You showed me water, then turned away,
left me rehearsing thirst all day.
Not even drink, just the outline,
a rumor of shade, a mirage design.
You gave me enough to rot my brain,
a single spark, then drought again.
Now here I am, sunburned, dry,
making deals with the passing sky.
I am not proud. I am not sane.
I would read footnotes scribbled in pain.
I would take scraps, deleted scenes,
bad metaphors and in-betweens.
You cannot tease what you will not feed
and act surprised when people plead.
That is not art. That is bait.
That is leaving someone half-alive to wait.
I am shrinking. I am dust with hope.
A dry little joke that learned to cope.
So come back, write, before I fade,
you made the desert, you owe the shade.
So honestly, tell me the rules, the fee,
the ritual sacrifice required of me
to earn a SEM spinoff, just a taste,
of those sweet high school days I crave.
i knew i shouldn't have answered that last ask yall always do this shit
Fine just take it then 😒😒😒
It takes Satoru fifteen minutes to realize you’re no longer in bed.
He’s rigorous in that regard. You barely get seconds away from him before he’s breathing down your neck.
“What’re you doing out here, baby?” He asks as he steps out onto the balcony. His voice is groggy from sleep. Behind you, there’s a yawn. “It’s cold.”
You say nothing as he climbs onto the patio sofa, sinking into your side. He leans over, bending down to press his face into the side of your neck. His touch slightly irritates the marks he left on your skin just hours ago. You don’t bother shifting away.
You were staring up at the bright, full moon. By tomorrow, it will start to shrink again. You won’t see it for a while after that.
“I couldn’t sleep,” you finally say, “today was a lot.”
Wedding preparations were ongoing. In a few months, you’d be married and Satoru would whisk you away to whatever spot in the world he wanted. It was rushed. Satoru was eager to get it done before the baby came.
You lightly press your belly. Just the tiniest bump. In a short while, it will be impossible to hide under oversized shirts.
“My parents called,” you suddenly say. Satoru is half-falling asleep on your shoulder.
He hums. “What’d they say?”
“That they’re coming. They’re excited.”
They’re happy.
Of course they would be. You didn’t know how you were able to hide your despair in your highschool years, constantly pretending that your boyfriend wasn’t slowly killing you. Your parents just knew Satoru as the boisterous rich kid who was good to their child. They saw your upcoming wedding as highschool sweethearts that couldn’t stay apart any longer.
“Thats good,” Satoru says. “My folks are happy too. Everyone’s coming together to see us.”
Happy. You linger on that word.
“Are you happy?” You ask.
“Yeah,” comes his answer.
You shake your head. “That’s not what I mean.”
You turn to him. He’s as beautiful as always. The city lights illuminates his face, making his skin look softer. He’s staring up at the moon, transfixed.
“Does this make you happy?”
His gaze flicks down to look at you. The thin camisole and shorts you wear feel like scraps against the night air.
He smiles.
“Yeah. It does.” He tells you just before he kisses you.
Strange. He’s said so many worse things to you. Called you names. Berated you. Tortured you.
Yet this, was the most hurtful.
















