#QueerBlogWed: A Hint of Spring

On September 28, 2022, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving a strawberry, a ring of keys, and a spoon.

This freebie story for my Work in Progress On the Other Side of Mask was the result…

A strawberry was bold enough to peek out from the vine, defying the chill which permeated Lord Ruthvyn’s grounds. A tasy treat for a hungry boy. Not nearly as tasty as the boy himself, pressing his hands against the glass, mouth slack with wonder. 

Nathaniel could happily eat him up with a spoon, but such a treat wasn’t for a doll as himself. All of Lord Ruthvyn’s songbirds were for the master. His lordship didn’t share with his staff. No matter how much they came to care for his charges. 

“Is it spring?” Shelley asked, not turning away from the sight. 

“You know it’s never spring in Paradise.” Nathaniel wondered if his own words were true. The eternal chill the pale lords preferred filled the air, but fruit and vegetables still grew in their gardens. The lords needed it to feed their human sheep, working in the factories which smoked their offerings to the Goddess above. 

The set of keys in Nathaniel’s hand jingled. The doll hadn’t realized his hand was trembling. 

The boy fixed his gaze upon the ring. “Do those unlock our cages?”

“This entire estate is a cage.” Why was he saying these things? It wasn’t his place to terrify his lord’s songbird. This was a privelege belonging to Lord Ruthvyn alone. “These open a door to a little room in which a songbird sulks.”

Shelley’s luminous blue-green eyes widened. “Byron?”

Oh, Nathaniel was playing a dangerous game. Olympia will scold him if she caught him. How envious she’d be. “He keeps demanding to see you. He refuses to sing unless he’s at your side. He’s becoming quite tiresome.”

“Allow him to do so.” Shelley dropped his hands, turning the force of his liquid gaze upon Nathaniel. “We sing better together than when we’re apart. His lordship will appreciate our song more. As will you, Nathaniel.”

The doll was oddly touched that his master’s favorite remembered his name. “It’s not for me to decide if you sing together or apart. Nor is it for me to decide when Byron’s punishment ends.”

“You have influence over the one who does. More than Byron or myself.” Oh, this child knew how to flatter his master’s servants. “Please, Nathaniel.”

“Not nearly as much as I’d like.” Why was he telling the truth to this choir urchin whom his lord had plucked from the church like ripe fruit? “I’m a toy made for Lord Ruthvyn’s pleasure. As is Olympia. If we have any influence, it’s of a mercurial nature.”

“Please.” Shelley took his hand in his small fingers. How warm they were. Warm and alive. 

Did this child feel how cold Nathaniel was? He might live to see a hundred Shelleys come and go. Until they disappeared and a new painting, statue, or piece of furniture became part of the residence with what was left of them screaming silently within the inanimate object. 

Nathaniel would never be warm, no matter how many tender young boys held his hand. Neither would his master. 

“Don’t beg for mercy, songbird.” He pulled his hand away from the child’s grip. “It’s beneath you to plead with one of your lord’s toys for favors.”

He turned away, refusing to look back at that vibrant child. He wouldn’t last. None of his lord’s songbirds or other entertainments did. Only Nathaniel and Olympia remained.

It wouldn’t hurt to ask his lord about the two boys singing together. It had been their song which attracted his interest. 

Hearing that song again might bring color to Lord Ruthvyn’s white cheeks. It would only whet his appettie. 

The doll swallowed, not looking at any of the paintings on the walls of the various children, staring back at him. One day Shelley would be one of them. 

Why did that distress him? 

Best not to dwell on that either. 


#QueerBlogWed: Wednesday Words

On September 14, 2023, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving a shipwreck, a bowl of berries, and a greeting card.

This poem was the result…

There’s an image of a shipwreck

Hidden in the lush colors of the greeting card

The last one had a bowl of berries

Resembling a cup of spilled blood

What sort of a message is she sending?

Turning tragedy into beauty?

Depicting nourishment as life spilled

She’s sent you so many different cards

They’re always offer you a riddle

Challenging you to figure out her state of mind

She hates to say anything directly

Detests the sound of her own complaints

If you’re worth her time, you’ll figure it out

You’ll accept her riddle challenge

A gallant small hero in her cavern of enigmatic gloom

Maybe you’ll meet her riddles with ones of your own

Challenge her to demystify you

Just what are you saying as you answer her?

The snippets of poem you respond with

Quirky little answers to her creepy cards

You’re unsure if it’s a challenge or a romance

You’re more than pals with your pens at stake

You can’t help admiring this shipwreck

Its hues are vibrantly defiant as it lies ruined

Perhaps she feels that she is the same

You want to convince her that she’s not a shipwreck

No matter how melancholy is her turn of mind

You’re more than happy to accept the bowl of berries

Even as you wonder if she’s picturing its juice

Trickling down the corner of your mouth

As if you were a vampire, drinking her art. 

#QueerBlogWed: Wednesday Words

On September 7, 2023, P.T. Wyant posted a Wednesday Words prompt involving a hospital, an argument, and the words “I’m late! I’m late!”

This poem was the result…

“I’m late! I’m late!”

Every ache in your body screams

Begging you to stop the pain

You’re unsure if a doctor could do anything

You’re worried that you need a hospital

The last place you want to go is there

You long for a baroque church of marble angels

Filled with statues, bearing wistful expression

Art popping out from every alcove, out of every altar

There’s no need to worry if you have faith

The beauty inspires awe, a feeling of reverence

Belief in the artist inspires belief in the subject

The sight of this beauty inspires you to create

Your body argues that it’s too old to kneel

The world is too dangerous to seek out these places

You were lucky to get to step inside so many

You were overwhelmed, with so much art on every side

If only the memory could sustain you now

As you rush to accomplish everything you put off

Only too aware of the pain slowing you down

Pain which will drag you to the hospital 

Forcing you to face everything you’ve fled from

You’re middle-aged, you’re old, you’re so very late

Even so you’ll keep trying to recreate beauty

Even as age and sickness threatens your own

Memories makes you race ahead, trying to outrun them

Trying to outrun them, letting the beauty lose

Allowing to flee in different directions 

As poems, stories, even essays

Telling a tale of yourself in so many fictions

You’ll still have beauty as long as you can write

As long as you can outrace the pain

Transforming mortal woman into many expressions

Taking on many forms beyond infirmity. 

#QueerBlogWed: Wednesday Words

On August 24, 2022, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt: ‘You wake to the sound of someone screaming’.

This poem was the result…

Screams awaken you to shuddering fear

You find yourself in the lonely darkness

Surrounded by silence, snoring, and soft breathing 

Even the cats are asleep, undisturbed

You were sure you heard the cry

Your certainty is mocked by the quiet

Your heart races, denying you were dreaming

Still you try to lie back, force yourself to relax

Try to get some rest while you can

You have so much you had to do tomorrow

Yet your body continues to spasm with fear

A remembered terror you cannot release

Listening to your breath in the waiting silence. 

#QueerBlogWed: Wednesday Words

On August 24, 2022, P.T. Wyant posted a Wednesday Words prompt involving a seashell, a hot air balloon, and a pill box.

This poem was the result…

Did you ever ride that hot air balloon?

You dreamed of soaring in through the clouds?

Did you visit the people you could hear?

Singing at you from the seashell?

Did you ever get the express your wishes?

Slaving away at your job?

Managers screaming at you while you walked in a daze

Maddening them with your apathy

You never gave them trouble, but you were always somewhere else

I gaze now at your empty pill box

A list of ingredients I know nothing about on the side

Telling a true story you never wished to tell.

No, you’d much rather rise above it all

Escape from your body into your dreams

Surrender yourself completely to story

Forced to cope with reality’s needs

Can anyone blame you from running away?

After the way your own body treated you?

Your imagination became your best friend

Offering you joy amidst drudgery and pain

I hope you got a chance to fly in that balloon

Even if it was only in your mind

I hope the songs of the seashell people were sweet

When you pushed through the pain

To shape that imaginary sight

There’s so much more to you than the pill box

No matter what anyone may say

May you flourish and nurture your inner artist

Giving her a chance to create every day. 

#QueerBlogWed: Wednesday Words

On August 10, 2022, P.T. Wyant posted a Wednesday Words prompt involving a torn t-shirt, smoke, and a dirt road.

This poem was the result…

All that was left was a torn t-shirt

Smoke rising from a dirt road

No body, no explanation

Where did you disappear?

Did you follow the path meandering into the woods? 

A path I never thought you’d take

I gaze at the rip running through the logo 

A logo which once said Life is Good

I’m not sure if you ever believed that

For all you tried so hard to smile

Keeping it together when everyone else screamed

Your own voice too polite to exert itself

Maybe you finally had enough

Of trying to keep everyone’s spirits up

Of trying to make something good

Which everyone else undervalued.

There’s no sign of a struggle

No sign you were taken in spite of the smoke

No blood on the shirt, just the rip across the middle

A tear in a shirt I saw you wear so many times

A message I noticed, wondering if it was true

Even as I wondered if you were trying to make yourself believe

Believe in a quality of life you struggled to maintain

You didn’t improve it by disappearing

The world is a lot worse now that you’re gone

Leaving us all with hoarse voices, gazing at the empty places

Devoid of the cheer which was you. 

#QueerBlogWed: Chance Meeting

On July 6, 2022, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving a yellow hat, a carousel, and a glass.

This freebie story for my Work in Progress, The Players Are the Thing was the result. (I’m thinking of working this into the draft itself.)

At first she wasn’t sure if it was really Zoe. Laughing, hanging onto the pole of her horse, a yellow hat askew at a jaunty angle upon her black curls, matching the yellow jacket she sported.

“Of course it’s her,” Amberwyne whispered from her imagination. Encouraging Rhane not to hide within her own mind. To take a look at the world around her. “She always seems to have fun, doesn’t she?”

Indeed. Zoe disappeared around the bend, only to reappear as the carousel made its circuit, smiling at the children and the parents on the other horses. Heedless of the fact that she was the only single adult riding without a child.

How like and unlike the intense player who wore black corsets and top hats to match Beatrix’s own, arguing with her Game Master. Daring everyone to throw themselves completely into roleplaying their characters. Heedless of how hard she made everyone breathe. 

Completely different, yet just as passionate. Living in the moment with all the fierceness which burned in her green eyes. 

Peering at her from behind a glass of liquid courage to keep her nerve up, being out in public, Rhane could only admire and envy that fierceness. 

“You have it, too.” She could almost feel Amber’s touch on her shoulder, her character’s whisper in her ear. “Go talk to her.”

“Over there? Where all the children and their parents are?” Rhane shrank behind her glass, wishing she could shrink inside herself.

“Where Zoe is.” If Rhane hadn’t known Amberwyne wasn’t real, she would have sworn she felt her character’s nudge. “You’re already in sight of all those people, but Zoe hasn’t seen you yet.”

This wasn’t encouraging. Rahne gazed at the last inch of liquid courage, swimming brown and thick in her glass. 

Someone started talking loudly on their phone, making her jump. She met the eyes of a strange woman at another table. Saw her lip curl in contemptuous amusement before she continued to babble into the pink plastic rectangle she held in front of her. 

Rhane didn’t sit back down. She started moving toward the carousel. Throwing her shoulders back as Amberwyne might before striding out to meet Rhiannon, lurking in the shadows waiting. 

That had just been roleplaying. This was reality. 

“Think of it as roleplaying.” Amber smiled, winking at her. “Remember, you created me. I’m part of you. Anything I’m capable of, you are.”

Not likely when you were playing a fantasy character who could summon a sword of golden green light. Not to mention travel over hill and through forest to locate all the curses left behind by a seductress enchantress. 

Amberwyne was an ideal. Someone Rhane got to play on those weekly nights when Beatrix ran her roleplaying campaign. Someone bold enough to face down duplicitous rogues like Rhiannon. 

Rhane wasn’t Amberwyne any more than Zoe was Rhiannon. Even so, Rhane walked forward to meet Zoe as if she was. 

The carousel came around the bend again. Green eyes locked upon her, widened with surprise. Watching Rhane as if they were mesmerized by her movement. 

Once again, Rhane was daydreaming too much. Still she kept walking, paused when Zoe disappeared around the curve again. 

The painted horse made its round, returning, Zoe on its back. Zoe stretched out a hand, offering it to Rhane. 

No way. She didn’t expect Rhane to jump on. Did she?

“Go for it!” Amber cheered her inside her imagination. Where would she be without her imagination? 

Rhane grabbed the hand, felt herself pulled onto the carousel. She grabbed one of the bars, swaying on her feet. 

Zoe didn’t let her go. With surprising strength, she hauled Rhane onto the horse behind her. 

Rhane panicked, grabbing onto Zoe’s back, sure she’d fall. Instead she slid against the other woman on the back of her immobile, moving steed.

“I’ve had fantasies like this.” The whisper was barely audible, drifting over Zoe’s shoulder.

“What?” Face hot, aware of her breasts pressed against the other woman’s back, her entire torso rubbing against her, all Rhane could do was hold on.

“Nothing.” Zoe raised her voice, leaving Rhane to wonder if she’d imagined it. “What are you doing here?”

“Braving the outside world.” Rhane found herself murmuring against black curls, staring up at the brim of hat, inches from her face. “Only to find you here to inspire me.”

“Glad I could inspire you.” Zoe shifted ever so slightly. “I didn’t think you ever left Beatrix’s apartment.”

“Not often.” Rhane squirmed a bit. The carousel music was loud, too loud to talk over, but the horse was slowing to a stop.

Zoe slid off its back, leaving Rhane feeling awkward while children were helped down by their parents. 

A hand extended to her. Zoe winked. “Need help?”

Rhane accepted the hand, landing somewhat awkwardly. “Sorry. I don’t have a great sense of balance.”

“I’ve noticed.” Zoe didn’t let go of her hand. “You move very slowly to make up for it. I marvel at how graceful you are.”

“I’m not graceful.” Rhane looked away from those brilliant green eyes. “Beatrix is always complaining about how klutzy I am.”

“Beatrix complains too much.” Zoe started walking over the green, slowing her step to match Rhane’s. “She should be grateful to have someone like you.”

“She’s flirting with you,” Amber murmured from her imagination. “She likes you.”

Rhane looked away. “Zoe, are you flirting with me?”

The other woman winked. “Took you long enough to notice.”

Rhane dared a glance at those red lips, curving in a smile. Such a bright lipstick Zoe wore. Different than the darker shades Beatrix favored. “You know Beatrix and I are together.” 

“Maybe Beatrix needs to be reminded of that.” Zoe raised Rhane’s fingers playfully to her lips. “She doesn’t appreciate you nearly enough.”

“She’s just under a lot of stress.” Rhane looked down at her feet. “Work, running the game.”

“And you’re not?” Zoe stopped her, making Rhane look into her eyes. “And even if you weren’t, how is it OK to take it out on you?”

“She’s right,” Amber chimed in. “Beatrix doesn’t appreciate you enough. You deserve to be appreciated, Rhane.”

“Don’t.” Rhane bit her lower lip. “It’s not OK. None of this is OK.”

“Maybe not.” Zoe heaved a sigh. “Would you hate me if I told you the reason I asked to be part of your game was you?”

No, this couldn’t be true. Zoe had be teasing her. 

“No, she’s not,” Amber murmured. “She really likes you.”

“Why?” Rhane dared to look back into those green eyes, fixed upon her. As if she, Rhane were important. Fascinating, even. 

“You interest me.” Zoe ducked her head as if Rhane’s own gaze was too much to bear. “Just being around you makes me happy. I had a feeling anywhere you were, any game you decided to play in would be fun.”

Rhane flushed at these words. “Has it been? Fun?”

“I’ll admit, I’m falling in love with Rhiannon, even if Beatrix was the one who created her.” Zoe grinned at her own words, pushed a black curl off her forehead. “One of the things that makes Rhiannon amazing is the company she keeps. You and Amber.”

If anything could have utterly disarmed Rhane, it was this. People could think whatever they wanted of her, but they’d better not say anything bad about Amber. Ever.

By the same turn of thought, if anyone liked or appreciated Amber, Rhane couldn’t help but appreciate them in turn.”

“You know, there’s another something which makes Rhiannon amazing.” She glanced at the other woman from under lowered eyelashes. “You.” 

“That so?” Color rose in Zoe’s cheeks, but she smiled. “Thank you. That means a lot coming from you. I must be doing something right, playing her.”

“You must be.” Rhane smiled right back, reached out to lace her fingers with Zoe’s. 

Right now there was no thought of Beatrix or whether this was cheating. Right now there was only Zoe.


If only that had been true.

Just look at her. Look how happy she is.

Beatrix gritted her teeth, fidgeting with the purple die in her hand. Watching the two women walk away from the carousel hand in hand.

One was supposed to be her girlfriend. The other was a player she’d invited herself into their gaming group. 

And they’ve both betrayed you. Are you going to let them get away from it? The whisper seemed to breathe from the die itself into her fingers. 

No, Beatrix hissed to the presence in her mind, the one that was growing stronger and stronger of late. No. 

Low sultry laughter filled her mind, a laughter which she’d imagined many times while running her game. Laughter which couldn’t be real.

We’ll see to it they both pay for their betrayal. Rhane and Amberwyne.

Beatrix nodded, no longer wondering if she was losing her mind. 

She no longer cared. 

#QueerBlogWeds: The Price of Heartbreak

On July 13, 2022, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt. It involved a circus tent, a bucket of mop water, and a vine.

And for the first time in a long time, an original story not connected to any works in progress came to me…

I almost didn’t recognize him, bent over the bucket of mop water, dumping into a drain. The old circus tent, faded and worn, flapped in a feeble breeze. 

“I never thought I’d see you again out here.” Acutely aware of my new shoes, my ill-fitting suit, I made my way across the grass. 

A vine covered a wall, giving the gray stone a vibrant greenery. I watched it out of the corner of my eye with wary respect, wishing I could simply enjoy its beauty.

Alas, I’d left such innocence faith in appearances behind. As for him, he’d always known better. 

“Neither did I.” He stood up, glanced in the direction of the vine before turning his attention to me. “You disappeared.”

“I had to go.” How pathetic my own excuse sounded in my own ears as I stood there, fidgeting. Trying not to notice the worry wrinkles lining his once smooth brow, the shadows under his eyes. 

“Of course you did.” He picked up the empty bucket, turned toward the circus tent. “Come on in.” 

I lifted the flap, breathed in the scent of forgotten smells, memories, everything the circus carried with them when it traveled. For a moment I saw him when he was young, eyes bright, taunt young body trembling in his tights. 

It had been an act, a disguise to lure me in, to steal me away. The old wonders which once awaited me were gone. The disguise might have been reality. This might have been nothing more than an abandoned tent. 

“Not what you remember, is it?” He grinned at me, but his dark eyes were bitter. “Kind of like me.”

“Memory has never been a reliable guide to the truth.” I searched the tent for something, anything to look at other than him. 

“Are you searching for the truth?” He leaned forward. “Or what glitters brightest?”

“I’m searching for you.” I crossed my arms, shifting from one foot to the other. The ground felt angry. Like there was life seething beneath me, trapped beneath me. Ready to burst out and rage. “I never forgot you. I never forgot what lay within the circus tent.”

“You were a child.” He leaned back, letting his eyes roam over my body. “Your eyes were so hungry, hungry for things I shouldn’t have done to you.”

“I let you.” Why not tell him the truth? “I thought you’d come to show me the wonders of your world. To make everything I’d ever fantasized come true.”

“I was happy to indulge your fantasies if you were willing to be mine.” Some of the bitterness left his face, replaced by a certain wicked delight I’d found both frightening and fascinating. “If you’d give yourself to me.”

Heat rose in my face at the memory of his lips, his hands, how they’d awakened my body. 

There’d never been anyone else like him in my life. There’d never been any point in trying to find anyone else. 

“You’re not married.” His smile grew, watching my face. “Nor are you with anyone else.”

“I’ve never been able to think of anyone but you.” Perhaps it was a weakness, admitting this to him, but it was the truth. “I can’t talk about it.”

“No.” He lifted a finger to his lips. “I chose you, marked you as mine. I can still take your voice. Should I choose.”

“I do write about it.” There was a strength in admitting this. “About what I saw in your tent. The place you took me to.” 

“No one will believe you.” He took a step closer, straightened his back. Was he standing a little taller? “They may believe that I’m a pervert, but about the other world existing in a circus tent? It’ll be dismissed as fantasy.”

“I was gone for a year!” I took another step toward him. “Yes, I did disappear from my own life! I escaped from you!”

“It’s not often I get attached to mortals.” He sighed and shrugged. “I really should know better. Meeting a delicious young thing like you which makes everything wondrous again. I had to have you before you become this.”

He waved a dismissive hand at my new shoes, my suit, my haircut, my entire attempt to seem like a halfway normal person. 

“And just what am I?” I demanded. “A crazy who was kidnapped by faeries? One particular faerie?”

“A special mortal who got to walk in another world, experience things few humans do.” He reached out to touch the top button of my suit. “To break the heart of something older who should be wiser than this.”

“Than what?” I lifted my hand to capture his fingers, hold him where he was. 

“Than to fall in love with a mortal boy.” He gazed into my eyes. “Than to let that boy go when he cried to go home. To come back to this place where we met, a faded wreck of myself, mopping floors, and keeping this tent in the hopes of finding that boy again. Even if he’s a stuffy man who no longer appreciates what happened to him.”

“I’m here, now, aren’t I?” I lifted his hand to my lips. “Why? Why have you aged so much?”

“Love has that effect on my kind.” He glanced down at my arm, my waist, my belt. “Passion carries a price when it’s accompanied by heartbreak.”

“Yes, it does.” I kissed his fingers, tasting his flesh. I’d almost think he was a mortal man. Almost. “We’ve both paid it.”

“As if.” He pulled me closer, wrapping his free arm around me. “We’ve only just begun. I want more. Don’t you?”

There was no need to answer with words. There never had been a need. Not with him. Not in this tent. 

I breathed him in, letting the smell of him open the door once more, taking us back to his world, his realm. 

This time I wouldn’t worry about not being able to return. 

Like my style of writing? Want to read more? Here’s a link to all my published works…


#QueerBlogWed: Duessa’s Dream

On July 27, 2022, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving a child, a vine, and a red light.

This freebie story (or is it a new beginning?) for Web of Inspiration was a result. (Web of Inspiration was a Tale of the Navel meant to be about Duessa Ashelocke and the origins of the Gardens of Arachne. Duessa is often the antagonist if not the villain for Stealing Myself From Shadows and My Tool, My Treasure. Like all of my villains, she has her own side of the story which I hoped to tell.)

The red light exuded from the flower on the vine, mesmerizing the child gazing at the flower. The vine wrapped itself around the unwitting innocent, a comforting stranglehold. 

I’ve got you now. I heard the words in my mind, like a dimly recalled memory. I’ll hold you forever. 

Such a seductive whisper, yet comforting like a mother’s voice, soothing a terrified infant. 

I’ll never let you go. 

I was the child, but I wasn’t. I felt like I should struggle yet I was glad of the embrace. 

I wasn’t sure whether it was a pleasant dream or a nightmare. Nor whether I was relieved or sorry to awaken from it. 

“Duessa!” Juno scolded, hands on her hips, standing over me. “Oh, my dear, you’re in quite a state!”

I’d reach up to touch my tidy mop of auburn hair. Yes, it was untidy in the morning. Yes, I only had two arms like a human woman. 

At the same time I wondered about these dreams of mine. Dreams not of being a future bride or any lover, but of being trapped and embraced by the vines. 

Eventually I realized they weren’t vines at all, but a web. I was wrapped in the strands of a web. Listening to a woman’s voice. 

Even in my innocent youth where I was being groomed to Stefan Ashelocke’s bride, I may have been dreaming of Arachne. The Spider was reaching out to me, courting me in a way my future husband never did. 

Is it any wonder who won my loyalty? 

#QueerBlogWed: World’s Most Boring Person

On October 19, 2022, P.T. Wyant posted at ptwyant.com a Wednesday Words prompt involving the World’s Most Boring Person, chocolate, and toast.

This poem was the result…

The World’s Most Boring Person

Never listens, talks non-stop about herself

About hobbies that don’t interest you

People you’ve never met

Becoming a blur

You reach for a chocolate

You reach for some toast

All the while her mouth never stops

Unaware of your movement

You’re not every hungry

Too apathetic to do anything

Other than shove food in your mouth

All this boredom is infectuous

You’re willing to endure it after being charmed

After the one who hung on your every word

Made you feel special, fantastic

Part of a rich flow of conversation

Lapping and swelling between you

Too exciting, too addictive

Too attractive to be safe

For when she left you alone

Feeling empty, a discarded fool

One of her many discards

Boredom felt safe.

It was safer to be in the company

Of one who didn’t matter

You still crave company

As you try not bleed, try not to scream

You let the boredom surround you

Comforting and innocuous

Your secret bandage

For the hurt you cannot admit.