AzizrianDaoXrak

I recoil to think of family, terrible and piercing song of past seasons, of we were children once of they will die one dayThe distance between is a fragile thing, thin-boned, small-throated, wings a-fluttering

i have become rounder jiggling broad buttocks wide-set breasts satisfying me  selfish and sexual in a way that doesn't whisper of childrenwomen gods dwell in my solar plexus fire my chill steady womb clutch my breasts as theirs inhabit my blood spread my fingers we spin togetherhow do i run my fingers through the hair of this power that is minehow do i teach this fire chant feather words searing breath give you my ashen throat swallow without swallowing to spit out all you who are in my care and keepingmy saliva sanctifies gives curse and charmi move shadow and light together empty of all separation and yet separate facing each other  my s...

I can only breathe out— coming to you to take in gasps, you have drowned me, my love.You have taught me new places for hands and feet, showed me the kinds of lace my hair might become, when tangled correctly, how to dodge the thistle-spines, everything but how to take air back into my lungs—they fill reluctantly, as if with water, as if I am taking in your blood through your heart, your beating throat.I hope I give you goosebumps. I hope I am the sunshine your white skin has forgotten.

The real world is a lie we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night. I stopped sleeping long ago, but I have started to remember how.When I look over the asylum walls wondering where home is, my doctor reminds me that I killed a man. I did not know him. I wonder if he had a family. Wonder how I strayed from the realm of the frost giants to kill an innocent man.I still owe Baba Yaga a debt— I awake some nights with a vision of her flying over the walls with her mortar and pestle to take every drop of my blood as payment. The asylum walls make me feel safe, though. One day I will leave these walls as ashes, and then she will come to take her ...

Everybody knows It hurts to grow old, But I don’t think the trees Regret their lost leaves. Do you, Mr. Eliot? Do you?I think Michaelangelo Measured his life in brush strokes. You’ve measured your life in words, And I, I will measure mine in steps, One foot following another.Everybody knows It hurts to grow old, But I don’t think the trees Regret their lost leaves. Do you, Mr. Eliot? Do you?Who are we, Mr. Eliot, To write of death even as we bloom? Michaelangelo has grown old, And you have grown old, And I will grow old, And learn that it’s not worth troubling with.Everybody knows It hurts to grow old, But I don’t think the trees Regret th...

The real world is a lie we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night. I stopped sleeping long ago, but I have started to remember how.When I look over the asylum walls wondering where home is, my doctor reminds me that I killed a man. I did not know him. I wonder if he had a family. Wonder how I strayed from the realm of the frost giants to kill an innocent man.I still owe Baba Yaga a debt— I awake some nights with a vision of her flying over the walls with her mortar and pestle to take every drop of my blood as payment. The asylum walls make me feel safe, though. One day I will leave these walls as ashes, and then she will come to take her ...

I climb the last artificial rise, stomach aching with undigested ineloquencies and superheroes we will bring to life. I am caught on my favorite dream as his song loops through one ear and rattles around in my head.A pregnant pause swells with the anticipation of years, with a crescendo of hopeful chords. Twilight brings fireflies and magic and billowing daydreams.I can recite half the evening by heart. Years of my life are carried away in laugh lines still imperfect and piano sonatas I will never understand.My pen is poised, waiting.Tell me what to write next.

You were born in northern India, swaying in the winds and you have been swaying since, and will until your wedding day. Then you will become still, still as trains of orange flowers.

You've Been Looking at the Virtues of Child, Man, and Woman All Wrong In the end we're all myths, hermaphroditic deities. Our names are the most real things about us.        i. My mother named me for the Virgin         and I carry her legacy in my blood—        she is my spirit animal; the creature         who crawled first across the placenta line         outside my home. In truth, I imagine all         are wolves or coyotes drawn by the smell         of fresh blood.        ii. There is no purity in childhood:         we are simply jesters with blistered feet         and the purple skins of blueberries under our fingernails.        We fee...

Greetings, all! WELCOME TO DEVIANTART! I'm so excited to welcome you to a community I have been a member of for going-on 8 years. I started this tutorial specifically because I know the literature community is difficult to find, so I wanted to create a kind of quick reference guide for writers who have just joined dA (or returned to it after a long haitus) to let people know how things work, where to go for critique, contests, help, DD suggestions, or just friendly conversation!In this guide, I would like to talk about how to submit literature, critiques, Daily Deviations, people you should know, the literature forum, and groups.This tutor...

i have become rounder jiggling broad buttocks wide-set breasts satisfying me  selfish and sexual in a way that doesn't whisper of childrenwomen gods dwell in my solar plexus fire my chill steady womb clutch my breasts as theirs inhabit my blood spread my fingers we spin togetherhow do i run my fingers through the hair of this power that is minehow do i teach this fire chant feather words searing breath give you my ashen throat swallow without swallowing to spit out all you who are in my care and keepingmy saliva sanctifies gives curse and charmi move shadow and light together empty of all separation and yet separate facing each other  my s...

  A priori: I do not know what it means to feel afraid.1. I am a ghost walking the ridge of Devil’s Backbone, bleary-eyed and brown, underbrush and Virginia clay.The day has been all dawn; the sun is a pale yellow rumor through winter trees.2. I am Lurray Caverns with flutes of stone echoing songs in my hollow chest; my heart is a rock in my belly.At once I have learned the truth of doubt and absolute certainty.3. I am the Devil himself, a fevered dancer— my feet cannot cease moving else the listless sadness rises from my empty insides.Sleepless phantom— pacing the ground brown and dead.   A posteriori: I have found my fear again, and it...

   The trees of the forest are finally looming in front of me. It's nearly dark, but the last rays of sunlight illuminate the forest eaves. All of the paths merge into one and plunge into the trees. Cricket-song calls me into a velvet gloom. It looks so peaceful.    The path coats my feet in a layer of dirt, but it's a welcome change from the rough gravel. As the sun fully sets, the only light I have to go by is the dull glow of the sky behind me. My mind begins to wander again. What am I going to do when it's fully dark? This dream landscape even has its own weather patterns—a breeze still comes in off the ocean, but with no sun shining a...

Note to my watchers: if you are interested in reading the full novel,  Necromancer Exile , I highly recommend you at least read the chapters I have currently posted before you read through the activity I completed here, as there will be some spoilers. The Challenge: "Take your current story-in-progress or a story you recently wrote and list out all the actions your protagonist takes. Then identify if they are reacting to an event of your story or actively protagging. What does the balance look like? Does your character react more than they protag? If so, brainstorm some ways you can change the events of your story so your character is prot...