#Light Poetry Magazine

[poem-today]

Higgledy-piggledy - The Art of the Double Dactyl

Jiggery-Pokery: A Compendium of Double Dactyls, an anthology devoted to a novel form of poetry, edited by Anthony Hecht and John Hollander, with illustrations by Milton Glaser, was first published by Atheneum in 1967. The originator of this new brief genre was Anthony Hecht as the introduction explains, even offering a precise date – November 3, 1951 – and a precise place – the American Academy…

[coffeeacademia]

Like Honey, Parentheses Journal (2022)

[poiseclassics]

If this is your aesthetic, come check us out at the @poiseclassics on Instagram!

We are looking for artists, writers, everyone is WELCOME!

[liones-s]

these quotidian moments of joy are not meaningless

[poetatodameron]

CALL FOR LITERARY AND VISUAL ART SUBMISSIONS: DEADLINE APRIL 6TH

hi friends :) i'm starting a literary magazine called cigarette fire, and i'm looking for poetry, fiction (under 1500 words), flash non-fiction (under 500 words), and visual art submissions to include in the debut issue! i would love to publish your work 🫶

thematically, cigarette fire is a space for new writers and artists to take off as quickly as a cigarette butt can start a wildfire. i'd love to publish work that sparks imagination and catches readers' attentions quicker than a match strikes.

+++ feel free to share with writer and artist friends!

if you'd like to submit, dm me or email cigarettefiremag@gmail.com with your work + a brief bio/about you statement! the website has more submission details.

please submit your work by saturday, april 6th, by 11:59pm. (i'll be publishing more than one issue, but i'd like to have the first one up as soon as possible!)

logistics: cigarette fire retains first serial rights, but all other rights revert back to the author upon publication. not able to compensate contributors at this time, but hope to do so in the future!

[bea-lele-carmen]

[sallygcronin]

Smorgasbord Blog Magazine - Podcast #Poetry #Flash Fiction - Light Lingers and Poisoned Apples by Sally Cronin

Some more poetry and flash fiction from one of my collections. Each day we gain a few precious minutes of daylight and nature welcomes it too… and biting into a poisoned apple carries consequences…. #Poetry #Flash Fiction – Light Lingers and Poisoned Apples by Sally Cronin  Sally Cronin – Smorgasbord Blog Magazine · Smorgasbord Poetry And Flash Fiction Light Lingers And Poisoned Apple   Light…

[zekethefreak]

Local Conventions, Holiday Markets, and Plans for 2025

Back on Dec. 7, 2024, I attended the second ever Co-op City Comic Con as a vendor. I met some awesome fellow vendors. Most of the patrons, young and old, were my neighbors and folks who are employed in the neighborhood. All were curious. Some had money to spend. As a vendor, I sold my book, The Ananda Accords, and comic books from my personal collection. When all was said and done, I sold nine…

[jeffalessandrelli]

https://www.nytimes.com/1979/08/29/archives/everybody-wants-to-be-a-poet-number-has-doubled.html

1979

According to Poets and Writers, a New York‐based clearinghouse for writers, the number of poets (by its definition, those who have published 10 or more poems in three or more literary magazines) in the United States has doubled from 1,500 in 1975 to some 3,000 today. This increase is partly tied, no doubt, to the equally extraordinary growth in the number of outlets for verse. Last year, the National Endowment for the Arts awarded $835,155 to 177 nonprofit magazines and presses; the New York State Council on the Arts, approximately $123,500. And, thanks largely to such increased Government spending, the number of places publishing poetry has grown to nearly 3,000, with editorial tastes and qualities as varied as their names: Antaeus, TriQuarterly, New American Review, Truck, Caterpillar and Mulch.

Often created by poets unable to publish their work elsewhere, many of these publications began as kitchentable operations. As their editors and contributors developed followings, some grew into establishments in their own right. Cid Cornian created Origin, for instance, in 1951 to provide an “adequate outlet to those new/unknown writers who have shown maturity/insight in their medium”; a list of those new/unknown writers who appeared includes Charles Olson, William Bronk, Robert Creeley and Denise Levertov. Similarly, City Lights Books was founded in San Francisco in 1955 by a then rather unknown bard — Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

For hundreds of young poets, then, publication in such small magazines and presses is something to be solicited, coveted and eventually parlayed into a reputation. Jane Flanders, a Washington housewife who this year won the “Discovery/The Nation” award, started out in 1975 by sending poems to Sibyl‐Child, a local magazine. Which led to appearances in Crazy Horse and Prairie Schooner, which led to publication in The Nation, Poetry Magazine and American Poetry Review. Although Mrs. Flanders has earned about $250 so far this year, she figures she has already spent $75 on mailing and submission costs.

‘Have to Keep Hustling’

“It's very discouraging at first,” concedes Don Faulkner, a young poet who helped found the No Mountains Poetry Project in Chicago and who now teaches at Connecticut College. “But you have to keep hustling.”

Indeed, there is growing opportunity for aspiring poets to practice what Felix Stefanile, editor of the Sparrow Press, has called “poetry gamesmanship.” A kind of cottage industry has sprung up, devoted to the care and feeding of poets.

There are $10,000 fellowships awarded by the National Endowment for the Arts, as well as prizes ranging from the renowned (the $10,000 Copernicus Award for lifetime achievement) to the obscure (the $500 Edwin Markham Prize for “a previously unpublished poem not exceeding 100 lines dealing with the theme of social justice or protest in the tradition of Edwin Markham or Eugene Debs”).

Universities such as Iowa, Johns Hopkins, and Columbia offer Master of Fine Arts degrees in poetry, and such groups like the Jack Kerouac School for Disembodied Poetics hold summer seminars. In addition, the number of local readings continues to grow: in New York alone, there are nearly 100 groups with regular meetings.

That such programs produce verse is obvious; that they actually create poets is more debatable. Detractors disdain these organized rites as “poetry factories,” manufacturing competent, but uninspired, practitioners of verse. Still, they do furnish the young poet with connections and criticism — two assets most valuable in making the jump from the little magazine world to that of the commercial presses.

The odds of selling a poem to one of the “slick” magazines — The New Yorker, The Atlantic, Harpers — are awesome indeed: The New Yorker, which annually prints about 150 poems, receives over 3,000 every week; and the Atlantic, which annually prints about 50, logs in well over 20,000 a year.

[batgovernor]

Julia Griffin, 'Wasp Waste'

The exoplanet Wasp in Pisces Subsists despite unending crises: It’s hard to keep an even keel At near the melting-point of steel, And even heroes’ hearts might cower With winds 10,000 miles per hour. The place can furthermore rely on Incessant rain of molten iron. All this might serve as a directive To keep our problems in perspective. ***** Editor’s note: Inspired by a story in The Guardian,…

[smorgasbordinvitation]

Smorgasbord Blog Magazine - Podcast #Poetry #Flash Fiction - Light Lingers and Poisoned Apples by Sally Cronin

Some more poetry and flash fiction from one of my collections. Each day we gain a few precious minutes of daylight and nature welcomes it too… and biting into a poisoned apple carries consequences…. #Poetry #Flash Fiction – Light Lingers and Poisoned Apples by Sally Cronin  Sally Cronin – Smorgasbord Blog Magazine · Smorgasbord Poetry And Flash Fiction Light Lingers And Poisoned Apple   Light…

[richardsiken-poet]

New Essay

[poiseclassics]

Come join us in The Poise Classics 🕯️📜

[a-d-nox]

wyrd web: what to gift a person based these three numbers

this is just a theory of mine because these bubbles of the matrix should represent earthly desires. this is not to say that you can't enjoy things not listed in your category / under your energetic number. this is simply what i believe people with these numbers would enjoy receiving as a gift.

2 - the high priestess

things that support their spiritual practices, things that support feminine health (hum women's probiotics bundle, honey pot oral vaginal care probiotic, etc), bake goods / baking gear, barbecue sauce sampler / grilling gear (for the dads pt 2), bar in a jar (for those of drinking age) or really any beverage tester kit, bath/spa kit, beach vacation, boat, cruise, careof for brain support, truly nice melons boob butter, candles (it doesn't have to be yankee candle either - bent candles, spiced votive candle, etc) or candle making kit, imported cheeses, clothing staples (blue jeans, black turtleneck, etc), juice cleanse or other things that support digestive health, cooking classes or meal kits (hellofresh, homechef, etc), a tarot/astrology/mediumship reading, or outdoor cameras or other home security tools

3 - the empress

pillows, stuffed animals, rose quartz, personal celebrity cameo, clothing, tickets for an art museum tour, ballet tickets or classes, art supplies, makeup pallets and/or brushes, flowers, jewelry, candy/sweets, money, bells / wind chimes, clothing, designer pieces, cosmetics, dolls, a trip to a fancy restaurant, fruit basket / dried fruits, gardening supplies, jewelry, concert/orchestra tickets, poetry book, tickets to a play, a purse, lingerie (if y'all are close like that), trip to a vineyard (for those of drinking age), couples' dancing classes, or a wallet

4 - the emperor

skincare, rock climbing voucher or some other physical activity they enjoy, an adrenaline rush activity (skydiving, bungee jumping, etc), careof for brain support, crafted wooden objects (cutting boards, tables, etc), coffee trials/samplers, sunglasses, blue light glasses, hair care products/supplies, scalp treatments/care, oral health care (thera breath, whitening products, etc), meditation app subscriptions / in person sessions for meditation, or a planner

5 - the hierophant

moss agate (don't question how random that sounds this is some intuitive stuff), artwork, an architectural tour, beauty products/supplies, historically significant objects, pastries or sweets/candies, earrings, sour dough starter kit, jewelry in general, piano/organ lessons, singing lessons, a wallet, or any classes where they can learn something fun and new to them

6 - the lovers

car stuff (seat covers, cup holder coasters, etc), bicycle or bicycle accessories/gear, books (the more educational the better), briefcase / work tote, bus tickets for a day trip, gym membership or soulcycle classes, crystals, a standing desk / cute office supplies (for the work girlies both those who work in office and from home), hand & foot message, manicure voucher, newspaper subscription (i am a fan of new york times, washington post, and the new yorker), language classes or rosetta stone subscription, magazines subscription, merchandise from their favorite singer / group / tv show / movie, train trip, or we're not really strangers card packs

7 - the chariot

gardening supplies, hermit crab, baked goods, bath products / beauty products, boat, cruise, car stuff (seat covers, cup holder coasters, etc), truly nice melons boob butter, juice cleanse, gut health thrive market kit, glassware / blown glass, stuff they need / need for their home (security system, chest freezer, etc), hotel or bed & breakfast stay, kitchenware, lake trip, pearls, real estate / land, restaurant voucher / gift card, silver jewelry, shopping gift cards, a trip, or intention journal

8 - strength

amusement park tickets, supplies for their passion projects, ballroom dancing classes, tea sampler, games (video games or board games), movie theater gift card, personal celebrity cameo, flower garden supplies/seeds, stuff for their pet, or a belt

9 - the hermit

pet related gifts (if they have a pet that is), bookshelves (they probably need one), juice cleanse, gut health thrive market kit, a cat, clothing, oral health products (thera breath, whitening products, etc), stationary, emergency preparedness (ready to eat meals, fire blanket, etc), cook books, dining ware (new plates/bowls, cups / glassware, silverware, etc), food subscriptions (home chef, hello fresh, pickle of the month club, bokksu japanese snack box, etc), careof subscription, gloves, herb garden kit, a one way ticket to anywhere, or a hiking trip

10 - wheel of fortune

incense, cleansing herbs, bow and arrow, sapling, land, dried berries, budget book, gym/exercise membership, religious/spiritual/philosophical books, poker set, cloth (if they like sowing), wool (if they like weaving, crocheting, and/or knitting), wool clothing, a coat, trip to a country or place they have never been, oral health products (thera breath, whitening products, etc), etiquette classes/books (this is great for the traveler because they are often interested in learning customs before going on their trip), figs, fruit basket (like edible arrangements), honey sampler / royal jelly, horseback riding lessons, lottery tickets, merchandise from their favorite singer / group/ tv show / movie, shoes, really any game, any subscription they have not tried, things that support their spiritual practices, or book on positive mindset

11 - justice

personal celebrity cameo, tickets to a ballet or to an art gallery, air purifier, portable heating pad, spa voucher, cosmetics, lingerie (if y'all are close), closet organizational items (space saving hangers, linen bins, accessory hanger, etc), pastries and sweets, diamonds (perhaps propose to your lover), a dress, tickets to a fashion show or exhibit, flowers, a luxury chair, jewelry, concert tickets, poetry books, any quartz pieces, chocolates dipped strawberries, hair extensions, logic puzzles, a voucher for an escape room, or a kitchen/baking scale

12 - the hanged man

bar in a jar (if they are of drinking age), a book on angel numbers, a book on natural medical remedies, ballet classes or tickets to see a ballet, bath bombs and other bath goodies (salt, bath table, candles, sugar scrub, bath teas, etc), beach vacation, tea or coffee sampler, butterfly farm kit with caterpillars, disposable camera or a camera they would like (polaroid, filming, etc), scientific kits (geode kit, grow your own crystals, etc), cigars (for the dads in your life), unsolved mysteries or crime kit, dance classes, smutty/romance/fantasy books, fairy garden, a tarot/astrology/mediumship reading, budget book, makeup palettes or other cosmetic they enjoy, concert tickets, paint, poetry books, clue the board game, a pass to an indoor pool, a book on poppet making, meditation membership or a voucher for in-person sessions, or something to support their curiosity for new spiritual insight

13 - death

hermit crab, a jumping spider, a reptile, homeopathic books for natural cures and remedies, operation the game, butcherbox subscription, a book on how to cook and trim meats, beginners chemistry kit, a colon cleanse, sea monkeys, unsolved mysteries or crime kit, philosophy of death books, books on magic, magic the gathering the card game, period products (portable heating pad, the diva cup, etc), poisonous plants (belladonna, foxglove, lily of the valley, etc), a frog pond, a scorpion, a snake, a burr/boo basket (these people love seasonal stuff), or marie kondo's life changing magic of tidying up

14 - temperance

a hunting trip, bow and arrows, books on religion or philosophy, book of devotions, book on dream meanings (hello, freud haha), a certification course or college class, horseback riding lessons (for the newbie or a younger sibling or your child/niece/nephew), horse drawn carriage ride (for the couples *smirk*), logic puzzles, things that support their goals, or a book of angel number meanings

15 - the devil

a fan or air conditioning unit, if you have the land for it a cow/horse/goat, kinetic tape, arnicare bruise cream (this is a joke... unless...), coal or a diamond (this is also a joke... unless...), a clock or a watch, cuticle trimmer (and other nail care things), room darkening curtains, a happy lamp, lotion/cream, hat/scarf/gloves, hair products (extensions, shampoo subscription, etc), leather fashion-ware, gardening supplies, ice maker, or a juice cleanse

16 - the tower

tiger balm or other pain relieving ointment, acrobatic/gymnastic classes, homeopathic books for natural cures and remedies, first-aid kit, baking kits, barbecue sauce sampler, barbecue sauce sampler / grilling gear (for the dads), gift card for haircut, dollar shave club (for the dads pt 2), metal works (spoon handle rings, metal roses, etc), boxing lessons, boxing match tickets or monster truck tickets, butcherbox subscription, a book on how to cook and trim meats, crafted wooden objects (cutting boards, tables, etc), cactus plant, beginners chemistry kit, cookbook, pocket knife or leatherman/multitool, tool kit, jenga, emergency kit, food, first aid kit, merchandise for their favorite superhero(es), electric lighter, liqour or bar in a jar (if they are of drinking age), rock music (a vinyl or concert tickets), pepper plant, pipe for smoking (if they like to smoke that is - my grandfather had a collection), lego kit, or lincoln logs

17 - the star

friendship bracelets, a fan / ac unit, model airplane, flight lessons, compression stockings/socks, architectural tour, astrology reading, car stuff (seat covers, cup holder coasters, etc), club memberships (golf, racket ball, sam's, etc), electronic devices (a new phone, amazon fire stick, solar portable charger, etc), movie on blue-ray or dvd, movie gift card, a camera (polaroid or another type they have been eyeing), disposable cameras, camera gear, shadow work journal, aesthetically pleasing bluetooth retro radio, streaming service subscription, a book on health or mental health, or a book on positivity

18 - the moon

abstract art, bar in a jar (if they are of legal age), a fish, a fish tank, tickets to an aquarium, cocktail book (if they are of legal age), a fishing trip (for the dads), book of conspiracy theories, the conspiracy theory map, a crystal ball, unsolved mysteries or crime kit, a jellyfish, a tarot/astrology/mediumship reading, a camera (polaroid or another type they have been eyeing), disposable cameras, camera gear, poetry book, hydroponic starter system, games that involve bluffing (clue, poker, herd mentality, etc), shoes, sleeping eye mask, silk pillow cases, new bed sheets, bonnet, socks, a computer keyboard, typewriter, a book on shadow work, a puppy, or a book on dream meanings

19 - the sun

maine coon, autobiographical books, ballroom dancing lessons, poker set, oral health products (thera breath, whitening products, etc), card games, personal celebrity cameo, circus fruit basket, chocolate gold coins, classes that encourage creativity (create it and break it sessions, pottery classes, etc), jewelry or an engagement ring (if it's been more than 2 years y'all should know what you are doing at this point), flowers, indoor herb garden, tickets to race of some sort (cars, horse, sporting events, etc), sporting equipment, ivy plant, a pottery painting voucher / gift certificate, or something for their passion project / hobby

20 - judgment

a reptile, ant farm, a guide on astral projection, operation the game, the chameleon game, clue game, unsolved case files game, grand theft auto video game, assassins creed video game, dungeons and dragons the game, yahtzee, emergency preparedness kit, magician kit, poisonous plants (belladonna, foxglove, lily of the valley, etc), the divine comedy, puzzles, a rodent of some sort, or lingerie (if y'all are close)

21 - the world

gardening supplies, acoustic guitar, air conditioning or fan, architectural tour, teddy bear, snow globe, boots, calendar or planner, supergoop (sun protectant) products, wooden objects (cutting board, chest, box, etc), carpet, clay (air drying or via kiln), a clock or watch, compression stockings/socks, collectible coins, pain patches or kinetic tape, crystals, budget book, lotions for dry skin, dried fruits, gloves/mittens, hair care products, ice machine or ice making trays, ice cream subscription, pottery classes, rain coat, real estate or land, zen sand garden, sculpture, or snake

22 - the fool

flight lessons, model airplane, a flight to anywhere, car stuff (seat covers, cup holder coasters, etc), an astrology reading, bath products, biking gear, movie theatre gift card, clock or watch, club memberships (golf, racket ball, sam's, etc), mood lighting or strip lights, a train ride, fun magnets, motorcycle accessories/training, microphone (maybe they are filming or recording something), patterns for cross stitch / knitting / crocheting, a camera (polaroid or another type they have been eyeing), disposable cameras, camera gear, stuff for the tv (surround sound, sound bar, streaming subscription, etc), or classes for one of their interests

like what you read? leave a tip and state what post it is for! please use my "suggest a post topic" button if you want to see a specific pac/pile next. if you'd like my input on how i read a specific card or what i like to ask my deck, feel free to use the ask button for that as well.

click here for the masterlist

click here for more web of wyrd related posts

want a personal reading? click here to check out my reading options and prices.

© a-d-nox 2023 all rights reserved

[writteninkat]

Adoration's Abyss | Bakugou , Stalker Reader

synopsis: He was the untouchable star, and I was just another face in the crowd—until I wasn’t. What starts as admiration spirals into something far darker when love turns to obsession, and boundaries blur between devotion and delusion. You really are different from other girls… but at what cost?

w/c: idk i was hoping for 5k, i hope it reached

warnings: stalking

a/n: hey i wrote this while i was at the beach for five days. update on my life: been getting into poetry and essay writing again. finally had the balls to share my work with my friends and family lol

navigation

The moment I saw him, the world folded itself into something smaller, something manageable, as if the chaos of existence could be trimmed to fit within the orbit of his gaze. Katsuki Bakugou: a name that rippled through crowds like a thunderclap, his presence igniting every room he entered with the ferocity of a supernova. He wasn’t just an idol; he was a phenomenon, a living pyre burning too bright for ordinary mortals.

And yet, there I was. Just another face in the sea of adoration, clutching my ticket to the meet-and-greet like it was a lifeline to salvation.

“Hi, Katsuki! I loved you in—”

He cut me off, sharp as a blade but not unkind. “In Beyond the Blast?” His voice was rough, gravelly—a symphony of jagged edges.

I faltered. Did I seem too predictable? Too common? A sheep in the flock of screaming fans? My heart plummeted.

“Pouts are overrated,” I said, forcing a small smile, my voice softening into something calculatedly vulnerable. “I want to be different. Not just like…other girls. I loved you in the Eclipsed show, but also in Burning Hearts, Live Loud, Infrno's Edge...” I trailed off, naming a more obscure project, the kind only the most dedicated fans would know. I even threw in a few lines about a candid interview he once did, where he spoke about how sunsets reminded him of fleeting time.

His expression shifted—slightly, almost imperceptibly. But it was enough. The ghost of amusement danced on his lips, and he said, “Maybe you really are different from other girls.”

Inside, I was roaring. Victorious. Outside, I laughed softly, demurely. “Maybe.”

I am so much worse.

When I left the meet-and-greet, I told myself it was enough. To stand in his presence, to hear his voice aimed in my direction—wasn’t that already more than most could hope for? But hope is a greedy thing. It feeds on itself, growing hungrier with every indulgence.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. His voice lingered in my ears like a song on repeat, the low rasp of it curling around my thoughts. I replayed our brief exchange in my head, editing and polishing it, imagining what I could’ve said to make him linger just a second longer.

And then, of course, I opened the scrapbook.

It started innocently, as these things always do. A collection of concert photos, magazine clippings, interviews. But now, as I flipped through the pages, it felt insufficient. Two-dimensional. Katsuki wasn’t just a face on a page. He was a force, raw and untamed, and these flattened images could never capture him.

I needed more.

When I heard about his upcoming promotional event, I didn’t hesitate. The tickets were sold out within seconds, but I had connections—or rather, I made them. A fan forum moderator owed me a favor, and I cashed it in without a second thought.

The event was in a sleek, glass-paneled venue that gleamed under the city lights. I arrived early, blending seamlessly into the crowd. I wore my best dress—not flashy, but memorable. Just enough to catch his eye again.

This time, I didn’t bother with the front row. No, I wanted to watch from a distance, to see the full scope of his energy. He moved onstage like a storm contained within the fragile frame of a man. His voice electrified the room, his words sparking laughter and applause.

But every now and then, his gaze flickered over the crowd, scanning faces. Did he remember me? Did his eyes pause, even for a fraction of a second, on mine?

I convinced myself they did.

It was after the event, during the afterparty, that things began to change. I wasn’t supposed to be there, of course, but slipping past security was easier than I thought. People underestimate how much you can achieve when you’re polite, invisible, and just persistent enough to not raise alarms.

He was there, naturally—leaning against the bar, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. A few people approached him, but he brushed them off with a curt nod or a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

And then, somehow, I was beside him.

“Hey,” I said softly, almost shyly. “I’m surprised you’re not the center of attention.”

He looked at me, and for a second, I thought he might not remember. But then his expression shifted—a flicker of recognition, like a match striking against stone.

“You again,” he said.

From that moment on, it was as though I had been given permission. Not by him, of course, but by the universe. Surely this was fate, wasn’t it? To have crossed paths with him twice, in places swarming with thousands of people?

I began to learn things. Little things, at first—his preferred coffee shop, the route he took to the gym, the kind of music he played in his car when he thought no one was listening. These were harmless details, gathered with the precision of a collector adding rare gems to their trove.

But soon, harmless wasn’t enough.

The first time I followed him home, I told myself it was a mistake. I had been walking in the same direction, and it was pure coincidence that his apartment building loomed ahead of me. But then I did it again. And again.

His building was tall, sleek, and anonymous, but I found ways to breach its defenses. A delivery uniform, a borrowed ID badge—small deceptions that felt exhilarating in their simplicity.

I never crossed the final line. I never entered his apartment, though I knew exactly which door was his. Instead, I lingered in the shadows, content to imagine the life that unfolded within.

But imagination, like hope, is a hungry thing.

It’s funny, the way routine can warp into ritual. What began as occasional glimpses became a nightly pilgrimage. I knew his schedule better than my own. His habits—oh, how they fascinated me. The way he left his balcony door slightly ajar, as if inviting the wind—or something else. The flicker of his apartment light in the early hours, suggesting sleepless nights.

Once, I saw him standing there, silhouetted against the glow of his television, shirtless and utterly at ease. It felt intimate, watching him like that. Almost sacred.

He would never understand how much I admired him.

I started leaving small things behind. Harmless tokens—an autograph request slipped under his door, a pressed flower on his windowsill. Gifts that could be explained away if he ever noticed. They were never acknowledged, but that was fine. It wasn’t for him to notice. It was for me.

One night, he deviated from his routine. The precision of his life had always been a comfort to me—a series of movements I could predict and follow like a choreographed dance. But that night, he didn’t go home after his gym session.

Instead, he stopped at a convenience store, and I, foolishly emboldened by months of watching, followed him inside.

He was standing by the drink cooler, scanning the rows of energy drinks with a scowl. His hair was damp, his hoodie slung low over his face, and yet he was unmistakable.

I wasn’t supposed to get this close. Not yet.

But he turned, and suddenly we were face to face.

“Oh,” I said, startled into breaking the sacred silence between us. “Hi. Fancy seeing you here.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”

My heart thrummed like a caged bird. Did he recognize me from the meet-and-greet? From the afterparty? Did he know I’d been watching him all this time?

“I’m a fan,” I said quickly, keeping my voice light, casual. “We’ve met before, at your event. Twice, actually.”

His gaze lingered on me, sharp and assessing, and for a moment, I thought I saw suspicion flicker across his face.

“Right,” he said finally, brushing past me with the kind of indifference that only he could make seem regal.

But as he left the store, I caught a glimpse of something in his expression—something that wasn’t indifference at all.

After that encounter, I couldn’t stop imagining what he thought of me. Did I stand out to him? Did he wonder about me the way I wondered about him? The thought was intoxicating.

I found myself becoming bolder. My nightly visits turned into longer stays. I started leaving notes with no name, no context—just fragments of thoughts I thought he might find poetic.

“The stars envy your light.”

“Even storms pause to admire you.”

“You are the reason the sun rises.”

Each one felt like a confession. A prayer.

But then one night, the notes disappeared. When I crept back to his door the following evening, there was nothing waiting for me. No sign that he had read them, or even seen them.

Had he thrown them away? Or worse—had someone else taken them before he could?

The thought burned like acid.

The line between admiration and possession is thinner than most realize. I crossed it without even noticing.

I started taking photos—not of him directly, but of the spaces he occupied. His balcony, his car parked in the same spot every night, the shadow of his figure through the curtains. My phone became a shrine, each image a sacred offering.

But it wasn’t enough.

One night, when I was sure he wasn’t home, I found myself standing at his door. My hand trembled as I reached for the handle, testing it. Locked, of course. But locks are just puzzles waiting to be solved.

I didn’t go inside—not yet. But I stood there, breathing in the faint scent that lingered in the hallway. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, the abyss yawning beneath me, daring me to jump.

The day it all unraveled was unremarkable. A sunny afternoon, ordinary in every way—until I saw him again.

This time, he wasn’t alone.

She was tall, elegant, with a laugh that rang out like silver bells. She touched his arm as they walked, her presence so seamless beside him that it made my chest ache.

The world tilted, sharp and unforgiving.

How dare she? Didn’t she know? He wasn’t hers to touch, to smile at, to laugh with.

He was mine.

I followed them, of course. Through the crowded streets, past the bustling cafes and shops, until they arrived at a small restaurant. They sat by the window, their faces illuminated by the golden light of the setting sun.

I stood outside, watching, my reflection in the glass overlapping with theirs.

For the first time, I allowed myself to hate him. Not just her—him. For being so blind, so careless, so utterly indifferent to the devotion I had poured into him.

You’re supposed to be mine.

The thought felt foreign, even to me. But once it took root, it spread like wildfire.

That night, I found myself back at his apartment building. The familiar routine should have soothed me, but it didn’t. My heart was pounding, each beat a war drum, as I stared up at his window.

The light was on. He was home.

But I wasn’t standing there just to watch anymore. I wasn’t there to leave notes or flowers or to bask in the glow of his existence. No, this time, I had crossed the threshold.

I waited in the shadows until the lobby door opened. A tenant stepped out, their face buried in their phone, oblivious to my presence as I slipped inside. The elevator doors gleamed like a portal to another world.

His floor was silent. The kind of silence that feels alive, pulsing with expectation. My footsteps were soft, my breath shallow, as I approached his door.

The lockpick trembled in my hand, but I’d practiced this moment a hundred times in my mind. The faint click was both satisfying and terrifying.

And then I was inside.

It was everything I had imagined and nothing like it at all.

The apartment was minimalist, almost sterile, with only a few personal touches—a jacket draped over a chair, an empty mug on the counter. The air smelled faintly of him, a mix of cologne and something darker, more primal.

I moved slowly, reverently, like a pilgrim in a holy place. My fingers traced the edge of the kitchen counter, the back of the sofa, the spine of a book on the coffee table.

And then I saw it.

A framed photograph on the bookshelf. It was him, of course, but not alone. She was there, too—the woman from the restaurant, her head tilted against his shoulder, her smile soft and radiant.

Something inside me snapped.

The sound of the front door opening shattered the silence.

I froze, the photo still in my hand, as his voice echoed through the apartment.

“Yeah, I’m home,” he said, his tone clipped, probably on the phone. “I’ll call you back.”

The click of the call ending was deafening.

And then he saw me.

For a moment, neither of us moved. His expression was a kaleidoscope of emotions—shock, anger, disbelief.

“What the—?” he started, but the words died in his throat as his eyes dropped to the photo in my hand.

“I just wanted to understand,” I said softly, my voice trembling. “Why her? Why not me?”

His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”

I stepped closer, the photo still clutched against my chest like a shield. “I’m the one who’s been there for you. Watching, supporting, loving you when no one else understood.”

His face darkened, the anger in his eyes hardening into something sharper, colder. “You need to leave. Now.”

But I didn’t move.

“You don’t see it, do you?” I whispered. “How perfect we could be. How much I’ve given up for you. She doesn’t know you like I do. She’ll never understand you the way I do.”

His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Get. Out.”

But I wasn’t afraid—not of him, not of anything. Not anymore.

“I’m not leaving,” I said, my voice steady now. “Not until you see me.”

The argument escalated quickly. His anger clashed with my desperation, the two of us locked in a battle neither could win. He tried to push past me, to call for help, but I grabbed his arm.

“Don’t,” I said, my voice breaking. “Don’t do this to me.”

He wrenched free, his movements sharp and unforgiving. “You’re insane.”

The word hit me like a physical blow.

Insane.

After everything I’d done for him, everything I’d sacrificed, that was what he thought of me?

I don’t remember much after that. The emotions—rage, heartbreak, betrayal—all blurred together in a red haze. I remember the sound of something shattering, the photo frame hitting the floor. I remember his voice, shouting, but the words were lost in the chaos.

And then, silence.

When I came back to myself, I was standing in the middle of the room, my chest heaving, my hands trembling. He was gone—whether he had fled or whether I had…

I couldn’t let myself think about it.

The apartment felt different now. The air was heavier, the shadows deeper. I looked down at the shattered photo frame, the glass shards glinting like tiny stars.

I picked up the photo, carefully tucking it into my pocket.

It wasn’t over. Not yet.

Katsuki would understand eventually. He had to.

After all, no one loved him like I did.

The room is cold, sterile. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones, reminding you that you’re somewhere you don’t belong. A single light hangs overhead, casting harsh shadows on the walls, and the mirror on the far side reflects nothing but my own weary face.

Well, not just my face.

I know he’s there, standing on the other side. Watching me. Listening.

The officer across from me clears his throat, his expression caught somewhere between pity and disgust. “You’ve said enough. We’ve got everything we need.”

But I’m not finished. Not yet.

“You don’t understand,” I say, my voice soft but steady. “It’s not what you think.”

He sighs, flipping through the file in front of him. I catch glimpses of photos—my notes, my gifts, his shattered photo frame. Evidence, they’d called it. Proof of my “obsession.”

“Help me understand, then,” he says, leaning forward, his tone patronizing. “Because right now, it looks like you broke into Katsuki Bakugou’s apartment and—”

“I didn’t break in,” I interrupt, my voice rising just enough to startle him. “I let myself in. He left the door open for me. He knew I was coming.”

The officer’s brows knit together in disbelief. “And why would he do that?”

I smile, leaning back in my chair, feeling the faintest flicker of triumph. “Because he needed to see me. To finally realize who I am.”

The officer shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before standing. “You’re delusional.”

The voices outside the interrogation room are muffled, but I can still hear fragments of their conversation.

“She’s nuts. Every detail she remembers—it’s like she’s been living his life alongside him.”

“Obsessed, more like. Did you see the journal we confiscated? She knows what time he brushes his teeth, for crying out loud.”

Someone else laughs nervously. “Poor guy. No wonder he’s freaked out. She’s on a whole other level.”

But then I hear his voice—low, gravelly, and unmistakable.

“She’s different.”

The laughter stops.

“What do you mean?” another officer asks cautiously.

There’s a pause, and I imagine him standing there, arms crossed, that signature scowl on his face.

“I’ve had fans follow me before,” he says, his tone unreadable. “They scream, they cry, they cross boundaries. But this one… she’s worse.”

His voice drops lower, and I lean forward, straining to hear.

“She’s worse because she actually got under my skin.”

The officer returns to the room, his expression stony. “This is over. You’re being transferred soon.”

But I barely hear him. My eyes are on the mirror, on the faint outline of movement behind it. I know he’s still there. Watching. Listening.

“I’m not sorry,” I say, directing my words to him, not the officer. “I’d do it all again. For you.”

The officer exhales sharply, shaking his head as he gathers his papers. “You’re a real piece of work.”

He leaves, and for a moment, it’s just me and the silence.

And then the door opens again.

I feel him before I see him. The weight of his presence, the intensity of his gaze—it’s unmistakable. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t speak. He just stands there, arms crossed, his crimson eyes burning into me like fire.

“You really are different,” he says finally, his voice low and sharp.

I smile, the kind of smile that comes from knowing you’ve won something no one else ever could.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” I whisper.

He doesn’t reply. His jaw tightens, and for the first time, I see something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Not anger. Not fear.

Something darker.

Something that looks an awful lot like acknowledgment.

End.

a/n: another reminder to never stalk people. i didn't write this to romanticize stalking, however, this idea's been weighing in my head and i knew i needed to write it down somewhere. here is somewhere. k bye.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

"Patti Smith on the biggest misconception about her...:

"The thing that bothered me the most was when I had to return to the public eye in ’95 or ’96 when my husband died. We lived a very simple lifestyle in a more reclusive way in which he was king of our domain. I don’t drive, I didn’t have much of an income, and without him, I had to find a way of making a living. Besides working in a bookstore, the only thing I knew how to do was to make records—or to write poetry, which isn’t going to help put your kids through school. But when I started doing interviews, people kept saying “Well, you didn’t do anything in the 80s,” and I just want to get Elvis Presley’s gun out and shoot the television out of their soul. How could you say that? The conceit of people, to think that if they’re not reading about you in a newspaper or magazine, then you’re not doing anything. I’m not a celebrity, I’m a worker. I’ve always worked. I was working before people read anything about me, and the day they stopped reading about me, I was doing even more work. And the idea that if you’re a mother, you’re not doing anything—it’s the hardest job there is, being a mother or father requires great sacrifice, discipline, selflessness, and to think that we weren’t doing anything while we were raising a son or daughter is appalling. It makes me understand why some human beings question their worth if they’re not making a huge amount of money or aren’t famous, and that’s not right. My mother worked at a soda fountain. She made the food and was a waitress and she was a really hard worker and a devoted worker. And her potato salad became famous! She wouldn’t get potato salad from the deli, she would get up at five o’clock in the morning and make it herself, and people would come from Camden or Philly to this little soda fountain in South Jersey because she had famous potato salad. She was proud of that, and when she would come home at night, completely wiped out and throwing her tip money on the table and counting it, one of her great prides was that people would come from far and wide for her potato salad. People would say, “Well, what did your mother do? She was a waitress?” She served the people, and she served in the way that she knew best." from Alan Light interview in Medium Thanks Thatericalpter.com