Would Be Bluebird

A poetic telling of an unfortunate seduction.


Heavy angst warning. 

Drug use and graphic lemons. Mature audiences only.




What I couldn’t tell you was that I’d replaced my soul with a demon a long time before you showed up. That I’d dowsed my humanity in enough chemical matter to render it unrecognizable, nothing but a scarred and traumatized version of its former self. That I’d banished my hope to a faraway place I’d started to refer to as Isle Fuck You and that I’d shoved every important emotion into the spare inch of space between my brittle, sugared shell and my bitter, rotten core.

All of that shit just pushing its way to the surface.

My skin had been crawling for so long with the effort of holding myself together, everything just scratching at me, that I’d turned to the even stronger crawl I got from the drugs to ease the itch. Doped myself to the point of blissful ease, enough to put a blurred edge around every day and night until they all just blended together. Enough to leave me without a reflection and to control the urge to just split apart.

To ground my thoughts like blackbirds.


To subdue my dreams like vultures.


Looking for something bright in the middle of all that black.


Like a bluebird.


In a graveyard.


Read it here: Would Be Bluebird



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