet for him to hear.

But the stone was what made his soul freeze to the core. Your last name, a different first name. A man. Two dates that where closer together then they ever should be on a gravestone. A boy. Younger then you, born after you. You had a brother you never told him. he teleported out of there, tears gathering in his eyes.

He remembers the one time Papyrus got heavily injured, his baby brother almost falling down. He remembered how awfull it felt, how helpless he was, how he almsot fell down himself out of sheer despair. And the reliefe he felt when his brother opened his eyes again. His soul twists painfully. You never felt that reliefe, your brother never opened his eyes again. He waits at home for you. He tells you what he saw. “sugar….how…what…what kind of kid was he?”

UF Papyrus: You bumped into each other in the middle of town, he was just coming back from work for lunch, and didn’t expect to run into you like that. He did hope to still catch you, maybe grab some lunch together. He really enjoyed cooking for you. But something seemed of about you today, so he kept quiet about that, asking you if everything was alrigth. You said yes, but you didn’t met his eyes. You tried to hurry away, but he held your arm, not firmly, but firm enough to at least stop you for a moment. You stopped instead o jsut shaking him off.

And you told him where you where going. You didn’T tell him why, just where. He decided to accompany you, he didn’t wanted to impose, but he wanted to help you somehow. Maybe he could be a reassuring presence, he was pretty good at that. And he was no stranger to death, he had to dust a few monsters himself, and he isn’t proud of it. He always attendet the funerals.

You both got there, you both sit down infront of the small gravestone in the middle of the cemetery, beneath a rough looking tree. You both don’t say anything, Papyrus lowering his gaze after reading the small writing on the dark stone. Your surname, a boys name, a short life. He can’t say anything, but when you start telling him about your favorite memory with your little brother he listens and smiles sadly.

MT Sans: Sans was a curious fella. His job kind of shaped him that way. If he wanted to know something, he got all information about it he could get his hands on. So when you suddenly left, leaving behind a strange excuse and nothing more, he had to know. So he followed you. At first you just strolled trough town, in no hurry, but with a direction in mind. Then you got to the quieter part of town, and Sans started to worry. Why would you go here? It wasn’t dangerous per se, but there where barely any people out here, no matter what hour of the day it was. Somebody could just snatch you away, and nobody would be any wiser. 

Then you enter truogh that one gate he hates crossing and the coin drops. He never went to the graveyard himself, to many people who lie there do this trough his hands, to many trough his mistakes. And it feels so wrong to follow you like that, especially to a place like this. But his curiosity is still strong, he just has to know. He follows you without a sound.

He finds you in the back, it’s not a special place, it looks like all the other parts of the graveyard. Stones, plants and earth, connected trough gravelpaths. You are sitting on the path infront of a grave, your head resting on your drawn up knees. He walks until he is behind you, his footsteps quiet enough to get a peak and be out of there without you notcing. But he sees the engraving and changes his mind.

It’s a simple piece of stone, with a couple of simple words in a simple font. It’s a name of a boy with your last name. It’s a date of birth and a date of death, showing a few happy years, but not enough. Such a short time. Sans face falls. He shouldn’t be here. But he is and now he has to deal with this. He puts a hand on your shoulder, kneeling behind you. He doesn’t want to know anymore, but he will listen if you want to share.

MT Papyrus: He was strolling trough the city, he often ran patrols, just to make sure there where no trouble from rivaling gangs, everybody had to…even though Sans often skipped on that part of the job. Then he spoted you, walking into on of the side alleys and he sped up, wanting rounding the corner and about to shout your name, when he sees you enter the graveyard. Why would you go there? You never told him about a dead friend or family memebr who was buried here.

He follows you, not out of curiosity of course, he was to great for something like that. He was just walking the same way as you where. He enters the large graveyard, there was only one in the town, so it grew in size over the years. There where a few trees providing shade from the midday sun, a few benches which where mostly empty. A few elder women and men sat there, taking a breather before continuing there walk. You where in the farther, newer part of the cemetery, sitting infront of a gravestone, looking up at the sky with an unreadable expression. 

Papyrus came closer, wringing his hands. He decided to follow you, so he couldn’t just back out of it now. And now he was standing beside you and didn’t knew what to say. The engraving on the stone was in cursive, beautifull but sad, displaying the few years a small boy lived before he passed away. To young to be here, to young to have his name engraved in one of this stones. He had your last name. Papyrus closed his eyes, his soul dropping in shared grief. He sat beside you, taking your hand. You sit ther in quiet until you suddenly rais your voice. “You know….he wanted to be a cowboy.”

(Ok, now I made myself sad ;-;)