#The Mad Sonneteer

[whatareyoureallyafraidof]

Look them in the eye and tell them how Joe Biden wanted to codify reproductive rights, ensuring them forever, but he was old. So, you voted for the Party that has repeatedly said they would ban abortion, and some of whom want to repeal the right of women to vote! Or, (just as bad) you decided not to vote at all.

[themadsonneteer]

Half

By Bud Koenemund (Written: April 2024) Half of my heart is still in love with you; A notion foolish as it is sincere, When that affection’s forever imbued By sadness: growing more and more austere. Half of my mind is still in love with you; Yet condemned to recall happier days, ‘Fore passion incandescent went askew; Leaving intellect and sanity razed. Half of my soul still belongs to you; Though ‘tis now mortal – crushed beyond the repair Time can grant; a solace long overdue – As I stumble about in my despair. I seek a peace I fear I’ll never find, While memory and shadow intertwine.

[cyarskaren52]

Even MAGA knows that 💩isn’t happening!

[whatareyoureallyafraidof]

#DonPoorleone is trending on the social media site formerly known as Twitter, and I'm here for it!

[nikxierocks]

Tdbk quirkless college au where Shouto is an aimless student who’s floating on his dad’s cash while Bakugou is working his ASS off on an engineering scholarship. Of course, they just happen to be roommates and happen to share the same basic classes.

I can only imagine how frustrated Bakugou would get by Todoroki simply existing near him— not only does he have the gall to be uselessly wasting thousands of dollars — he’s pretty while doing it!

After a whole semester of Shouto going on a journey of self-discovery and dicking around, he realizes what he wants to do. Bakugou finally calms down and is eager to hear what Shouto’s put his mind to—

—Only for it to be an entirely impractical major like poetry or some shit.

[kvothes]

for the fourth day of 🌷national poetry month🌷 here is a form called a tanka:

these are two tankas by japanese poet tada chimako, both titled “a spray of water.” similar to a haiku, the first three lines follow a 5-7-5 syllable count; however, a tanka then has two additional lines, each with 7 syllables.

(the syllable count isn’t exact in these two poems, bc they were translated from the japanese)

two more things: a tanka is supposed to be one sentence spread across these five lines. second, it needs to have a turn in it—a moment when the poem shifts focus or brings in a new idea. in this first tanka here, you can see that the poem starts by simply describing water in a kettle, but then broadens to be about anger and abandonment.

[salmonberrypj]

Escapril Day 12 - Oh, The Light!

Untitled Warboy Sonnet

The flames eat up the car, eat up the Wheel, Eat up the eyes for lookout, hands for fight, Eat up the perfect holy Chrome and steel, The last thing you can think is o, the light!

The last thing you can think is how you'd Tell, The Boys who wanna go out now and fast, How bright it is now, Witnessing yourself, There's no one there to Witness you, dumbass.

Your body wasn't good for much at all, Your brain was good for targeting, you guess, And now combustion deities have called, There's nothin' you can tell them back but yes.

You don't wish for more time, you're still a fighter. But you sorta wished you'd go out even brighter.

-PJ

[gennsoup]

Shuttered in hot light and oil-seared stars, you alone carry the weight of planetary anxieties.

Sally Wen Mao, Sonnets for Kudryavka

[poetasterwaster]

Sonnet 21

XII. (prose of Mad) A solitude: it’s loved me, so have I. A feeling: never did it reach to you. The sin: to hide my mind that time wi’ a lie. The punishment razed all things I pursue. The grief: so cruel at the same and beauteous. Regret: the fluid, not flowing any more. The darkness: my constituents e’er duteous. And you: the butterfly I got, what for? A waste: not do I want to think so, though; It, many words, unsparing times I gave. A life: the same love as a death; a woe, Unable to obtain the thing I crave. E’en now you’ve never known my __oken heart. And yet, why not? I chart your parts in art.

[tonycries]

Rockstar! Choso who can’t figure out why every song he writes is suddenly a love song…and what the hell was that last one named after you? He must be going mad.

Rockstar! Choso who feels so at odds with that persona he’s meant to put up - with the tattoos and the piercings and the eyeliner. Hell, at least you liked it…would it really be overkill to get you initials tattooed on his hip?

Rockstar! Choso whose fans speculate that he’s dating someone - he must be, right? There’s no way he’s looking so sappy during interviews and glancing at his phone way too much during livestreams. There’s absolutely no way he isn’t - in fact, more than being heartbroken, they’re concerned whenever he gets that heartbroken look on his face n’ admits he’s single.

Rockstar! Choso subtweeting about you - which only fuels the flames to those rumors. Babbling nonsense about your hair n’ halfway through writing a sonnet about your eyes before management locks him out of his account and makes him a private one instead because DAMN-

Rockstar! Choso who looks for you after every concert, practically running off the screen, shovelling past a few poor fans to meet you all the way at the very back of that dark, dingy club they frequent - “S-so uhh…did ya like the song?”

[utterlyotterlyx]

The Goddess and The Reaper

Summary - Azriel can't help but find himself needing answers after a haunted male enters the Night Court

Warnings - mentions of haunting, mentions of suicide, fluff, memory stealing, mentions of death, mentions of torture, angst

There were many things that kept Azriel up at night.

The safety of his court. The worry that something might happen to his family if he switched off. The nightmares that plagued each one of the seconds that sleep did find him.

Many wondered how the illustrious Shadowsinger hadn’t gone mad yet from the exhaustion. Truth be told, Azriel had his own methods of ensuring his mind and wits were always sharp. The most unusual tool in his arsenal being the acts he conducted upon the enemies of the Night Court within his tower that was shrouded in a veil of shadow.

Something about torturing his enemies brought him a life and energy that nothing else ever could.

There used to be a time that he believed in the fantasies he was told as a child by his mother, stories that he never knew if they were real or not, or if they were somewhat laced with truths of a time long gone.

Before his brothers took his hands, Azriel believed. He believed in the Veiled Woman that drifted through the world, taking away the pain from the innocent and inflicting it upon those who truly deserved it. His brothers had always been afraid of that story, curling up in his mothers lap or running to their father whilst Azriel would listen to every morsel that fell from the lips of the most perfect storyteller there ever was.

Perhaps they were afraid that she would come for them.

A woman. Wise and true. Vengeful. Ethereal in ways that would blind all who would dare to believe they were deserving to gaze upon her face. That was why she wore the veil you see, so that no one would be able to see her. Azriel had always liked to believe that she was doing the continent a kindness by hiding her face, that hiding under a veil of darkness was easier for everyone.

But he couldn't help but wonder how lonely she might have been.

Azriel's hands were bloodied, the substance dripping from his fingers unto the stone cold floor of his tower placed so far from the city so that no one would be able to hear the screams of his victims.

Within the chair before his wickedly darkened orbs, a man panted and squirmed against his restraints. A spy from Hybern had slipped beyond the boarder, and Azriel's shadows had alerted him to the fact immediately. He had propelled himself into the sky, leaving his dining chair in pieces on the floor and his family glaring at him with wide eyes as his wings flexed and swooped him upward into the starry night.

The male wasn't difficult to catch. Not at all.

"I will ask you one more time." Azriel leaned down, the cold of the room settling into his veins and the only sound being the rushing of his victims blood in their veins. The wooden arms creaked under the added pressure of his hands, Azriel leant down, almost bringing himself nose to nose with the bruised and broken male before his eyes. "Why are you here?"

The male began to blubber, soft sobs falling from his lips, and his head fell back, exposing the ice blue of his eyes and self-inflicted nail marks over his sockets. "Please kill me. Kill me before she does."

Azriel frowned, unsure whether to trust the words, but the better part, the more inquisitive part, of him pressed on. "Before who does?"

"The nightmare," the male whispered, eyes opening slightly and sweeping across the room with fear, as if his stalker had followed him all the way to Azriel's tower. "The darkness. The one who brings the pain of a thousand sins and leads you to your death."

Azriel considered himself intrigued. "Tell me about her and I'll make this easier for you."

The male inhaled, his bones shaking beneath his skin, but he nodded, and Azriel knew then that no lie would fall from his lips.

"She appears to you cloaked in darkness with a voice as soft as a lovers sonnet," he began, straining in his seat whilst he recounted, "She speaks to you, she seems to know all the wrong you have done, she knows every awful thought you've ever had. You feel like she understands you, that she's there to wash it away so you can finally rest," his blue eyes clouded and his bottom lip wobbled furiously. "But then she shows you that face, that wickedly beautiful face that lies beneath a veil of black and gold, and gifts you all of the pain you've inflicted on others, and guides you to the grave. Most of her prey take their own lives. I thought that I could outrun her."

"But you couldn't?"

"No one can," his gaze flickered upward to Azriel's, "She was at the boarder of this court, ushering me inside. Now I know why. She was leading me to this place so that I would meet my end."

"Why would she not kill you herself?" Azriel tilted his head at the man, examining his face, drinking in his pain and fear and whatever else was written into the contours of his skin.

"It goes against everything that she is. We call her the Angel of Death where I'm from, a guide to the end. In your land I believe she's known as The Veiled."

The Veiled.

Azriel took a step backward, noting how the male's head swung back downcast. "She led you here?"

"Yes," the male rasped, throat raw despite the blood and bile rising through it. "And she's here now. I can feel her in the air. I can feel her in my bones, in my blood. Please make it go away. Free me of it."

Without comprehending his own movement, as though a phantom limb had curled around his hand and led it to the hilt of his beloved dagger, Azriel slit the throat of the haunted male and listened to his gargles in a haze, only coming to when silence had befallen the room once more.

He couldn't tell anyone about the words, not because he was afraid that they wouldn't believe him, but because he had to find this woman before anyone else found out about her.

Azriel scoured the skies for three nights, trying to follow the pull in his gut that had been leading him further and further from the confinements of the Night Court. Each time he ventured beyond, he would always find some vile creature inflicting pain upon something innocent. One night it was a poacher torturing a trapped doe. Another night it was an Illyrian following a young woman home with nothing by hatred and desire in his mind. And on the final night, the soul Azriel vanquished from the earth was a criminal so foul that he had a bounty on his head placed by Rhys himself.

It was as though whatever was pulling him from the Night Court was doing so for a reason.

On the fourth night, Azriel found himself walking through a woodland so dense with trees that the only light that found him was that from the small gaps between the branches that the moonlight could stream through. The ground was soaking up that moonlight like the last breath before it drowned and wept to the depths of the earths core.

From his hunt, the Shadowsinger understood what the male in the tower meant, the feeling of this creature seeping into the very essence of his being. He had tried to ignore the pull, he had tried to ignore the siren-like coo that would find his ears no matter where he stood, causing Rhys to become somewhat suspicious of the absent mind of his Spymaster.

It was mostly silent save for the occasional hoot of owls and the scamper of night foxes along the forest floor, and further away, the soft rushing of water babbling along a secluded stream.

Azriel was waiting for something, another victim led to him or a rare eventless night, he wasn't exactly sure. Nothing could shake the feeling of her. It was as if he had been curled within an ice cold blanket, and he should have felt threatened, he should have been thrashing and fighting against it, but in all honestly Azriel had never felt more safe, or secure than in that moment.

Idly he found himself following the sound of the flowing water, eager to see where it led with his wings tucked behind his back and fingers not even twitching to his dagger as he ascended a mound, eyes widening when he took in the scene before him.

A large clearing lay at the foot of the mound where he stood, moonlight illuminating every strand of grass and bouncing off the lights of the plethora of fireflies that silently waltzed in the air. Even the water sparkled, like pure, untainted starlight, reflecting against the bark of trees and only adding to the mysticality of the place.

And in the centre of it all stood the woman he had been searching for, he didn't need to ask to know it. The way his heart sang confirmed it for him.

Her veil of black and gold fell over her entire body, though he could make out the point of her nose and the length of her eyelashes beneath it as well as the magnificent shape of her body in the thin black silk gown she adorned. She stood with her back to him, crouching down slowly to run her fingers just below the surface of the water, and all he could do was watch.

"It's about time you found me," she spoke, voice low and sultry, and he could tell without even seeing her face that she was smirking beneath that veil.

"How long have you known that I've been standing here?"

The Veiled Woman scoffed softly, turning on the balls of her bare feet to face him, "In this clearing or my domain in general? Because the answer is since the moment you stepped foot into it."

In all of his years serving Rhys, Azriel had flown over that exact clearing more times than he could count, and he had never seen it the way it appeared to him now. Noting the small cabin at the far side of the clearing, glowing gold and exuding warmth, Azriel took a singular step forward, "You glamoured this place?"

"I am the one who finds people, not the other way around."

"Then how did I find you?"

He couldn't help but hold his breath as she approached him, feet not even flinching as they stepped on jagged rocks and broken twigs until she came to a halt direct in front of him.

Azriel could have sworn that he could see the wordless wonder in the eyes that he couldn't quite see.

The woman tilted her head slightly, fingers reaching up to brush against the sharpness of his cheekbones like a rogue feather in the night.

Isn't it obvious? You're here because I wished it.

Her voice echoed in his mind, in the very depths of his consciousness whilst her hand lay still against the silk of his cheek and her lips curled upward into a smile beneath the lace of her veil.

It was strange how familiar she felt.

But then her touch vanished, and she began to walk away, and the void of ice coiled around him once more, destroying the blossoming sun that had been growing within his chest.

"What's your name?"

She stopped in her tracks, appearing like a fallen angel in the moonlight with wisps of fog parting around her body. A fox cub went to scamper by, but stopped when it saw her, and it tentatively moved closer and closer until it was perched atop her feet, and let out a chipper when she scooped it up into her arms and held it there for a moment.

"It's y/n." Azriel couldn't help but smile at the sight of the fox cub nibbling on her fingers, and she reacted in a way that made him believe that it wasn't an odd thing to happen. "I knew your mother," and with that his blood ran cold.

"You did?"

Y/N hummed in agreement, pitiful and angry agreement.

"Yes," she said, "I'd go as far as to call us friends, but that friendship died long ago."

"She used to tell us stories of you. Of a woman veiled from a the world who took the pain of the innocent and bled it onto the minds of the guilty. She called you Vengeance. My brothers were absolutely terrified of the stories, but I never was."

The brief truth seemed to make y/n smile, she lowered herself to the ground, setting the small fox free into the depths of the woodland before rising once more. "I offered to kill them for what they did to you. Your mother disagreed."

"Is that why your friendship died?"

Silence.

Azriel took another step forward, finding himself needing to be surrounded by her. "No. It ended because she found out what you were destined to be, and she wished to save you from it. I understood, of course."

He wanted nothing more than to lift that veil, to lay his eyes on the face that had always haunted his rarity of dreams, but he knew that no one was worthy of such an honour.

"What I was destined to be?"

Y/N stumbled back a step, eyes scanning him head to toe from behind her veil, "She never told you?"

"Told me what?"

Azriel could sense the confliction.

"You walk alongside death every day and it doesn't fear you, nor you it. Do you remember a time where the idea of death and the life after it didn't terrify you?"

The Shadowsinger contemplated the question, but he answered truthfully, "No."

"Our fates are entwined. They always have been. You have seen my face before but you don't remember it, I had to erase myself, I had to let you live your life until you were ready," y/n told him, she turned away, slowly walking further from him but Azriel couldn't let her, and perhaps he made a mistake when he reached out and curled his fingers around her wrist.

The world tilted. Azriel felt energy course around their bodies, bright but oh so dark and delicious.

Y/N was stuck in her place, black silk kissing the ground and intricate lace flexing over her mouth from the rapid breaths that she was releasing into the air. Azriel moved round her, not letting her go for even a moment, and found his marred fingers grasping at the hem of the veil, slowing lifting it so that it slowly revealed her to him inch by inch.

Soft skin.

A body that could make even the most holy of men crack.

Thick, luscious hair.

A neck carved by the gods.

A pointed chin.

Perfect nose.

Feline eyes.

Azriel suddenly understood why her victims went so mad that they took their own lives. Y/N was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, the most beautiful thing anyone would. Perhaps it was a final mercy that the last thing her victims saw was that face.

The veil fell to the floor in a puddle.

"You have lived in my dreams for centuries, since I was a little boy. Why?" Azriel whispered, his fingers booking beneath her chin and lifting her captivating eyes to meet his.

"I am the Goddess of Death, and you," she reached up, taking his face in her perfectly carved fingers, "Azriel, you are my Reaper."

You walk alongside death every day and it doesn't fear you.

"I cannot kill those that I hunt which is ironic, I know," y/n chuckled gently, hand still caressing the sides of his face, "You were brought into this world to protect those you love, to avenge all pain and threat. You know the stories, you know of the prophecies."

The Goddess and her Reaper.

There was something festering within his soul, begging to be released, asking to be unlocked so that it could run free. It was something golden and bountiful, something that had been suppressed for too long.

"I erased myself from your mind. I have lived eons keeping an eye on you but not allowing myself to get too close apart from on the odd occasion when I just couldn't stay away." Y/N pulled his face to hers and ran the tip of her nose along the bridge of his own. "You have a family, and life with me is as complicated as it gets. I'm not exactly accepted."

"What are you saying?" Azriel asked breathlessly, feeling his soul slowly cracking open and slits of golden rays peering over the shadow that had shrouded him always.

"We are mates, Azriel. I saw you 400 years ago and I knew, but you were hurting," y/n frowned, but then it vanished and became replaced with a smile, "And then you were building your family. You were in love with Mor, and you were training with Cassian and protecting Rhys, and poking fun at Amren. I couldn't take you from that, not when you were feeling the most loved and appreciated than you ever had."

"So you dragged yourself in and out of my life as you pleased, and forbid me from remembering this face?" Azriel traced the pad of his thumb over her lips.

"I thought that I was protecting you by staying away."

A swelling breeze danced around their bodies, sweeping sleeping leaves from their beds and rustling branches overhead. "Let me remember you."

It took a moment, but then it happened. A key slid into the lock around his soul and the force of his essence burst through it like it was some kind of exploding dam. Images flashed in the forefront of his mind, of secret meetings, of cabins at night, of bodies entwined, of promises and wishes, of loudly declared words, and of a love and passion so deep and powerful that Azriel knew that it took something equally as powerful to cloak it.

After the images subsided, all Azriel could do was hold his y/n closer, pulling her tighter to his chest and commanding, "Don't you ever take those away again. I will steal any soul that you wish, I will vanquish anything from this earth that you order me to, I will serve you until my last breath, but don't you ever take those away from me. Not again. Not ever."

"I vow it. If I do then I will meet my end, I swear it."

And with the magic that ran through the veins of Prythian, Azriel and Y/N felt a burning in their flesh, embedding the vow into their very bones.

When they both peered downward at their forearms, all they saw were two twin ravens flying in a circle before the eyes of a starry night.

Author's Note

WOOOOOOOO

I'M BACK BITCHES

[whatareyoureallyafraidof]

Awww, did the consequences of your actions come back on you?

[themadsonneteer]

A Warrior Poet's Soul

By Bud Koenemund (Written: December 2023) For Christina Alvarado My mind cries out, profaning the universe; Mourning, o’er and o’er, this tragedy – An assault on existence – while cursing A suppos’d caring god’s perfidy. I wish I could hold you in my arms now; Embracing gently; a reassuring Touch to defy despair and doubt; somehow Granting peace – a balm easing suffering. But, I know the strength you possess: spirit, Resolve, stubbornness, and tenacity; With a warrior poet’s soul. Sans fear, You’ll tilt ‘gainst fate for immortality. I have and will always love you, my Friend; Sentiment which shall endure ‘til time’s end.

[cyarskaren52]

What’s the sense of putting Black people in power in his administration, if he’s going to block their moves. It screams “Token” for me!

[mediumgayitalian]

Will knows who it is at the first light brush on his shoulders.

He tips his head back back, bumping his boyfriend’s hip, leaning into the hand on his trapezius, his scapula, the base of his neck.

“Hi,” he says, grinning.

“Hi,” Nico says, leaning down to press his smile onto Will’s forehead. His hair tickles his cheeks, and he smells like woodsmoke and citrus, and Will slides his hand across his jaw and tugs him closer.

“Errand done?”

“Yep.”

“Lord Hades pleased?”

“As much as he ever is.” Nico shifts, kissing the corner of his mouth, the curve of his chin, the shape of his jaw. “My ears are ringing from five days of quiet. Even the echoing sound of lost souls cannot compete with your constant blabbing; I hardly knew what to do with myself.”

“Oh, shut up. You love my chatterin’.” He smacks the side of Nico’s head, but it’s hard to play mad when he’s smiling, shameless, wide enough that his teeth nick Will’s cheekbones, that his snickers are muffled into his skin.

“If I wanted to be stuck with someone who yaps nonstop I would’ve stayed down with Cerebus. In fact he might shed less, and he doesn’t drool when he sleeps.”

“…I do not shed.”

Nico plants both hands next to Will’s head, heaving himself up, and scans his camp shirt. Within three seconds, he locates a strand of hair, pinches it off, and flicks it at Will’s face.

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, for the love of — get over here,” Will demands. Laughing, Nico goes where Will tugs him, curling up next to him on the bench. “You’re such a shit. Normal people are much kinder to the significant annoyances they leave behind for five days, you know.”

“Are they.”

Nico lifts his arm in offering and Will accepts with relish, tucking himself under it and making certain to drag his curls down Nico’s face in the process.

“Yep. In fact I was expecting hand-written letters by day two, honestly, telling me how much you missed me and how the distance was physically painful, et cetera, et cetera. Maybe a sonnet or two. Italian, preferably, Elizabethan are not my favourite.”

“You’re very picky.”

Will sniffs haughtily. “Well, I’m a catch. You have lots of competition, you know. I was fighting them off while you were away but now that you come back and insult me upon reunion, I shall reevaluate my options.”

He feels more than hears the quiet laughter Nico presses in his hair, thumb brushing his collar, dipping onto bare skin.

“Is that so.”

“Indeed. My suitors have even offered a dowry quite handsome. I’m worth twenty-seven goats, didn’t you know.”

“Oh, well then. I might as well return what I brought for you, since I’m not sure I can outshine two dozen goats.”

The cool thing about being a son of Apollo is that Will has range. His dad is the god of arts, generally, up to and especially the dramatic ones. Will knows how to school his face into the perfect mask, how to smile on command and cry as desired, how to deliver a line and bow with a flourish. Playing a part comes as naturally as breathing, as naturally as healing.

“A present?” he asks, checking his nails as if the mere thought bores him. “That’s interesting, I guess.”

Nico doesn’t even bother to indulge him.

“Here, you massive dweeb,” he snorts. He hands over a small paper box, hand-folded and thin. “I can practically feel you vibrating.”

There is only one thing in this world, quite possibly, that Will likes more than proving Nico wrong, and that is letting his boyfriend spoil him. In all honesty it’s a real challenge sometimes, because Nico is really very good at being everything Will has ever wanted even if he has wrong opinions on most movies. Truly Will’s life is a joke at which the gods must howl with laughter.

Eagerly taking the box, he holds it up to his face, carefully inspecting every corner. The paper is regular printer paper, slightly waterlogged (from the Big House printer, then, ‘cause Will was carrying a giant bag of saline in from storage when he was eleven years old and tripped on the shipment of office supplies that someone had left, for some reason, in the middle of the fucking hallway, and the bag had exploded on impact all over four boxes of printer paper holding one thousand pages each) and carefully bent into shape. He recognises Nico’s handiwork from the dozens of origami paper sculptures he’s been gifted over the past few months.

“Open it.”

“What is it?”

Nico rolls his eyes. “What did I just say.”

“No, I mean — it’s not my birthday or anything.”

“So?”

“So you’ve wrapped me up a present! I want to know why before I open it.”

“Just because,” Nico mumbles, pressing a kiss to his temples. “Not everything needs a reason, nosey.”

“If nothing had reason then we would still be premordial soup,” Will mutters, but pops open the lid anyway.

He gasps.

“Oh my gods, Nico, you —”

Nico’s smiling smugly, but Will barely notices. Inside the box is a black chain darker than shadow, so dark it doesn’t even glint in the heavy sun, and dozens of little charms, from polished obsidian to a ball of slowly flickering flame.

“You like?”

“It’s gorgeous!”

He makes a triumphant nose, pumping his fist, and says, “Fuck those suitors, I fucking win,” and the funniest part is that he’s damn serious. There’s a glint in his eye identical to when he wins a sword fight, to when Connor loses a bet to him, to when twenty-odd bets are stacked against him and he’s got a full house. Something dangerous and wild and superior and Will is not an enabler, okay, he is not, but he is only so strong and there is only so much he can do when pretty boys wrap their arms around him and smirk at him and bring him bracelets they made in the Underworld. He’d like to meet someone who wouldn’t fold, actually.

“There were no suitors, you loser,” he says, but he’s flushed, pleased smile stretched wide across his face, and Nico’s grinning that too-wide grin and tilting Will’s face closer with the edge of his thumb, like he barely had to try. And there’s always a little bit of shadow leeching off him when he comes back from a quest, an aura surrounding him like he’s squaring off to the sun, and of course the wild churning in Will’s stomach has nothing to do with that but what’s he to do, really? What is a warm-blooded person with eyes that can see to do when faced with such a look?

“Of course there aren’t. They know I would reap their actual souls.”

“Possessive, much.”

“You’re literally going red.”

“Shut up.”

And he does, but only because Will makes him.

Although judging by the hand he shoves in his hair, he doesn’t seem to mind.

[librarycards]

sry if you've answered this before, but do you have any fave or recommended poems centered around or related to disability?

thanks for your patience, i do! i'm including some of my favorite books below, as well as some individual poems.

i've also written some disability-themed pieces/books. Some pieces I've written that may be of interest include these two and these two in Electric Lit, Diagnostician's Note in Protean, RUNNING in X-RAY Lit, Late Summer Dispatch in Princemere, Headcase! in the New Orleans Review, and to a specified fate) and these two in The Institutionalized Review.

books (all of the authors listed also have individual pieces published that are worth checking out!)

Hannah Emerson, The Kissing of Kissing

Twoey Gray, Electrodaughter

Bhanu Kapil, Schizophrene

Sam Sax, Madness

Bettina Judd, Patient.

Jane Shi, Leaving Chang'e On Read

David Wolach, Occultations

Petra Kuppers & Neil Marcus, Cripple Poetics

Phil Smith, Writhing Writing: Moving Toward a Mad Poetics

Edited Anthology: Beauty is a Verb: The New Poetry of Disability

some poems i love (* marks those I have edited/helped bring into the world!):

Jess Silfa, Keeping Up

Dane Lyn, Stoner Termites*

Andy Jackson, Disfigured Fame

BEE LB, Two poems

torrin a. greathouse, SICK4SICK

Nora Hikari, The Fictive's Address

Matthew Tuckner, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, With Figurative Language

Isaac Pickell, In The Psych Ward*

Zachariah Claypole White, OCD Sonnets

Evan Reynolds, [ABJECTION]*

Jesse Rice-Evans, Snow Moon

hope you find something you like!