You Will Delve Into The Depths Of Your Emotional Dumpster Fire And Gorge The Rodents On The Remnants

to my fellow writers:

i hope you find the strength to finish that chapter, to finish your outline, to edit a bit more, to be kind to yourself

I scream “SCREW YOU”

To the lies I tell myself

Insecurity runs rampant

In a head full of the voices of others

Hatred and jealousy spawn venomous words

And insults that burn

Like acid in the blood

And shred self confidence

So combat fire with fire

Until hate has no more fuel to burn

And the words of others

No longer sting

Spit venom at that hateful voice

Until the infection of their jealous words

Is burned out by the fever of self-love and spite

- A. Yenzer

Overstimulated

A rumbling, thundering storm

Of sunshine and perfume.

Bright light that feels like daggers

in your eyes and temples;

While you suffocate in the scent of

Flames and fruit.

A tidal wave

Of loud noise and pin pricks.

Swollen eardrums

Throbbing in time to

the sound of blood pounding past them

As needles burn your skin

Taste the only safe space

To harbor love for sweet

And sour, too.

Where bitter and umami,

Break through the pain

To you.

- A. Yenzer

Precipice

The sharp click of the switch

reverberates through the air

as you turn off the light in the laundry room

and step into the kitchen.

Your steps stutter to a stop

on the cool laminate sticking to your soles

when your mind catches on

the sliding glass door

in your peripheral. There is a man,

standing on the precipice

of where the porch light’s glow

is swallowed by the dark.

Balaclava and clothes carved from obsidian

tempt the night to draw him in. The dying

bulb above the door is just strong enough

to drag his silhouette into its illumination.

Your gaze latches on

where his should be, instead

two brimming pools of black abyss

stare back, looking through you.

Your head is screaming,

“Don’t look too closely!

He might be real

this time.”

Wind wails against the walls outside,

the house creaks and groans in protest

and leaves scrape bark branches

as their trees bend with the gust.

The sudden sounds steal

air from your chest in

a sharp gasp. Muscles tense

and your eyes slam shut.

Dissipating

in the darkness,

the vision is gone

when they snap open again.

Your recurring apparition

leaves less fear

lingering in your blood now.

So,

Push your shoulders back

and wrench the weight

of anxious paranoia

off your chest.

You'll finish getting

ready for bed but

even though you know

there’s nothing there,

the shadows still seem

to whisper your name

and cling to you

in the night.

- A. Yenzer

Fallen soldiers, from wars old and new, never stop fighting. They just have a different war to fight.

Sailors who die on sunken ships fight the monsters of the deep from pulling the ships of the living down to the depths. Ships with smashed hulls and broken masts, submarines with gaping holes in their sides rise from their graves at the bottom of the ocean and protect the living from the monsters of old.

Pilots of the newer wars have found themselves fighting the ones who can fly, the monsters that would steal a child off the street or a beloved pet from their yard. Until the first of these new fallen, attempting to fend the flying ones off was almost futile. But now ghost planes with broken wings and burning engines patrol the skies.

Warriors struck down on the battlefield fend off the monsters of the land from taking the souls of the living that walk the earth. Their axes and swords, bows and arrows, even calvary horses are some of the only things that allow the living to believe fairy tales are just tales.

A soldier never stops being a soldier, even in death. To them, it’s worth everything. To continue protecting those they love and all who come after.

- A. Yenzer

“Burn.”

The power of a spell is inversely proportional to the amount of words in its name. You, hated and exiled, invented the first single word spell:

Not the chosen one. The one who chose to.

How many tears had the Doctor shed,

Before his sorrow was thoroughly fed?

How many times has the Doctor wept,

Comfortless, until he slept?

Each day, after the close,

It was enough to water a Rose.

When he realized she could never come home,

And that he was left to hopelessly roam.

After the angel made them blink,

And she said goodbye with a final wink;

Nourishing an almost bond,

Flowed enough to fill two Ponds.

Finally, a River,

And, alone, he was left to shiver;

When after the final breath,

Greeted like an old friend, was Death.

- A. Yenzer

Senseless death in combat should have been something Ares had gotten used to after so long, but it still pulled at his chest. It was unpreventable but it didn’t have to be callous and the scene in front of him was most definitely that.

Ares bellowed as his racing footsteps shook the earth with his fury and his sword, raised high, sung through the air as he whirled it above his head. Soaring over the young soldier on the ground, cutting down the man above them whose grin had been sadistic as he tormented them seconds prior. Cut after cut, pulling weak cries from their lips as loss of blood pulled them closer to death.

Ares panted over their wilting form, his gaze full of fury as the enemy soldier took his last breath, before turning back to the child at his feet. The face of war softened on theirs, the flames in his eyes subsiding as he knelt by their side. They couldn’t feel much, but the hands lifting them into his lap were more gentle than they would’ve expected from a god so fierce. As was his caress smoothing the blood matted hair from their forehead and his words soothing their fear.

He stayed with them as they slipped in and out of consciousness. It didn’t take long for them to succumb to their wounds, but Ares never left their side.

He had to wait.

“Thanatos,” Ares’ whispered eventually in begrudging acknowledgment of the newcomer now hovering by his side, looking down at the sleeping figure.

“I’m here now, cousin. You can let them go. I’ll take good care of them. I always do.”

“They’re so young,” Ares’ stiff shoulders slumped in defeat before he finally lifted his gaze from the child in his arms, chest barely rising with breath as their skin paled and their lips turned blue.

“Aren’t they always?” The God of Death’s words weren’t intentionally cruel, his tone was sympathetic even. It was simply a statement of fact.

“I truly despise those cowards that hide behind my name and send children to my battlefields in their stead.” The sound that rumbles from Thanatos’ chest is comforting but noncommittal. They both know that there was little either of them can do to stop the senseless theft of youth in the world of humans.

Even if Ares slit the throats of every one of those pathetic warmongers as they hovered over their miniature scenes of combat - simulations of war that they would never have to witness, playing at battle like a children’s game with no real consequences – it would make little difference. Like the Hydra, humanity never let themselves have peace, someone would always step into the power vacuum before it could close in on itself.

They both knew well that they would never rest as long as humanity persisted. They would always be at war and they would always die.

So Ares passed the duty to Thanatos as he always did, knowing that his cousin’s earlier words were true. He always showed Ares’ soldiers the utmost care on their journey.

The soul, gray and hazy, of the youth who rested in his lap rose from its body, groggy and confused but Thanatos simply held out his hand and helped them steady on their weightless feet.

That was one thing War could always count on: that Death would be there waiting at the end of every soldier’s battle.

- A. Yenzer

It will develop like everything else through time, care, and effort.

it’s okay if your prose is ugly right now. it’s just pre-gorgeous.