Demetyr

this is something you should know about women who are raised by mythological creatures — not only are we the granddaughters of all the witches that you failed to burn, we are also the heirs to so much more. because my mother is a dragon, and you best believe me when I tell you that she taught me all the secrets of breathing fire. I was born wrapped in the flames of her fierce love, and the armored strength of her scaled body taught me all that I need to know about storming the castle; it was she, my dragon-mother, who first buoyed me aloft during flying lessons; it was her great wings that gave me shade to rest under when even my to

I search for you in silence; not a word betrays my quest, nor does any sigh of breath cross my lips and so break the stillness of my search. Others search with trumpets and with fanfare, with hullabaloo and with boisterous cheers. Their gaiety is not mine to find you with; their explosions of delight are not those which paint the map that I follow. It is in the places unpeopled—in those places few and far between, where only blank, wild, untamed-near-nothingness roams in the expanses between here and there that I may find the traces and hints of you. Every mark on my map is hardwon, yet I persevere and continue on, ever searching for

One: I met you at the library yesterday and the only I said to you was, “Excuse me,” as I reached past you to grab the latest science-fiction novel by David Weber on the shelves. While I appreciate your own appreciation for science-fiction in life and in literature, I don’t watch Doctor Who so asking me to “Be your Companion through Time and Space” while offering a ring shaped like the TARDIS is not really a thing I am interested in. Two: I like my coffee the same way that I like my Sunday mornings—slow and sweet and oh-so-just-right-hot. Not too hot and not too cold, you understand? But wrapped up in that

When I am without you, I do not sleep. I lie awake, in my solitary bed, with my hands stretched out into empty space that should not be in the bed beside me. Yet when I am with you, neither then do I sleep! I lay next to you, with my hands outstretched to meet your own, with our fingers entwined together.

The welcome mat at the door is made of thumbtacks and barbed wire. It is a sharply pointed gesture, at once both inviting you in while reminding you of the no man's land you are about to cross. Despite its prickly materials, the welcome mat is not intended as a deterrent; it is in some ways a test, instead. Are you willing to be vulnerable? Are you willing to accept the guard? Are you willing to lay out your own welcome mat, regardless of its materials? Are you ready to cross the no man's land? The welcome mat may be designed with thumbtacks and barbed wire, but no one ever demanded that you remain standing on it. The no man's land is no

Sometimes I wonder if love might not be, after all, the biggest lie we've ever told ourselves. Sometimes I wonder if love might not be, after all, the greatest trap we've ever walked into. What other experience has us kill another person? What other experience allows us to kill ourselves? What other experience drives us to madness or despair; to paranoia and fury; jealousy, suspicion, vulnerability, violence, obsession, or lethality -- all at the same time? What other experience can mask our moments of fear, or rage or pain, with a smile? What other experience can soothe every hurt, real or imagined, with a kiss and a caress? We allow lo

I can no longer resist. I have fought, and striven, and used all the strength of my heart and soul— yet I can do no other than succumb. I am overcome with madness, today. There is fire in my throat, and every breath scrapes raw against the inner side of my lungs, which mixes sparks into my blood. I cannot hide my trembling, the shake and jitter of each and every limb; the vibration that results as I do my best to contain, within my skin, a monster. The pressure climbs behind the sockets of my skull, pressing against the tender, quivering jelly-flesh of my eyes and turning optic nerves into lances along which dances lightning. I hav

I have always existed in metaphors, in imagery and poetic conceit. It is in the place where dreaming and reality intersect that you may find me best. My blood sings with personification and hyperbole, and my bones hum to the songs of simile and irony. There lurks in my genetics the last bright parts of a starlight code, drawing me ever further into the murky brilliance of the place between. I am both the before and after spaces of Never- Neverland, but I am no Lost Boy who cannot remain within the dream, nor yet am I the Peter Pan who cannot leave the dream. I am the bridge. The constant child of two worlds and two loves,

Everything has its time. Everything has its place. Some things in our world even have both—a time and a place. All happens as it is ordained to happen and we find out when and where that ordination is when it is our turn. The stars turn and turn and turn, the planets swing through orbits, and the seasons change from one to another; all of life lined up in order, following the natural routine. Routine is boring. Love is not boring. Love throws all things into chaos, and reminds us that we, too, are mortal. Love does not allow us to be complacent, but instead shakes up the very foundations of our lives, breaking us down and rebuilding

lately i’ve been writing desperate love songs, trying to find out where you went. yet when i follow the trail of bread crumbs left behind haphazardly, i find the open well, deep in the belly of Nowhere-Neverwhere. only one thing would make me recoil from plunging after into the recesses below: darkness. there is no light in you, there is no heart in you how could I consign myself to throw in with that emptiness? I cannot throw my heart after you, into the dwellings of shadow. my heart is my light. how could I waste my heart-light where there is no mirror to refract it? so I am boarding up the well, posting barbed wire and lines