this is a sonnet i wrote for english class**
sheepish color will graze those cheeks rosy
lighter than that prim dress: pretty sashes,
tied tight, petty laces, form fixed, cozy —
forward, she looks with her darkened lashes.
too long she peers at herself, two dry lips
and their rough kiss against the walls again;
deep blue eyeshadow ‘round and purple hips,
now black, yet she speaks not to those wise men.
a withered flower watered by foul sun
Still stands and turns about. Two fists, one fight:
She sees nothing more than what she has done,
A toast to her prim dress no longer white.
Worn out, like the shy skirt she wears today;
Day of the lord, she begs her sins away.
It’s that time of the month again — that time of the month when everyone goes batshit insane over a free pack of cigarettes. For something as insignificant as that, it’s one of the prison’s bigger events.
When you planted that idea in his head, you only wanted him to be happy. You only wanted him to forget the burdens of the past and the pain of his guilt. You only wanted him to let go. When you planted that idea in his head, you thought it was a harmless act. You thought that, by willing him to think that the past was just a dream, he would understand and move on. You thought his nightmares would end there.
But you were wrong.
You were wrong.
THE GOOD THING THAT HURTS, CHAPTER 01 [ on ao3 ]
THE WOLF I
When the sun rises, the wolf prepares. Its fur, a pale gray, blends in with the mountainous surroundings — an advantage created by nature, molded by nurture. It steps through the two inches of pure snow, then stops and raises its head. A gentle winter breeze grazes over its thick coat as the sun continues shining, mindlessly. It drops its head to the ground, sniffs, and walks on, leaving hidden tracks behind.
[ Salem, Massachusetts: 1692 ]
“Witches,” voices whispered. “The Devil bewitched them. No man has ever lied with another man.” Eyes saw evil, and fear conquered all. “Witches,” the people chanted, “witches. They’re witches.”
Accusation after accusation, lies upon lies. They were separated twice. Once to stand trial alone, then once again when their fingers were cut off to prevent them from holding each other’s hands.
"Witches!" Day by day, the town’s screeches got louder and louder. "Witches! Test them! Burn them!”
He was young, a boy almost. He had a loving family, a doctor of a father, a preacher of a mother. No one thought such a beautiful boy would be cursed. He, on the other hand, was disastrous, a man far too much. He had an unknown pride, an infamous sort of record, an obscure kind of past. No one thought a knave man would bring that much destruction.
"Look at the way they look at one other! Oh, Heavenly Lord, burn them at stake! Hang them, hang them!” Disdainful eyes watched on, glaring at a love they couldn’t see. Discriminating fingers pointed way, directing them towards a ditch that led straight to hell. “Straight to the sinners’ land.”
The boy, shy of fifteen, screamed his affections, and the man, shy of loss, let him. People of town, the passers, the pastor, saw black, saw madness, and they shunned them. Two hearts a-beating stood side by side beneath two strong loops. Tears streamed from the boy’s eyes as he made his promise to come back and curse them — curse them all. And the man, he simply turned and kissed his lover for the last time.
On November 1, 1692, the town rejoiced when they saw those sinners hanging for their sins.