#anonymail

Tu me manques: you are missing from me. No, not quite: not missing; not gone; not lost. Elsewhere. Elsewhere and somewhere and I didn’t know, when the first petals slipped form the stalk, when the white lies were to myself explaining hesitation. I won’t again. We’ll be fine.

I found a petal on my bed, crushed by a weight from tired nights, missed by eyes weary from math. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Elsewhere.

Where are you? Will you answer?: not the question; no, not will; do you want to? You are missing from me. Do you want to be?

Don’t die. I can’t do this again. I won’t. Come back: you are missing: I am missing, I am lost. No lies, but white noise is the same; static in my ears, muffled music, constantly; something missing, that melody. Come back.

Dried roses across the hallway; I jostled them today. The dust, scattering, shuffling, a single petal falling. The others are loose; another time, but already prepared; come back, I’m worried about you.

I am not missing from you. But you are everything to me.

I’m sorry you feel bad, hun! It can be frustrating when you can seem to do everything but help yourself. My suggestion is to take some time for yourself, and of course ask for support from your friends where you feel it is needed. You don’t need to carry your burdens alone, your friends (and also us mods here!) love you and want to help you get through this. Asking for help is a sign of strength, you don’t have to go through this alone.

Amuse Me - one character trying to cheer up another

I promise I’ll be nicer to them

Death stood from where they had been seated on the couch, moving to where an ever-growing collection of debatably valuable DVDs were on the shelf. “I bet that I know something that will improve your mood.”

“Fuck, is this about to be a ‘I actually like this’ or a ‘I can’t focus on my own problems because I’m cringing too much’ type of improvement?” Though there had been the one incident with burning The 300, even the most awful movies had simply retired to a dusty demise on their shelf. “That it’s on a DVD and not on Netflix is not a good sign.”

Death stopped, turning just long enough to give her a flat look. “If you would prefer to watch American Gods and be traumatized again, that’s your choice, but then I’m leaving.”

“There’s other shit available. Black Mirror has a new season.”

“I thought you wanted to be cheered up.”

“Better than whatever’s on that DVD,” Pride said pointedly.

“Can’t cry from depression if you’re crying from secondhand embarrassment.” Death pulled one from the shelf, grimacing at the dust that followed.

“Speak for yourself.” She stood. “Well, if this is about to turn into one of those nights, then I’ll get a drink.” Walking into the kitchen, her eyes caught on the blender where it stood on the counter. A small grin creeped onto her face. “You should join me in the drinking fun,” Pride called back into the other room.

Without turning, Death called back, “You know I can’t get physically drunk.”

“This won’t be a matter of alcohol.”

“That is the opposite of reassuring.” After a minute, Death appeared from the living room. “What are you—“ He stopped at the sight of the blender.

“I can be alone in my suffering,” Pride said, pulling chili oil out of a cabinet, “or I can make a drink that’s about equal and we can suffer together.” There was no mistaking the sadistic joy coming with whatever hell drink she had in mind.

“You’re married?”

“You almost sound disappointed.” The amusement in Death’s tone was evident.

“I’m judging them just a little,” Karyn said. “Although I’m surprised it took this long to find out.”

“You have no right to know about my private life,” Death said, frowning.

“It has been a month of this predicament, though. Like god, I’m dying a little being away from my parents and Diana so long.”

“What do you think I’m doing when I leave during the day? Walk amongst the locals?” Death asked incredulously. “Besides,” he continued, tone softening, “Pride has enough of her own problems without dragging these sorts of things into it.”

“Pride?” Karyn raised an eyebrow. “Is that a particularly awful parent’s choice or a nickname?”

“Neither. A title. A fitting one, for a pirate who carries herself like a queen.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“We’re peer pressuring them to take care of themselves.”

“It’s going about as well as you would imagine,” Mother Nature grumbled. “They’ll get poisoning from those paints before they wake up before noon.”

“They wake up before noon, they just fall back asleep around eight a.m.,” Time pointed out. “Works for them.”

“‘m plenty awake,” Universe mumbled. “Just doing nothing.” Their head threatened to fall off of MN’s shoulder at any given second.

“That doesn’t count.”

They shrugged with the shoulder that wasn’t immobilized against MN’s. “’ll do something later. Evening.”

“Like actually go to your classes?”

Universe grimaced. “Sure.” They opened one eye to look at a clock. “’S Tuesday, right?”

MN frowned. “It’s a Monday.”

“They’re all the same.”

Universe sat up in a manner that made it out to be the most difficult task in the world. “I’ll go to class now. What’d we have to drink?”

“There’s some milk in the fridge.”

MN looked over at Time. “That milk is a week expired. Why is it still in there?”

Either Universe failed to hear her or failed to care, because they crossed the room into the small kitchen and retrieved the carton all the same.

“You’re going to poison yourself in more ways than one.”

“’Ve got lactose pills.”

“No you don’t.”

“Then I’ll die.” Universe shrugged, pulled a tall glass out of the cupboard, and filled it without breaking eye contact. Slitted eyes still matching MN’s concerned gaze, they downed the entire thing. They raised their eyebrows, but their eyes failed to widen, and instead returned to a barely-open squint as they put away the carton. “I have half an hour to go to class before it all goes to shit. Should be plenty.”

“Awful joke, even for you.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you remember when we first met?”

“Not really.”

“It was snowing, and we were waiting for the same bus. You had some on your nose, and you made a comment on how both of your nostrils were on flames of ice.”

“Did I really? Because I remember you pointed out the snow first, and then said that I looked like Rudolph.”

“Okay, that might have also happened. My statement was true.”

“If you insist.”

“Would I lie to you on the day of our anniversary?”

“It’s not our anniversary?”

“Isn’t it? Even so, every day deserves to be treated like it’s a special day.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.”

...

“You know, this is why I love you.”

“Because I always tell the truth and nothing but the truth?”

“Because you’re cute.”

(I’m assuming that you want something a little less esoteric than Angels.)

You’re not quite sure who spread the idea that angels have wings (you’re grateful, though) but it’s not quite true, how they draw you: two wings, a halo, white and robed - you’re none of those those things. You wore a halo once for fun, and a human consumed with rage at that thought that you dared pretend beat you and tore the glitter from over your head.

Do no harm, you told yourself then. You cannot save him from Wrath; only prevent yourself from tainting your soul.

The only truth to their arrogant lies are the eyes, those eyes, your piercing eyes; the ones which stopped the hands so wrathful with fear, so wide and watching. You draw ones onto your forehead and neck and feet and hands and the rest just blend in; the subway hums and they do not see that those marker-reminiscent pupils turn and watch the sins in the air.

They do not see what they do not know is not simply drawn on to you, and so you go about your day with silver that glows against your skin and eyes that pick up the little words, their judging tones, and you do nothing; if they cannot love those familiar strangers as they so Pridefully love themselves, you pass by.

Sometimes, they will think they know what you are. They never do.

Other times, they will think you are an object which they own, their Greed at the sight of your pure and soft-edged features so perfect for their Lustful wishes. You do not push back but simply fly and take to a sky which has not held Heaven in its boughs since you left home to protect this scarred earth. Even without wings, your hands are tools which open holy doors and stained glass mars your image well enough.