so, i rot

deer

they/them

butch lesbian

tortured artist (unironic)

There should be a way to save your mother.

A way that is noble, and kind, and instantaneous;

A way that saves her from her mother, and her mother’s mother.

The problem comes in the fact that she does not want to be saved.

Your mother thrives in these conditions, she thrives in worse ones,

Both the center of attention and perpetual victim,

A martyr so endlessly suffering that she is equivalent to

A modern day Christ figure, pure and sinless.

The spear stabs into the lamb’s tender flesh,

And its blood is bright red and gleaming as it coats

Wool so white and fresh that there is a question of exactly

When it was born, still sticky with birth.

And your mother looks down at you from the other end,

And when you look back, she’s already turned to the crowd,

Smearing lambsblood and your own pain across herself

So she can spread her arms wide and work herself to tears.

Your mother could be saved. All mothers can be saved.

But they prefer to save themselves. It’s easier, that way.

She absolves herself of her sin, and upholds herself as the lamb,

Kicking your frail little body under the lectern, out of sight, out of mind.

When she knits together her baby’s lambskin, coated in your blood,

She presents herself to the flock with tearless cries and martyrdom,

And the flock has never cared for your tiny bleating, they like hers more,

So they don’t notice that you’re gone, or who she wears.

Mothers do not want to be saved. Your mother does not want to be saved.

No matter how many sacrificial lambs are bled and skinned,

She will absolve herself of all sin, becoming her own savior,

Again and again I retry, Again and again, to be better, Again and again, and yet, Again and again I return.

A piece of me still lingers Within the trailer I was raised, And a piece of me still lingers In the broken car of my mother.

The cycle returns us all To the last place we were. It knows nothing else but return, The same as I can only try.

A rubber band stretched too far, Rome spread too thin, All that is returns to the inevitable "Was".

The future skips me over, and over. For all the love in this world, I can only keep it within myself. To extend it outward would be To be known - to be known is to be loved, To be loved is to be perceived.

To the stars and back again, We have traveled time infinite, And somehow we remain Ever so unsatisfied.

Creatures of knowledge, As much as art and tenderness, And thus we are never full, Always hungry and wanting.

But every time we fall, There is someone waiting. Every time we return, There is someone by the door.

Oh, Gabriel, mother fair, I ask you for one truth; I am still your own, am I not? Still running from the golden trumpet.

I cannot be the mediator, The lilies in my hair have wilted, But Gabriel, mother fair, Please tell me I am still your own.

I have traded downy wings For a lover's weary sigh, But this, too, I have failed, And I am left without.

Matcha green and moon yellow, Vanilla stains upon your heart, A moth's wing, silver-bright, Dances on a sunbeam's edge.

Whispers coil like forest fire smoke, Where dew-kissed violets sleep, Bare feet brush the sleeping moss, While silent willows weep.

I had never said forever, Or insisted upon a bond of souls, Such things are for poetry, Soft whispers and promises.

I do not believe in forever, I think we’re free to leave any time. Life is not composed of poetry, And I cannot promise anything.

Tomorrow comes, and leaves, And so the cycle repeats. I wish I could be the child That loved the child in you.

The rotting corpse of a coyote Is on my front porch. There is no smell, no pests, Just a corpse.

It searched once, For a house, and I knew, I knew this would end Poorly.

I feel bad for it. Guilty. If I had opened the door, Maybe this could Have ended differently.

But the door stayed closed. The body rots, And not even nature Wants to claim it.

I’ve played this game before. Hours upon hours spent exploring, Trying new dialogue options, Hoping that I can do it differently.

In the end, the same characters die. The story goes the same way. All my choices were for a sense of control, Not an actual act of change.

I have played this game before. New models, new textures, new names, But by the time we’re halfway through, I recognize the patterns.

There is one way it ends, I realize, All my purple dialogue options for not. You still appeal to my love. You still assure me it will be different.

I promise you that no one, No one wants to believe you Quite as much as me. I’d like it to be different.

But you’re repeating the same script. I mean, it’s word for word. I wonder if the devs got lazy? Either way, it doesn’t matter.

I have a backbone made of sand, Crumbling at the hint of or pressure, Never quite making it to shining glass, I am as kind as I am allowed to be, And somehow people push that to its limits.

I will fold as easily as paper, creased yet whole, I will give grace so bold that it hurts, Giving benefits disallowed to me, And even when I am told to let the lost cause go, The urge to try one last time lingers.

It is a curse I cannot escape, and it haunts me, And I love it, care for it, tend to it, A garden built and grown atop corpses, Of dead versions of me, poor little girls, Because what else would I do with the space?

I have found that people love to weed, They love to pull out anything green, Especially when asked not to, And every day I replant what they have stolen, Because what else would I do?

Come to me, here, come to me, here, It’s said back and forth like a conversation, And we go, and we return, and we long, And then we repeat the cycle.

I love you. Come to me, here? It’s not fair, that you have to leave, That I must wait to go to you, there, That the boundaries of land exist at all.

We need magic, and money, And awful things to happen to people in power. In the mean time, we have each other, Letters, and poetry, and memory.

We have the future, lingering, happy, Promising something quiet, and kind, And free from the horrors of our parents, Freer still from the horrors of the world.

I stood a chance, once, Strong against the currents. There was hope in the future, The past growing restful, And there was a chance,  One so beautiful, and glorious, No more crossing stars.

Like all of them, though, It blinked out, like a blown bulb, Flickering, flickering, dead, Room bathed in an after image. I could see it if I closed my eyes, Like brilliant foreshadowing.

There is always a new one, The world offers it so sweetly, But the horror is that I know I will not take it. You cannot fight fate.

I’d like to. I want to. I won’t. I can’t, or maybe that’s Just wistful thinking,  Ignoring a fatal flaw.

There forth they go, Child of Gabriel, Lilies in their hair, harp in their hands, A bearer of bad news so dark, And desperately twisted, That it feels almost comical, Coming from a face so round.

Eyes like a doe, with speckled wings, And downy hide, spotted with gold. How lovely it is to be anything at all, And, equally, how miserable; Mediator, speaker, protector, and lastly, Most viciously, most recently, A failure.

It’s okay, they know it. It’s why they move, The world crumbles around them, And they ignore it, head down, With fingers twitching like a rabbit's nose. How tragic, to be bore from this fruit, And how awful, to not regret it.

After all, the spoil of the tender skin Is what makes the retrospective glaring; The rot of flesh is what gives way to A love so dear that it cannot be shed, No matter how hard one tries.

And oh, they have tried. Yet, it remains. Failure, yes, Tragedy and misery made corporeal, And so very full of love, and unable, Unwilling, To try and peel it from their frame.

Blessed be the children of Gabriel, Destined forever to be the bearers of bad news. Carried forth by unseen forces, Feet light, hearts heavy, Knowing that in the end, Oh, the end, They will raise a burnished trumpet to their lips, And once again the world will crumble.

Blessed be the children of Gabriel, Toiling as the mediator, White lilies in their hair, And a wailing in their throats, (That they are not allowed to release).

Blessed be the children of Gabriel, Wielding no burning sword, No plated staff, No glorious light, But instead a dim lantern, And the hopes that the trumpet never finds their hands. Please, don’t let it find their hands.

Blessed be the children of Gabriel, With our pearl tears, And scathing dreams, Where we hold a woman as she cries, And assure her that she could not know, How dangerous fruit could be.

For beasts of riddles, simplicity was favored, And there was nothing more simple, Than the quick utterance of, ‘What the fuck?’ Said with passion, their eyes narrowing,

The threadbeast stared cross the river, As if it held a secret, or an answer, Like the stream would bring forth A new chance, or a redo, Or maybe just take this knowledge away, And they uttered the words again.

And again. And again… And their sister stared as well, Horror on her face just the same. Her nose crinkled, and her ears low, She joined their chanting, Over and over, Until it felt like they had communicated An entire sonnet with those three words.

‘This is disgusting.’ The ribbonbeast said, Drawing into herself, wings wrapping Around her like a protective shroud. ‘This is horrible.’ She added, As her tail swished angrily.

‘What the fuck?!’ The threadbeast settled on, Claws scraping the ground as they paced, Suddenly needing to move, Before they quite literally died.

Many things could be brought to them, Most commonly riddles, Adventurers, trails, heartaches, But the worst brought to them was always, Always, always, always, Knowledge.

‘I feel sick.’ The ribbonbeast told her sister, ‘I do, too.’ Her sister said, ‘I don’t know what to do.’ ‘Should we kill them?’ Their sister asked, ‘Maybe? Would it help?’ She replied. ‘I’m not sure. I think they come back.’

There is no way to rid oneself, Not completely, of the one that bore you, Nor the one that attaches itself, To such a creature.

Perhaps once it could have been as the beasts, Bound in something, and untangling, But it chose instead to twist itself, unseemly, Blighted and bastardized, Into a monster even those of riddles could not name.

For what did you name something like this? Perverted and cruel, delighting in misery, Bloated and vile, a corpse floating in water, Leaving behind residue on all it touched?

There was nothing to name it. There was nothing to do. ‘I think we should leave.’ The threadbeast said, ‘Is it trying to look like me?’ Their sister asked. ‘I think so.’ They looked at the thing - Corpse?

Maybe it was once something. Maybe it could have been. Maybe it never was.

Twisted and strange, reaching and touching, Trying to create, and force, and be, The threadbeast wondered if it was malicious, Or if it was so devoid of thought, It could not see past its own hedonism, Taking and claiming no matter who it hurt. Which was better? Which was worse?

I want to be okay, But I think I may be Too weak To actually do it.

I think it needs Someone strong, And capable, And I think I’m not.

It’s okay. Something will Change. It has to.

There is no God That I can believe in, Letting this happen, But I believe in luck.

And I believe in Kindness, and love, And I think something Will change.

My species is kind, Even if the world is not, And people love me, Even if my mother can’t.