The Cathedral of Ink

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𓊈How to Behave at Hollowspire Heights University𓊉

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༒︎No bullying (Cruel words, homophobia, transphobia, judging, etc.) ༒︎No harsh, unnecessary criticism. Some is okay but there is a right way to go about it. ༒︎Create a safe zone ༒︎We credit beautiful/handsome writers, we do not steal work and post as our own. ༒︎If you have a piece that you've written and want to share, please do! Writing brings together 🕮The Ink Scribe encourages and embraces new things; we do not disrespect the ancient halls of Hollowspire. If these rules are broken you will be expelled from Hollowspire Heights University, these are rules that will be taken seriously. consequences are dire. Since that's out of the way finally...🕮 ⚘Please let me officially welcome you to Hollowspire Heights University young Ink Walker, and where your words from your fantasy become your reality.⚘

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁

My Darling calls me ‘handsome’ and ‘perfect’ and a ‘prince’ but she doesn’t see the way I look at her when she’s not looking. The way her hair falls in her face, and even when it’s greasy or a mess I still think she’s the most beautiful girl in the world, the girl I’d put a ring on with nothing but a cringy line like ‘Would you catch them all with me for the rest of our lives’ because she loves Pokémon so much. She doesn’t see the way I look at her eyes when they’re brighter than the sky on a clear summer day or how it’s my favorite shade of blue. 

My Darling tells me she sees someone incredible when she looks at me but she doesn’t know that when I look at her and suddenly the world goes quiet, the thoughts telling me I’m not good enough and that I’ll never be the man she needs me to be go silent, the world narrows down to the way she meets my gaze, sky meeting grassy mud, though just the thought of her makes the red rise up in my cheeks until a smile blooms like May flowers that bloom after the April rain, the way my heart gives an extra thump and suddenly the rage that always bubbles in my ribs like a cauldron threatening to overflow goes silent.

My Darling says she loves me and my bones feel like Jello, my heart swells until it’s too big for my chest cavity, my legs wanna give out, and the only thing I can think of is how perfect she is. She’s the love of my life, my soulmate. It sounds cringy but let them talk, I won’t be ashamed of how I’d cradle her, of how I’d give her flowers and learn how to do hair so I can make her feel like the prettiest girl on Earth, cause she is, she’s my girl. Even when society tells us we’re too young to know what forever looks like.

My Darling is my forever, my one and only, if I don’t have her then I don’t want anyone else. “There’s plenty of fish in the sea” but I’m the fish and the fisherman who caught me didn’t see the scars and trauma I suffered as something to throw back into the sea to find something soft, and pristine, she looked at me like I was the most handsome fish out there, and the little boy who lives in the cavernous hole that used to be my chest now has pictures of memories and poems and words that are too big for his little body to understand.

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁

The world faded to a soft, dream-like feel; the world around was warm again, as warm as it could get. I was back in eighth grade, talking to the short blonde girl who made me feel safe enough to talk to her, even though I hid everything. I was the new kid, the one who didn’t belong, but she did. She made me feel like I had a place, even if she was struggling herself. I remember English class, remember how I felt the first time I saw her. It was a connection, like something clicked, like the universe was telling me ‘She’s gonna save you, but she needs you to save her too.’

I took on that challenge willingly.

It was rough, I remember the bumps and boulders and mountains that kept us apart at first, the distance that felt impossible, the way I genuinely thought I was about to lose the only person I wanted to stay. I got lucky; she chose to stay when I didn’t deserve it, she chose me when I pulled away out of fear. I remember falling backwards and not telling anyone, I remember how horrible lonliness felt before I finally wanted it to stop.

The stinging on my body was like poison to everything around me, including myself. I remember when I finally let her in completely, when I finally listened to that warmth that constantly told me this was okay, that she wasn’t leaving truly, and that was the day I truly knew what friendship was.

She taught me that ups and downs were normal, that not everyone acts like I don’t exist when they’re mad at me, that I’m not a failure because I feel emotions. She doesn’t leave me or get scared when I text her paragraphs about how much I wanna destroy things or how much I hate someone because I was born screwed over.

I’ll forever remember she’s my favorite person, the blonde to my brunette, blue to my green, Peep to my Tracy, platonic Ian to my Mickey, Jade to my Tori, Draculaura to my Clawdeen, and the Russian to my German. But then I wake up, reality crashes in, the negative returns. But in the end?

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁

The sounds drifted through earbuds almost hypnotically as my fingers danced across the keyboard like they belonged. The notes danced around my head like cartoon sheep, skipping and jumping into different beats. The way the lyrics hopped between sweet and sad, quiet and loud, it was dissociating in a sense.

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁

“What do you wanna be?”

I wanna be heard I wanna be seen I wanna be me I wanna be perfect

But I can’t be that can I?

I’m quiet I’m hidden I’m her I’m flawed

But a boy can still wish, can’t he?

I wish to be cured I wish to be healed I wish to be loved I wish to be treasured

But the broken don’t get to wish for silly things such as that.

I’ll forever be poisoned I’ll forever be sick I’ll forever be scarred I’ll forever be replaceable

“That’s just life,” they say “Just get over it,” they say “You’re playing victim,” they say “You’re just a kid playing adult.” They say.

But I’m not that little kid anymore. I’m older, wiser, and cautious now. My heart guarded like Alcatraz.

I wanna be grown I wanna be living I wanna be thriving I wanna be me

And I will. I will be what I wanna be because I want it and I have the will to go through with it.

I will be heard I will be seen I will be me

And I will because I choose to be.

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁

You’ve told me every flaw, the flaws you hate that exist, the flaws I love like they’re precious. You’ve told me every flaw, the flaws you hate that exist, the flaws that feel like claws digging into your skin, the flaws that are ripping through bones to disfigure you in every mirror you look in and lie in your ear like a hissing snake. You’ve told me your flaws, so keep telling me your flaws.

You’ve told me every flaw, the flaws I cradle like treasured secrets that represented your trust in my vaulted hands. You’ve told me every flaw, the flaws that I keep behind welded lips and Alcatraz heart because you deserve that respect, even if everyone else believes in a system that betrays you at every corner. You’ve told me every flaw, the flaws I believe aren’t flaws at all, so keep telling me your flaws.

You’ve told me every flaw, the flaws that bloom like flowers and look like the sunset over the ocean. You’ve told me every flaw, the flaws I know feel like acid on your skin, flaws that look like the warts and wrinkly skin of a witch. You’ve told me every flaw, the flaws that I’ll forever believe look more beautiful than the monstrous image that was cruelly put into your head by those who don’t understand.

You’ve told me every flaw, the flaws you think scare people away, the flaws that you believe will make you lonely. You’ve told me every flaw, but keep telling me those flaws. Because where you see a monster, I see beauty, I see light, I see a bright girl who never asked for the darkness placed on her shoulders. You think your flaws scare everyone, but your beauty never ever scared me.

You’ve told me every flaw, so keep telling me them so I can love you through the pain, and walk you through every episode until you see what I see because you’re my best friend.

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁

The Shape-Thief, a monster I was never prepared to deal with. Outsiders claim it’s harmless because it’s “not real,” but they don’t watch it distort every mirror until I don’t recognize the person staring back at me. The Shape-Thief, a creature that digs its long, sharp claws into my skin, the way it whispers, “You’re built wrong,” while trying to reshape my skin in the cruelest ways. The Shape-Thief, its presence lingers long after it’s gone, a promise of return that poisons the mind slowly by whispering its fables that become my truths. The Shape-Thief, it doesn’t quit until I’m believing fiction and trapped in my own head, thinking “I’m broken,” and “My skin feels wrong.” The Shape-Thief, a creature supposedly misunderstood, Outsiders call it a miracle worker; I call it a thief. A monster. A liar.

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁

The Wrong Body project, a project that a girl signed up for without realizing she did, a project that changed her mind more than her actual body. The Wrong Body project is a project many have gone through and come out worse than before, or better in some cases, but not this girl’s case. The Wrong Body project brought her in after she asked why she felt so wrong, why her mind felt like it was in a war against itself, a war she fought for so long that she just got used to it, a war that became her. The Wrong Body project, a project meant to save this little girl from something she never understood. But instead broke her and her relationships.

The MisMatched Body project, a project that spat them out and left them with consequences they never realized they weren’t ready for. From the war worsening in their mind to looking in the mirror and hating their shell. Scars that the girl from before didn’t have littered their body, arms and thighs, stomach and hips. Marks of the Shameful, they called them. But The MisMatched Body Project wasn’t all that bad, it made the kid think about who they were, really think about who they were.

The True Body Project is the project that helped the boy figure things out. The boy looks at his scars and doesn’t see shame anymore. From Marks of the Shameful to the Marks of the Beauty, from being built with the wrong parts to completely rebuilding himself in his own image instead of being a mirror to others. From Wrong to True, false identity to true identity.

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁

He’s such a monster; he can’t control himself. His anger is volcanic, and his happiness is fabricated. People hate him, and why wouldn’t they? They have every reason to hate him when he’s happy one minute, then exploding a second later, nobody wants love something so red in the face. He’s so hateful, ungrateful, and selfish in ways that everyone notices, but he never does because he’s so stuck in his ways. His anger will get him in trouble; he’s gonna end up being alone and seen as the poison, the cancer, because that’s all he is, isn’t he? Just a needy, pathetic little boy who can’t express himself besides through his fists, venomous words, and looks so piercing that it makes people look the other way.

I don’t think I’m that bad. I like to help support people through tough, sensitive times. I try to sit and listen when no one else will, I make notes to try and be as helpful as possible because I’m not perfect, I don’t know how this works, but I still try. I know I can be angry, but I don’t know why I feel this way; maybe it was the trauma. Growing up around people who screamed to be heard, fists were a defence, lies were truth, and keeping emotions locked away was safety. How does one unlearn such things? I don’t know why I ended up this way; my head is a mess of thoughts I can’t explain that I wish I could, but words fail me. You understand, right?

He’s toxic He’s pathetic He’s selfish

But God is

He’s generous He’s humble He’s supportive

He’s the monster in everyone’s story; I’m the boy that nobody sees.

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁

I want an Apology.

An apology for the mistreatment An apology for the anger An apology for the fear you instilled in me An apology for the years you abandoned me.

I want the Apology.

The apology for teaching me to shut down The apology for teaching me love is toxic The apology for teaching me substances were escape The apology for teaching me innocence is wrong to have

I want your Apology.

Your apology for changing me Your apology for abandoning me Your apology for lying to me Your apology for keeping me in the dark

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁

݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁ᛪ༙݁

Responsibilities are easy, they say, yet I’m sitting there stone-faced and cracking while listening to the venom spewed from a hypocrite’s mouth. Responsibilities are easy, they say. That’s what they all call it, even when they wrap around my throat like a noose because I’m overwhelmed and shut out from the warm understanding that others get so freely.

I learned young that responsibilities were draining, babysitting children who were allowed to disrespect me because they became my mother’s mirror while she sank into her own funk with alcohol. Cycle around and around and around like wheels on a motorcycle, nothing changes, but everything has changed.

Man after man until finally one claimed to stay, but still that paternal feeling in my chest that mixes with the rage that bubbles like a potion overflowing in a cauldron. The warmth and toxicity combine into a toxic comfort that I hold close and use as fuel to get through the day. Responsibilities are easy, they say. Responsibilities are only “easy” when distributed as equally as possible.

Responsibilities are only “easy” when you’re taught how to handle them and do them properly, instead of shutting down when things are overwhelming, instead of standing there and staring at the task like it’s a snake about to swallow you whole. Responsibilities are easy, they say. But the responsibility of fighting with siblings and being in the wrong all the time is draining, of being forced to spend all day washing and folding everyone’s laundry until I slack off and have no energy to do homework.