children of Manticore

•March 6, 2014 • 3 Comments

Edit: I took both Claritin and Ativan today. Ativan swirls my thoughts into spindled colors, clawed arms that reach for ashen skies. Claritin apparently spins me right out into intense disassociation. I’m ok. I’m really ok. I’ll be even better once I get some good sleep. All that follows needed to be said anyway.

We play fearlessly in the dark now.

If Manticore is our mother

who are these people calling us into houses blindingly fluorescent

~*

In colors we don’t understand

Feelings beyond our comprehension

We don’t love

(Because you have to love yourself!)

We don’t love because it’s not safe

We are platonic and we are familial

We do not touch

We do not surrender physical acts of control

We do not surrender emotional acts of control

~*

We don’t hug because we don’t show weakness. We don’t hug because if you don’t touch us, we feel safe. We don’t hug family because they stand too close. (Tell the truth. We don’t hug family because we don’t trust them.) They stand too close and they don’t entirely understand that getting close to our face makes us profoundly uncomfortable. If they stand too close they might know. They might hear the grinding and crunching noise that happens in our chest. They might hear the screaming terror that is always one breath away. They might know that yellow is sick and so we hide it under blue so that we can be green. They might know, that we don’t know if we are dangerous. We don’t know the lengths that we would go to reclaim our space. To reclaim our safety.
We play fearlessly in the dark because it’s safer than the light.

And yet. And yet we crave affection from others. Maybe. We think we crave it. We theoretically crave human warmth.

We are we today because we can’t be me. Not right now. We are not fortified. We are not incorporated. We are a thousand black and purple tendrils. We are feeling the you. The you because we need to keep the you at this length. Don’t touch us. We will destroy everything we must to keep our safety.

We did too much today. We saw too much, heard too many things. Too many people touched us. All the while our lungs were shredding in our chest. We always wonder how much of this is psychosomatic. Predictive. Our airways constrict and every inhale is razors, every exhale is flame. We know why. We can’t fix it right now. We say right now a lot.

Self-indulgent but there is no catharsis until someone else hears us. Until our words are read they stay inside of us. They kill us slowly, we don’t reincorporate, we disassociate. We disappear to hammered numbness. We die.

Manticore

•January 8, 2014 • 3 Comments

She
Follows him home
A man with beautiful blood
That burns like autumn glory
Outside of his window
She licks her claws

Inside
A cold, cold talon
Caresses his cheek
Pulling the covers tighter
He turns his face into the pillow

Goodnight
There in the dark
Craned over his bed, lank tress
Veils barred jaws
That shine like love
Like love
But love does not sate hunger

Slowly
She’ll eat him slowly
So that he knows he was loved
Right down to his burning blood
Licking the drenched sheet
Devoured to the bone

Shrieking
Incoherently but she’s sure
She can hear it
“I love you too”
It’s all subtext
After all

Oil and Orange

•December 22, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Image

 

They finally replaced the picture
Now if I could only get them to take the painting down
I painted it when I was 16
17, irrelevant
I painted it in a psychiatric hospital
A memory I’d rather not look at over breakfast
I brought it home and they framed it
It’s sat there for 12 years
“How are you feeling?”

I have two pictures
In one you look so sad
it crushes me
In the other you’re laughing
These are my two favorite versions of you
Tired. You looked tired
not sad.
I want to touch your face
to feel the soul exhaustion there
I want my face against your neck
So that you know
you’re never truly alone

If I could paint you into the landscape
Maybe we would both be alright
If I could make your exhaustion
Purple
And my crushed soul
Green
Then we could be
Orange
And then, at least
We would never be cold

The House Stauf

•December 18, 2013 • Leave a Comment

In 1995 my family had a Tandy. It was a hand-me-down from my aunt Gail. This was an incredible bit of technology for my family as we had very little money and never would have been able to purchase something like this on our own. We didn’t really have much to do with it, honestly. My dad made spreadsheets for the office at the fire department where he volunteered. We played countless hours of Minesweeper and Solitaire.

My family are geeks. All of us. My sister likes anime and Dr. Who; my parents like dungeon crawlers and are casual Trekkies; and I’m just into all sorts of things. While out running errands we would almost always visit Radio Shack. (Googled and discovered they still exist, just not anywhere near here.) Mostly we just poked around. It was a tiny shop and there was only enough room to turn around once. Every wall could easily be seen from anywhere in the store. In the middle there was a shallow metal basket on a table full of PC games. Most of them were point and click puzzle games and we usually just skipped over it. I was 9 and was just entering my fascination with horror and things that were intentionally scary. The world was already a scary place, other peoples nightmares were a kind of escapism for me. So when I saw the box with the big dark house on a cliff there was really no question as to whether or not we needed it.

The 7th Guest consumed us. We played the game inside and out. It was before easily accessible walk-throughs and so it was a good long time before we managed to entirely beat the game. I say “we” because we all chipped away at it, both my parents and I spent countless frustrated and fascinated hours exploring the Stauf house, solving puzzles and piecing the story together. Once we finished it, we started over, picking up Easter eggs, and other clever subtleties. Even still, about 20 years later I remember how some of the puzzles were solved. As a matter of fact every time I cut a cake now I think of the very first puzzle. “Two skulls, two stones, the rest is just icing.”

Eventually we had to upgrade out of Windows 3.5  and found that we could no longer play our favorite game. We gave the sequel The 11th Hour a chance but it really couldn’t match our love for the first game.

I have a Steam account that I don’t ever look at.  I’m bad at games, they don’t really fall in my geek spectrum. I would much rather watch someone play a RPG than play it myself; FPS games disorient me; and any strategy based game can basically be thrown out. So my two L4D’s, Portal, Home and Analogue go completely untouched. (Stop buying me games, I fail at playing them!) I don’t remember why I decided to take a look at it (I’m sure it’s Ari’s fault) but while I was absentmindedly scrolling through the store for Linux compatible games I stopped dead on The 7th Guest. I squeed fairly hard.

[19:55:50] Emberyn: OMG
[19:55:52] Emberyn: OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG
[19:55:57] Emberyn: The 7th Guest
[19:55:59] Emberyn: OMGOMGOMGOMGO
[19:56:29] Emberyn: OMGOGMOGMOMGOMG

Squee may have been a bit of an understatement. Poor Ari received this as a wall crashing down into Skype. I am so excited to gift this game to my dad. I’ve drawn something up to put in a box so that he actually has something to open on Christmas.

BbyEpJOIQAAw9WG.jpg:large

Day 14 – A reply to a dream

•December 14, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Edit: FFS WordPress you are killing me. My formatting keeps dying.

 

Are you attracted to me?

Because you’re stable

Like a frame.

I want to adorn you

With art hanging from your limbs.

Like paintings and drawings

And bits of string knotted.

I would give these things as gifts

In hope that they convey

An adoration that I can’t

Commit to words.

My words are all about pain and memory

and fear.

I don’t have the words for honest

Painless love.

Love outside of torturous

Unrequited longing.

Those are things that flare

They burn quickly.

They don’t smolder

But instead turn to paper ash.

Thin, and disposed of

With a breath.

I want your words,

The words for you

To be stronger.

I want them to be purple.

Muscled.

I want your gift of words to be

A vibrant living thing.

A presence in my absence.

Continue reading ‘Day 14 – A reply to a dream’

Day 12 – Saturate

•December 12, 2013 • 2 Comments

If I were to spout

All of the little thoughts

That slosh through my brain

You would drown in a deluge

Of yourself

Day 11 – Wings do not the angel make – 2011

•December 11, 2013 • 4 Comments

*I really want to rework this*

 

Wings do not the angel make
The molting feathers in your wake
Halo cocked to devastate
Who would have you as their guardian?

The molting feathers in your wake
Adorned in embers, hesitate
Who would have you as their guardian?
The ash it swirls about your waist

Adorned in embers, hesitate
For a jump perhaps, a leap of faith
The ash it swirls about your waist
A wish to tether, a cry for fate

A jump perhaps, a leap of faith
Will bring you back to ground
A wish to tether, a cry for fate
Bones upon the asphalt break

Will bring you back to ground
With halo cocked to devastate
Bones upon the asphalt break
Wings do not the angel make

Day 10 – Scrap 2007, We are in the event

•December 10, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Kelly looks sick.  We all look a little bit grey.  Smoke hangs heavily in the dining room where all of the sisters are meeting.  And me.  I shift uncomfortably.  I’m sitting just below the grate to the bedroom.  Somehow, no matter where I start at the table, I get shuffled to this spot.  I feel out of place: Still a child sitting in on the adult’s conversation.  I stare at the small area of table before me, following the swirl pattern of the faux wood grain.  In the event.  They’re starting sentences with in the event and if.  When.  I’m thinking when.  Lynn is gnawing on the inside of her lower lip.  It’s a terrifying habit she’s taken up since quitting smoking.  If you sit close enough you can almost hear the skin tear between her teeth.

Day 9 – Sheets

•December 9, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Shivering softly she sighs.

Suspended silvered silence.

Surviving sounds shudder silkily

surrendering,

sating shallow sorrow.

•December 9, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Waits anxiously

for her words to be recognized;

for her offering to be accepted.

A blessing of kisses.

 
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Deidra Alexander's Blog

I have people to kill, lives to ruin, plagues to bring, and worlds to destroy. I am not the Angel of Death. I'm a fiction writer.

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