“Do it with passion or not at all.”

He thinks of the circus on the nights he cannot sleep, when the thunder is rattling his windows and the wind is howling through the slits of the doors as though they were the whistles of the ghosts. He thinks of the colours that flash with billowing tents and the costumes that the women bend and melt their bodies to and how the hat would sit on the leaders head with an air of pride. He thinks of the pride that consumes him when he thinks of the food that was pure sugar and salt, that made his hands sticky and his stomach swollen. He thinks of the smells. The grass that smelled burnt. The smell of the perfume and the chalk dusting the performer’s hands. The smell of the citrus from the fresh lemonade. He thinks of the daily winks from the bearded lady and the flush that would travel to his chest. He thinks of the rubber that marred his hands and the roar from the lions. He thinks of the teeth that ripped the veins from his calf muscles and the screams that were high pitched and wavering. He knows the screams were his own, and the shame that fills his chest was for that the show didn’t go on.

He didn’t perform again.

He thinks of the circus when he sits by the window and sees the silhouette of a man that followed him home and sits by the rose bushes. He thinks of how the stubble that scratches his face and the hums that vibrate the man’s chest are like a song. A song that cannot go on and he holds the man’s hand when he lies in the fields full of daises and making his nose itch and he remembers the sweat that slid down his back when he was under the beaming lights and the audience roared with excitement.

It’s a dull feeling that numbs his chest.

And he thinks of the circus and the burning of the tents and has a sense of satisfaction.

The man beside him hums, a burn dug into his neck.

Your lips tremble

and your heart thumps 

and you remember 

what your mama said about boys

in the rain with dark hair that 

plastered to their forehead

and curled around their nape. 

That had fingers that matched perfectly

with your groomed nails

and soft palms.

Smiles with crooked teeth

and frowns between their eyes.

She told you they were not what they seemed.

That they would

destroy you

hunt you 

and scatter your heart

with no regrets

and no mercy,

but you,

sometimes,

look at him

and think to yourself,

maybe, maybe, maybe,

your mama 

Sometimes,

I try talking to you

when the moon is out

and I'm indoors

eating muffins, laughing

with slippers dangling from my feet

and I'll glance over to your spot where

you would read the newspaper and 

point out all the

typos

and scratch the back of your neck

when you noticed me looking

and blush

down to you chest and laugh,

(You could laugh for hours.)

and I would wink at you,

but sometimes,

I look at your chair

that's empty and cold,

and doesn't flick raisins at me,

or carry an umbrella over my head

when it's not raining,

or hum themes to shows long forgotten.

I think I would remember

but I don't.

Sometimes,

the prompts can average from au's to canon to het pairing to slash pairing to personal writing

the way i would like to request them would be:

FANDOM/REAL LIFE; PAIRING OR CHARACTER; PERSPECTIVE ; PLOT/WORD/MOOD

so for example:

teen wolf; sterek; 2nd POV ; tears

and i can take up to a few hours to a day in writing it depending on amount of prompts and if i'm satisfied with it to be published

i would like not for you request on how i write it like, poem or short story for i don't want to be pushed to write fics that i fear won't be finished in time

thanks!

I am dull, with a patter of my heartache.

I am boring, with no laughter catching in your lungs.

I am crying, with my tears finding my hairline.

I am mourning, with my fingers swollen; pressing against my eyes.

I am trying, not to crumble with my sides open.

I am smiling, through the pain that gathers in my throat.

I am broken, with shattered pieces for you to collect

I. “Adam,” he says hesitant, his voice catching. His fingertips grasp your elbow, trying not to shake, not to smile. He fails his eyes crinkles and his cheeks dimple. He says your name like a secret, like it’s something precious, you think of it under the covers as his fingers interlace with yours. As the darkness surrounds your heads, breaths damp across the pillow.

II. “Adam,” he screams, a plate crashes against the wall. You try to fend him off, but he won’t listen, his face is red and no air enters his lungs. His cheeks glisten with his tears and your hands itch with the need to brush them away, to promise something. Promise what; you don’t know. You take a step forward and he takes a step back. You falter; and he wraps his arms around himself. You strangely think of the honey of his tongue, of the heart under your fingertips, of the laughter ringing in your ears. Your head is empty.

"You're just like your mother," he whispers

his hands holding my face

but I couldn't look at him for

the memory was in the back of my throat

and his fingertips burnt my skin

but I can't speak, for the words

rattle my rib cage

and demand the truth,

as if they were my secrets to tell

but I can't believe it either

for her death wasn't

planned.

My sadness won't wither

but that's not

important

as I stare down the hole that is

closing

around my neck

and the blood that stains

like the wine he spilled only a week ago.

He whispers it

again

and starts to cry.

I don't know that to do

so I do

nothing