save our homes

9

You don’t believe in anything. You gave up on life before you were even born… sat poisoning Cocoon from the inside, waiting for someone to come and destroy you. Sure, you think the end of the world is salvation. All you care about is death’s release. So take it, and leave the rest of us alone. We don’t think like that. When we think there’s no hope left, we keep looking until we find some. Maybe Cocoon is past saving, but it’s our home. And we’ll protect it or die trying! We live to make the impossible possible! That is our Focus!

9

guess who stayed up super late last night to make a matching GIFset from Heatwave’s PoV

Sketches including Kings Yuuri and Viktor from a fantasy au with @thelittleleprechaun, a sad Yurio and beat up Otabek from a high school au with @yuripliestsky, fem Otabek, and a very flustered older Yurio

8

Final Fantasy XIII Chapters | 13. Orphan’s Cradle |

“When we think there’s no hope left, we keep looking until we find some. Maybe Cocoon is past saving, but it’s our home. And we’ll protect it or die trying! We live to make the impossible possible! That is our Focus! “

A Letter to My Neighborhood

Meadow Road was uprooted in the sixties.
Back then, you learned to walk down its middle
before the cars came through.
Before Grandma could get sentimental
cement shot through the dirt and gravel
like a pipeline stricken- ushering
in suburban promises.
Hush went the sermons
of “love for thy neighbor”
of strawberry patch
dinner plates for thy neighbor.
Grandpa kept his green thumb
but lost track of the greenbelt
lost count of the engines
he’d fixed for a friendship.

My parents built a sun on top of the hill
there, where light ran West
into the mouth of the street
in attempt to cleanse the earth beneath.
I was warned not to stray
too close to its bottom
to leave fences be
so they’d never be trodden
and I’ve plead the Fifth
because it’s safer to save face
in our homes
than to admit there’s a problem
with being home.
When I got older
I started running down that river
when I noticed that Mom and Dad slept in separate beds
when Dad needed groceries at nine p.m.
I started running
when vacations ceased to mean escape
that summer in the cabin we lost Grandpa upstate.
I started running
when Grandma began to forget
when her hands became earthquakes
and when in passing it slipped
that my leaving wouldn’t cause bleeding.
I started running
when I realized mailbox names
had been replaced by numbers
and I didn’t know whether it was worse
that they meant nothing to me
or to know
each
and
everyone.

Then January hit and crisis became a virtue.
Our fence splintered and surrendered
to winter’s war until the wood
was no man’s
and a soldier broke through.
I spotted Olly’s speckled coat
his snout seizing blades
without boundary.
He’d escaped the pen, Mom heard.
I coaxed my neighbor
through yards I could never match a family to
dodged branches that grabbed for intruders
but it no longer felt rude
to trespass on strange land
because I was no longer doing things for the greater good
I was doing these things for a stranger good
and acres away, I broke into the neighbor’s gate
and gave Olly his homecoming.
I spoke more to him than I did the owner.
The woman’s eyes darted to the road, behind me
to the cars creeping towards us
like death, like the errands she needed to run
before they finally reached.
“The kids must have left the gate open. Thank you.”
With that her door closed
and the kids I’d never heard of
the lives I’d never learned of
crept back into the pen.
Uproot the pens
and uproot the fences
uproot our hands so they can they can make sense of the senses
uproot our voices so we can wipe the dirt that comes with them
uproot our love so I can know what family is again.
Meadow Road was uprooted in the sixties
but that doesn’t mean it can no longer grow.
Because I’ve seen cement that can crack 
I’ve seen yards that can be overrun
and I’ve seen pens that can be broken.

~V