#its absurd im writing poetry for this dw verse but god it makes me feel... Things

[riathel]

on g&t (but primarily g)

a poem about the most obvious and popular doctor who media in the world: scream of the shalka. this may be slightly esoteric to read without context.

TW: suicidal ideation, alcoholism, and self-indulgent poetry of failed reboots and AU doctors.

also on ao3.

--

on g&t (but primarily g)

it's him, you tell yourself. (the drink burns your throat with more certainty than that.)

it's him, you insist, you are frozen in contemplation of a darkened bedroom and the familiar skin of a back. familiar because you built it, you designed every freckle, every mark,

(you swallow. it settles in your stomach. heavy. heavy. it's a light drink, but when it hits your empty stomach it rests like chains.)

it's him. or rather, you built it exactly like him, but it's not him, not really.

(he turns to you and in the dim light you can see how well you crafted that eyebrow, how neatly it raises, maybe the one, perfect thing you captured.)

you can joke about old times but you see the way the implanted memories have the clarity of a computer as he accesses them, and nobody but you would be able to tell the difference.

(he says your name quietly. you swallow another mouthful of drink.)

but you know, you know that thin smile isn't quite accurate,  even if you're the only one that it matters to

(he says your name, louder, god, you are a coward, you want anything but this)

and it matters. it matters so, so much, a constant awareness of wrongness. if he's too nice to you, you wonder if... if what? if you altered his program on a night when you got so blackout drunk

(doctor, he says instead, it sounds like a plea and you feel heavy and dizzy)

because you were trying to ignore the way that when you touch, skin to skin, his fingers stroking yours curling when it should be two into one--

(the invitation drips from him, "come to bed," he says softly, and then, like a switch, like you designed his systems, which you did, you won't ever forget that, he grinds out: "surely your self-indulgent sulking can be postponed?" you swallow the rest of your drink and think about dying.)

you can feel the TARDIS echoing underneath what should just be him, propping up this absurd facsimile of someone you have hated             and                    adored.

("I'm not tired," you lie, you want him to laugh, maybe that will prove decisively if you have become a tyrant, and he...)

drinking seems to be the best way to numb how much it hurts. you think you wouldn't have changed him,

(and he doesn't laugh. he crosses his arms and his mouth tightens in an unfamiliar way and his unfamiliar voice says, "you are the worst liar." he is right. another perfect recreation. he was always right about you, especially now that he's dead and you built his ghost because you can't live without being haunted by it everyday.)

but you can't know, really, not for sure, can never be certain, and the thought is almost revolting enough to convince you to never drink again

(except for tonight, when you will, and tomorrow, and the day after and he will watch you and say nothing and what will he think? you do not know. he is not there. you are weeping at an empty grave.)