And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.
Once, when you were seven, you came into the kitchen and asked mum: “Does my name begin with the letter P because P is the 16th letter of the alphabet and I was born on June 16th and is Sarah just Sarah because S is 19th letter and she was born on the 19th day of June?”
you have never hurt me and i don’t think you ever will. you filled a very sad part of my life with laughter. online friendship feeling better than the real thing. it’s funny because before two weeks ago– i only heard your voice through music and poetry. no bullshit, just genuine love. all of my favorite things in one soul. when i let go of my razors, you said that’s my champ. when they love me, you make sure that i’m certain. is it really love or was it because they said the right words at the right time? the right person can still be wrong for you. your methods are light. your methods are simple. you cannot force love. you can only free it. like how da vinci sketched– he’d buy caged birds just to give them flight. like in fight club when the narrator finally let Tyler Durden go by shooting himself in the cheek– sometimes you have to kill a piece of yourself to save the whole. like how tupac will always love jada– even if death arrives, the impact shall remain. like how shane koyczan writes about his darling sara– the failing use of my right hand will never stop me from writing. there are soulmates and then there’s you. maybe you’re my twin flame. maybe you’re my balance. a response for all of my elements. if i am fire, you’re a barrel of gasoline. vent, rant. it does not matter, just don’t break your other hand. punch the pen into the sky instead– let the ink make the stars happy. let the hole become the moon. if i am water, you are my reflection. calm, breathe. just like that. sway your emotions into the sea, give the ocean its blue. be my sunrise. be my sunset. the greeks had gods to explain their natural world– and i’ve got you. my poetics. my prose. my bleeding heart used to play spin the bottle by my exes and it’s always in my head, in a metaphor, in a maze, in a love letter, in a paper crane, in a cootie catcher, in my bad habits– so i met her at 4 am– so i’ll meet you at 4 am, everyday. is that okay?
Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x OFC
| Word Count: 5256 Warnings: Minor abuse, minor violence, French
which may or may not be correct, Smut, NSFW
Taking the stairs three at a time, Loki arrived swiftly at the
open door to the children’s room only to find Marabeth yanking Sara up from the
floor by her arm. The girl was clearly trying to keep herself between her
mother and brother who cowered against his bed, stuffed bear hugged close.
Leaning casually against the door frame, Loki crossed his arms,
stating loudly, “Such a ruckus so late in the evening. Why, I am certain not
even the crows of Asgard are so noisy.” He may be seeing through a haze of red,
ready to gut the woman who was the spitting image of her own abusive and
unloving mother, but he would do nothing to make the children Lauren loved fear
Marabeth, still dressed in one of her boring suits, hair askew and
makeup smeared, straightened quickly. Her head snapped around to level a look
his way. “Children can be unruly. My apologies if they disturbed you.”
It was not the children but the garish woman herself who disturbed
him. “Children are children. It is in their nature to be loud and often
sticky.” He tilted his head, smiling for Sara. Her eyes showed no fear, only
anger and a desire to protect her brother. A surge of pride filled him for she
was strong, resilient, and a fighter. “I am sure your aunt would be happy to
read to you again this evening. Collect a book, darlings and head for her
The failing use of my right hand isn’t actually the failing use of my right hand, it’s just another way to tell the time. And I’m ticking. So I’ve been picking myself up at bars with a bottle in each hand, but I never give myself any play. I just make plans with myself for the day after next. By the time the sun swings back around into position I forget the context of why I asked myself out in the first place. Did I think I was going to score?
I let a stranger pour me one more. She says,” my name is Sara”. Doesn’t take much more than that to start a relationship. My darling Sara cleans rooms for a living, giving her youth and beauty to dirt and dust. Understands more than most that family must be the foot you put forward first, you must weather the worst together. But, having never met her family, she places love above all else, then protests that I use the word love too freely in poems, and I should really just say what I mean. And I suppose what I mean most is that; I’m trying.
She’s been buying me time on a maxed out credit card, arms scarred from selling her own blood to pay down the debt. Tells me she doesn’t mind going broke so long as I can give her a little sweat. She says, “try”. So I do my best impression of a pen, and when every problem looks like a page I commit ink to paper. And the worth of the words that come out determines my wage. I’ve been making enough to pay her the compliment of not quitting, of not sitting when standing is required.
She only asks that I put the effort in, and in return she’s willing to pin a paper heart to her chest, then do her best impression of a target. She says that effort is the Siamese twin of success. So when everyone else looks like a wrong answer, she says she’ll settle for being my best guess. So we lie in bed like a mess that someone’s been meaning to clean for the large part of a long while. We lie there like a pile of dirty laundry, and how we’ll ever come clean is beyond me. So we don’t. She says, “it’s supposed to be dirty, and if by the end you haven’t hurt me then you didn’t try”.
So I do my best impression of a surgeon, going in, cutting purple hearts out of my own, use my veins like thread. Then have hurt sewn to our skin like medals, because when the bleeding stops, and that dust settles, all we have are our wounds to wear like decorations upon our chest. Sara does her best impression of a war, tells me not to count my pride among the casualties because maybe faith means never keeping score. She says there’s more to effort than just switching gears, and in terms of what one should give in this life sweat holds more value than tears.
You have to try, and even though the failing use of my right hand means I’ll never land a knockout punch in the first round, life is composed of sound and fury, and whatever noise is left in me will be twice as loud when I try. So I plug myself into the idea of going the distance and I amplify.
My darling, Sara has a throat like a vase that sings her words into bloom. She’s got a voice like perfume. It’s been sticking to my clothes, so everyone knows where I’ve been sleeping. She’s been keeping me so close you could use my body for evidence; pull her fingerprints as proof that she’s been on top so often she’s starting to look like my roof. But a real sexy roof, and she doesn’t leak, unless you count the crying. She does that sometimes, worries that she’s just a back up plan.
My darling, Sara, I’ve lived long enough to learn too many choices can destroy a man. I will make no exodus. I’ll be around long enough to watch uncertainty bid us farewell, then echo our names into the crater caused by the impact of when our lack of conviction fell. You’ve never had to sell me on the idea of absolute certainty in the trustworthiness of another.
The first and only time you met my mother, mom said, “I like the way she looks at you”. And I echoed back to her that I liked it too. Eyes like recycle bin blue. Sara looks at broken things as if she can make them new, and more than a few times I’ve caught her staring. Caught her wearing a smile reserved for those busy making plans. Sara believes that distance is a fundamental that can be side-stepped by a piece of string and two tin cans, and I remember when my tin can rang.
They said, “there’s no family to speak of so love is next in line, and there’s not a lot of time, but she’s asking for her boyfriend.”
In the cab to the hospital I feel my heart bend as if bracing for impact. So I do my best impression of a man and face fact. It’s supposed to hurt. A doctor does his best impression of the truth, and spares me attempts to skirt around the issue. They can’t stop the bleeding, and the failing use of Sara’s heart isn’t actually the failing use of Sara’s heart, it’s just another way to tell the time. My darling, Sara, I was holding your hand when you died, and even though the failing use of my right hand prevented me from feeling you leave, I tried.
My Darling Sara, Shane Koyczan and the Short Story Long