and it's weird because i know you don't like me like that and i know that the boundaries are blurred and that i come on too strong but you play along anyway, and it's weird because i think you're the cutest person i know but you have moments where you hate the way you are, and it's weird because when i miss you i go fishing at the docks like we did that day but i always miss you for a stupid reason because you have your life and i have mine, and it's weird because i would choose you over real life but i know that you need to live more than you've ever needed me

it seems my entire life is defined by drinks.

mother's milk out the womb.

(and maybe those suckles were sweet - it's not like i remember - but her words, for the rest of my life, certainly weren't.)

an hour-long debate, with my best friend at twelve years old - apple or orange juice?

(orange, obviously, is the right answer. we rehash the argument sometimes to this day.)

the day i turn 19, a beer in my hands.

(i'm sat around a campfire with my closest friends, birthdays all older than me - the beer tastes disgusting, as cheap alcohol is, but i'm glad to be there.)

yesterday, i had 1 coffee and 2 mugs of lemon honey tea, 4 glasses of water.

today, no tea, but 2 cups of coffee, a glass of milk, and 3 glasses of water.

i bite at my nails when i'm nervous, swallow down the spit that comes with it, the bile that rises.

last summer, i visited pei, had a raspberry cordial - my favourite drink to date - then bought a case of 4 more to take home with me.

last summer, when i lived in new brunswick, my friends in the same building knew me as the one who would always have a drink in hand - a milk tea, or maybe a pink lemonade, maybe that obscure korean soda i liked.

when i left new brunswick, i took a photo of my 2 trash cans, of the way they were both filled to the brim with empty bottles and cans and jugs.

i still miss the apple cider they made there.

my life is defined by drinks, sips, swallows, taking five minutes to breathe by making myself a nice whipped coffee, trawling the internet for pretty coasters and glassware for an hour in lieu of doing actual work.

Eventually, i close the shopping tabs, take a sip of coffee, and resume with the rest of my life.

It’s evident that the person I thought you were exists entirely in my memory, on that comfortable blue couch in your old temporary apartment - 160 Morton, I still remember the address from when you bought 50 dollars worth of subway for delivery on your dads card because the 6 frozen pizzas you had bought on the monday weren’t enough to last you a week.

The person I thought you were exists only on the second floor of the empty arts building, dancing and singing, on the picnic bench where I told you that you didn’t realize the effect you had on people, in that small campus and our trips to the nearby cities where we confided in each other and you sought my advice, i sought your comfort and the warmth of your hand gripping my shoulder when it was evident my own hands quivered and trembled.

It’s evident that the person I thought you were exists merely in my memory - but that isn’t entirely fair to you, I guess. You’ve always been better lying on the couch, head in my lap, than answering your messages, weeks old and still unread.

But still - does it hurt that much to even pretend you still care about me?

(7 separate messages. It’s been a week. Only when I confront you do you apologize, tell me that you’ve been having a bad time.)

(Explanation. Excuse. Explanation, not excuse. I thought we agreed on this.)

My memory erases the blemishes on our record, the bad moments - a relapse, anger, your hands on her thighs, lounging on the beach yet still asking me to watch your shoes.

Why can’t I be the ******* for once? It’s that emotion again, tenfold but dulled. I’m not angry, just disappointed. Maybe both. I don’t know. I never know when it comes to you.

She stood there, looked me in the eyes
asked in a quivering, cautious cadence,

"How long do half-elves live?"

And it would have been the most heartbreaking thing
If I had still had a heart
(After that girl who was more beautiful than she was living -
but it had to be done.)

But I still answered
As warm as I could
With Melora not by my side,
Not in my heart,
But, perhaps, cooking up a jambalaya
in my stump.

And in that moment
I know she would sacrifice herself
Sacrifice anything
Just to better the lives of others.

That girl is a treasure
And I hope not to forget it.

i don't want to be a man.
no, not at all - and i never have.
i am not I,
i only want to be a boy
and not, not a man
i will never be a man the way i want to
so i will settle
for just being
a boy.

last active 409 days ago,
it says.

last status updated
3 years and 1 month ago

reblogged
June 8th, 2018

I never really knew you
and we never really talked
and we only ever saw each other
posting
and playing
and blogging
but we never really said anything

but the last time you were online was 2 years ago
and the last thing you tweeted wasn't even from you
it was just a retweet of some game promotion
and maybe you forgot about this account
or you lost interest
or maybe you're just simply gone

and your account is about to be terminated
due to inactivity

and I wonder
where, now, are you?
why are you offline?

i am only
only a child.
a boy
who feels too **** small
for the burden of other's worries

i was too young.

A word that is the antonym of antonym -
Not far to be found - synonym.
Though synonym is an antonym to antonym,
Only synonym is a synonym to synonym.
Not unknown to us - being something to ourselves
Yet others will put us down
Maybe, someday, I’ll find my synonym.

firth -
part
of the
sea; ebbs and
flows - an inlet of
the ocean at a wide river
estuary, a place where mourning songs are sung and
souls are lost and found and secrets revealed and waters are wide; a place to breathe for once.
the firth is where there is a separation of ways.
where we walk down one river each
and we don’t look back
go forward
forget
the
past.

“over drowned summits.
Still white backdrop:
Scattered farms, spiked chapels,
dead ravines, dams motionless in blue steel.”

- Andrey Gritsman, “Last Day Of The Year”

There is no hill
Over by the way -
Rather, there is a
deep ravine that carves
Against the land and
Crushes, erases
In vigorous strokes
All who dare to
Stray too close
Over drowned summits.

As they fall and fall,
There is no forgiveness.
There is fear -
There is despair -
And then there is
The disappointing wash
Of pained acceptance
There is just one
Moment of pause, of
Still white backdrop.

The eyes roam over all
That there is to see
In a world that is soon to
Disappear; to fade into
Darkness and silence and
Whatever else awaits,
To take in the views
Of the living land
One last time -
Scattered farms, spiked chapels.

We travel deeper and deeper and
In the dark, there is a near-silence
That shocks to the core,
Moreso than even the loudest noises.
And finally, the grand finale,
The dull thump of a body
(No one hears it - does the tree really fall?)
And the padded footsteps of a reaper
Having come to claim it’s own - of
Dead ravines, dams motionless in blue steel.

parts are
flesh
and bone
and all that lives

yet-
brain is metal
and stone
and all that kills

time

it flows

and ebbs

and fades away

i want you to

pass faster,

i will want

more

of you.

enjoy it

while it

lasts

the eyes

they watch

me

and

the ears

listen

and the hand

squeezes

my

throat

and the feet

jump off the

roof

i am no longer

me