“workspace” by @inkaisha xitter.cf/i/events/1486587029001…

Oh, Persephone. / Answer my calls, won’t you? / Or must I continue chanting your name, / With my hands pressed to the soil, / With my eyes digging through the vermillion cracks on the floor, / Persephone, do you love me still?

My own brother, I loved you.I loved you and you broke me.

i am my mother's child, my father's daughter. i am their creation, forever indebted to those who created me out of a sin. a sin, atoned by the notion of love.

(How does a writer write so intimately of the unknown?)

Oh, Persephone. / Answer my calls, won’t you? / Or must I continue chanting your name, / With my hands pressed to the soil, / With my eyes digging through the vermillion cracks on the floor, / Persephone, do you love me still?

The words are ready to spill from his lips after his last few seconds of wasted breaths are gone, the blade digging into his skin. He loves her. He declares it, eyes blanking out as he sinks to the floor and she stares. If this is love, she is terrified.

Enough, enough, enough,All I have ever wanted was to be enough.

Bluebell baby, they cradled me to their chests and whispered prophecies (I could never fulfil) into my ear in the hopes that I would be something they could boast of.

Your voice has become too loud, and your words nip away at my skin, eating me alive. Your hand in mine is a strange feeling I've barely ever known.

“What about you?”“I’d die for love, too.”I’d die for you,And I did.

i am my mother's child, my father's daughter. i am their creation, forever indebted to those who created me out of a sin. a sin, atoned by the notion of love.

I am the corpse of a boy, re-shaped to become the shell of a man.

Mama, I'm sick. I'm sick, won't you come take care of me? Mama, I'm sick. I'm sick, please let me rest.

Your voice has become too loud, and your words nip away at my skin, eating me alive. Your hand in mine is a strange feeling I've barely ever known.

(My lover cradles me close, though my heart has been the cynosure of barren land which has nothing to give back.)

Bluebell baby, they cradled me to their chests and whispered prophecies (I could never fulfil) into my ear in the hopes that I would be something they could boast of.

i am my mother's child, my father's daughter. i am their creation, forever indebted to those who created me out of a sin. a sin, atoned by the notion of love.

We were a triad,Split and glued back together by poor effort,Chipped pieces stuck to each other in the wrong placesTo form a whole of what was there before, gone now.

(—She loves me, She loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not—)

Oh, Persephone. / Answer my calls, won’t you? / Or must I continue chanting your name, / With my hands pressed to the soil, / With my eyes digging through the vermillion cracks on the floor, / Persephone, do you love me still?