𝐓𝐌𝐖𝐂 :sunny: the virtue of the world

──────────────────

𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 ⠀ ━━━━ ⠀ 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 14, 2022

Hello MA! It's been a hot minute since I've been able to make a post for myself, but here I am (:

This is my submission this month for the Writer's Club. Our prompt was some sort of Word Scramble - given five words that we had to use at least three of. I used four.

Magic

Falling

Silver

Failing

Breathe

I've made it all based on this fanart series that I love by Dorkbait (can't currently copy the link) on Tumblr. The italicized lines are the titles of some select pieces, and the rest is expansion I wrote.

Warnings for mention of torture (related to being a prisoner of war) and death. Basically just Winter Soldier stuff.

#tmwc

─────────────────

was it always like this?

you can't pinpoint the exact moment it happened

when all was lost and mindlessness ensued

the torture and lies and sheer hell -

there was a time before. you it. in pieces

before the table. before the fall. before the arm.

but what does it mean, really, forgetting?

is it like breathing?

in and out, comes and goes

out of reach

in the frenzy of electric shocks and ruptured neurons

what if nothing exists?

what if you're still on that table,

strapped down and bleeding, but it all heals up regardless

burning ice in your veins,

something unholy but so, so godly, magic in every way that counts -

"god, yahweh, whatever the hell you are - tell me, why did it have to be this way?"

what way?

this way?

or that way?

left and right, up and down, nothing makes sense anymore

but you do know one thing

him

the inescapable knowledge that someday you will lose him;

him, your crutch, your matching piece,

worn thin by the weight of the world on his shoulders;

much does he hate to it that he wears the shield on his back so he's not shot in it.

maybe you have to be lost, unable to be found

odysseus at sea, but the fight never ends

you

loved

him

first

but who are you, really, if nobody knows you?

if you don't know yourself

will it always be like this?

yes. the devil on your shoulder isn't kind -

"did they deserve this?"

- but you can reach heaven in his smile,

in the foxed-edged pictures left behind

but it's just failure, anymore, isn't it?

you are here to make amends, nothing more

unworthy of life, staining every turned doorknob with the blood dripping from your hands

"dear god, what the fuck am I doing?"

and worse, you lost him

dear lover, this fluorescent makes you a bit pale

a little washed out

your relief sickens you, but the pressure?

the pressure to be him, the charmer,

the picture-perfect boy who died so long ago and came back from war with dead eyes,

it's gone.

no more head-shattering chants of

ican'tican'tican'tican'tican'tican'tican'tican't -

but what if none of that matters anyway?

none of it matters. not without him.