Central

of genre "Love" | Inkstained

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Fateful Arrow

My aim’s precise just as my reasoning,
Each arrow is as piercing as a thought.
I’m battle-hardened by the suffering
Of all the countless struggles that I fought.

And as I bring my arrows to their aim
So I know hostile arrows to evade.
All those who hunted me became my game
And soon enough their memory will fade.

But this one time I could not get away
And all experience simply fell apart,
Distracted by the beauty of a fae,
An arrow shot by Cupid hit my heart.

And in this moment I began to live:
Love did me, cold assassin, purpose give.

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Heading on Down

Found love hanging in the falling rain
Found luck trampled by the golden way
Heading on the down road
Heading on down

Caught up believing I’d be old and grey
Held out till it was all in vain
Heading on the down road
Heading on down

Looked up, finally saw the sun again
Slowed up, remembering the beauty then
Heading on the down road
Heading on down

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At the bar

At the bar

I will not get hit on.

no one will look at me

with hunger on their teeth.

I will not be taken home.

Not because I am unattractive,

or unwelcoming, or intimidating,

but rather because I am awkward

and I lack the skills

required for small talk

but mostly because I am awkward.

 

I sit quietly at the end of the bar

drinking Rum and Coke’s

so fast I swallow the cup.

I watch the mingling by

other, more advanced gays

and avert my eyes

when they meet with his

or his, or his, or his.

 

I will leave the bar to early

before it becomes feeding frenzy

before anyone is forced to choose me.

On the stumble home

I will text him.

The one who broke me,

he will not respond

And I will feel

like drowning in a baby pool.

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White Knight Complex

(Save Your Soul - Jamie Cullum)

I don't know how not to save people. I'm sorry. Forgetting that I'm a hero scares me.

Not being a hero? Forgetting that feeling is every other day. That scares me.

I'm not looking away because I'm ashamed of you, your legs, your hair, not even those angry eyes. I love those eyes, even when they burn me. Especially. I mean, I know you've earned them. I know we've all earned them, that you've struggled. I'm not looking away from any of that. I'm looking away from me - I can see the reflection. I can't meet anybody's eyes too long. I see me.

I see the biggest, baddest, burliest son of a bitch to ever overclock his amygdala. Sure, you can fly, but when I run? The ground flies. The air cuts corners around me. Sound bends. Light gets a little closer. And when I have to hit something? I hit it hard. I hit my target. I've saved sixty-seven lives. I've never killed anyone, because that's not how it works for me. It doesn't scare me.

It's the feeling that thrives. It's remembering how invincible felt. It's forgetting growing up. No.

No, it's all those others days that scare me. The days I sit in that office chair with one broken wheel. Circling around a spot burned into the carpet. Papers unwritten. Meditations incomplete. My screen beeps with your messages for hours sometimes, but I've got just enough left in me to set myself as "Away". Because I am. Away. It's not the gift. It's not the losses. I'm not sad.

I just am. Away. So yeah. I save people. I work hard to be the big, bad, burly son of a bitch.

And I flinch when you look at me like I'm the bad guy. Because if I'm the bad guy? Well...

Then what the fuck is all of this for? What the fuck am I here for?

It's okay if I'm a hero. Heroes aren't allowed to be happy. If I'm a hero? Then I'm okay.

I can get up. I come back. I smile. I remember that you love me. I remember me.

Prompt: An amnesiac Anonymous asked me:

Forgotten.
(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, questions, attention, exposure, and more.
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Ill-Fitting

He didn't want to take it, but he took it anyway.

It was too small in his large, unclumsy hands. Too smooth, when he could barely feel it out through all the calluses. Too light, when he was used to bearing burdens. Too clean. Too much.

He didn't want to open it, but still, he opened it.

The clasp opened too easily. His finger and thumb were too well trained. He'd opened another, a twin to this one, one too many times over too many nights. It left scars on the hard hide he'd earned. That's why it felt too small, too smooth, too light, too clean. Too little. The clasp hurt.

He didn't want to look at it, but he looked.

He didn't look up. He didn't want to watch her leave.

Of all the things that he'd survived, he didn't expect to survive seeing an empty locket.

Where was his face? His picture? He'd wanted to see the man he used to be.

So had she, but she'd thrown it out anyway.

Prompt: via writeworld.

He stared at the locket, and it shook in his trembling hands.

Writer’s Block

In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Ow. Ow, ow, ow. Fuck. Ow. Ow. Ow. Writing hurts. Novels? More.

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Curled Up

There's a heavy lump in my throat, next to the warm body, next to mine.

There's such a softness that I can't believe I'm reaching out to touch it. The calm, cool curve of a sleeping shoulder. The lion purr of her rising, falling chest. Her elbows burrow in and down my chest, arms pressed close like a guard against me. Little puffs of breath push through to taste and tease my neck. All curled up in a den of lithe little arms, drawn-in knees, and so much hair I can't see her face. I don't need to see her face, but I wouldn't have minded. Much. So I can't see her.

But I can smell her - no poetic scent, just a human being.

And I can feel her - heat, breath, and a constant pressure.

The pressure builds. The pressure crests. Something between a long sigh and a deep yawn escapes.

I slump forward in an empty bed, now half-awake and out of memories. The lump slides back in.

Was it a dream? No, I must have been awake. Just crazy.

I can't sleep next to anyone.

Prompt: A lackadaisical Anonymous asked me:

What I'd like to wake up to every day...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, 6 more followers, and hot platonic love.

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The way love feels

It never feels the way poets describe it -

as warriors with shields marching down

 

the long and lonely hill, tender as dew,

as fire, as ash, the holy essence of experience,

 

as a summer day.  It starts in my groin,

a primal impulse to feel myself inside him,

 

a bumble bee sting. It is a pain I have learned

to love, like biting a cold sore or letting him

 

pull my hair when we fuck. When it’s gone

the heart burns like a thousand suns collapsing

 

into a black hole that consumes this universe,

and every other parallel universe that may

 

be in existence.  Love is pain, pain is love;

one cannot exist without the other. They move

 

like parallel lines, we are train jumping adrenaline

junkies, leaping from one to the other, when we

 

finally make the choice to show the blackness

inside - the parts we keep veiled from everyone else.

 

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Start to Finish

Eye contact. Smile. Look away. A sideways glance. Eye contact. Grin. Uncertain Laughter.  

“Is it just me or is this super awkward?”

“It's not just you.”

“Well that's a relief...”

 

Pause. Look away. Look up.

 

“So, you like me, huh?”

“I mean... I don't know you.”

“Oh.”

“But I would like to.”

“Oh.” A smile.

 

A meeting. Refreshments. Conversation. Laughter. Conversation. Deep and intimate thoughts, exchanged.

 

“This is weird.”

“What is?”

“I don't know...” Awkward half-laugh. “I guess it's just that, we've only just met. You and I have really only seen each other a few times but the way we talk, it's familiar. Like we've been exchanging witty banter for years now and this is just a part of our routine.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No... It shouldn't be...”

“You don't seem sure of your answer.”

“I suppose I'm just not used to letting people in.”

“Is that what's happening here? You're 'letting me in'?”

“I think so.”

“Does that scare you?”

“Yes.”

 

Another meeting. More conversation. More laughter. Performances given. Performances observed. Performances, enjoyed. A car ride. A confession.

 

“Hey, can I tell you something?”

“Always.”

“I haven't been totally honest with you.”

“Okay...”

“Well, you see,” inhale, “I like you. I mean, I guess I have sort of a crush on you. It's fine if you don't feel the same I just – I wanted to clear the air.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

 

Time wasted. Time spent. Time shared. A plan. A get together. A weekend get away. Alcohol. A touch. A joke becomes a proposition. A kiss.

 

“I thought you didn't feel the same way about me.”

“Maybe I changed my mind. Maybe you misunderstood me. Maybe I lied. You'll never know.”

“Won't I?”

“Maybe.” Pause. “I'm not looking for a relationship.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

 

More kissing. Touching. A break. Lie down. Sleep. A day passes.

 

“What happened yesterday probably shouldn't happen again.”

“Alright. Why?”

“I really like you. I don't want to get hurt.”

“I understand.”

 

Weeks pass. A friendship grows. Feelings grow. Two people. A sleep over. A morning spent together. An afternoon spent together.

 

“I have a problem.”

“What is it?”

“Well, remember what I said? About keeping 'us' a friendship?”

“Yes.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“I want you. And even if I can't have all of you, I like you a lot. I shouldn't not do something because I'm afraid of being hurt.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

 

A nod. Smile. Lean in. Kiss. Kiss harder. Fall back. Hands push. Pull. Hips sway. Fingers wander. Lips wander. A tongue slips. Lips part. A moan. A sigh. A plea.

 

“Don't stop.”

 

A dynamic changes. Hugs. Hands held. Kisses. Warm embraces. Bodies fit like puzzle pieces. Heads on shoulders. Sounds absorbed. Scents memorized. Sights, mesmerized. Time passes. A dynamic changes.

 

“I guess I'm just afraid that, if we get together, I don't know... things will change. Or, worse, they'll end. Just like that, just as soon as they've begun.”

“I mean, we're already pretty much in a relationship, all that's missing is the title.”

“I know but it just feels different”

“Well, I don't want to pressure you but I know what I want. It's still the same. I still want you. We could stay together years or we could break up an hour from now but I'd like to give us a shot.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Do you want to be with me?”

“Yes.”

 

Time passes. Happiness. A relationship grows. A love grows. Suddenly, things change.

 

“So, I think it's for sure. I think I'm leaving.”

“When?”

“A couple weeks...”

“Okay... You know, as much as this is going to hurt, I think you're doing the right thing. This is really important for your future. No matter what, I support you one hundred percent.”

“Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

 

Four days before three months. A great distance. One has been gone some days. Things have become too much. Tears. No embrace.

 

“I love you. I love you so much. But I can't handle this.”

“I love you too. What do you want to do?”

“More than anything, I want to be with you. I want us to be happy again. But that's not something that seems possible right now.”

“I know.”

“So?”

“So what do you think we should do?”

“I don't know... I guess... I guess, for now, we should just be friends.”

“Okay.”

 

For weeks after, her eyes watered as though she'd been staring at the sun and had only just stopped to make eye contact. She stumbled when she walked, drunk off sleepless nights and restless thoughts. Her only redeeming quality was that she did this with a smile on her face. People believed that her allergies were acting up. People believed that the medicine was having side effects. The smile she so often wore to comfort others, remained, as genuine and soothing as ever. As quickly as they were created, whole worlds shattered inside her. Universes fell apart in the folds of her skin. Stars didn't explode out of existence, they simply ceased to be and all she was left with, was the hollow black of empty space.  

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The truth is in the storyteller

These days I don’t smile.

These days I hold marbles.

These days I don’t want him.

 

Lets get one thing straight

I never begged him to stay.

 

I asked him while kneeling

with my hands in a prayer

 

but I never begged, because

that would mean he has been

 

seared into my being. That

he built a home inside me.

 

Begging is for the ones who

have no one to bid their time

 

I have plenty of men waiting

to taste my sugar cane smoothie.

 

These days I don’t frown.

These days I hold pearls.

These days I don’t need him.

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The Bard's Tongue

I Don't Trust Myself (With Loving You) by John Mayer on Grooveshark

The only words that come to me, come in poetry. Yet here I am, covered in snot and tears and a shaking sack of broken lines, and I'm supposed to find this beautiful? Is this what I'm here for?

I mean, I know all the right words, or at least a few good ones. Her hair - I could just say something about her hair, about the way it used to shine in the light. Used to. No, no. Not her hair. Her eyes, then? Gods, I can't remember the color of her eyes. Her eye-shadow used to glitter, turquoise and gold sometimes. Kohl used to smoke and streak like some other culture's stolen mysteries, like something cursed. Now? The only colors I can see are red cracks and muddy, murky stains. So no. No, not her eyes. Let's just forget about her face entirely. Okay.

Okay. I can lie, I guess. I could be empathetic. I could try to understand her situation, but fuck, I'm barely surviving my own. Who came up with this scenario? You cry, I hold you. I cry, you hold me. Is that all we are? Just.. pillars on a weak foundation, holding one another up? Is the ground that bad? Is the floor that horrible? Can I even care about somebody else so very goddamned broken? Can I?

Should I? Or is this about me? Oh, yes. Of course. It's always about me. I mean, I know all the right words, or at least a few good ones. At one time or another, I've even meant them. 

They don't work on me. Still, I hope that they make you feel better.

I'm at my most honest when you beg me to lie.

Prompt: An expressive Anonymous asked me:

"Never let me go".

Yup. And I've got the notes to prove it...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, reblogs, feedback, or proof you read this.

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