This is a little prose piece I wrote called Sleepwalking. :)
Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Author Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Malia Tate/Kira Yukimura, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
"I think we should start having sex," says Malia.
"What," says Kira.
i loved you the way you left me,
all at once
(we were never meant to be anymore
than the things that broke us)
maybe they’ll talk about us some day,
the way we fell apart
maybe they’ll talk about how we loved each other so much
it killed us both
I am not sure who I am.
I thought I knew. I don’t anymore.
Sometimes I feel so sad I wonder how other people can’t feel it, too,
and then I wonder if I’m sad or just angry
or if I’m not both.
The more I learn to like how I look
the more I hate who I am inside.
I have learnt that sometimes when people say they love you
they don’t mean it. Not every part of me is lovable,
but I try to believe that some parts are.
I keep my fingernails long as a replacement
that doesn’t really get the job done.
I believe in Prince Charming without
ever believing at all.
I have too many old train tickets. I never learnt
how to forgive.
I wish I did.
I wish I could.
I have made too many promises I never kept,
and I should tell more people I love them.
I should try not to be lying through my teeth
when I say it.
whatever they tell you
about getting better
the truth is
it’s something we work at everyday
a chance to redeem ourselves
to climb back up
after we’ve fallen down
just because you’re down
just because you fucked up
doesn’t mean there’s no ‘getting better’
because we get better every time we don’t give up
every hospital visit we don’t need
every time we decide to distract ourselves
instead of giving in
we get better by just carrying on
that’s what makes us strong
is what makes it worth it
In a lifetime, the heart creates enough energy
to drive to the moon and back.
The day he left I didn’t even have enough energy
to close the door behind him.
Too often people try to lecture me about love,
about how it’s infinite and glorious, about the edges of it,
the space it takes up. I tell them it’s all subjective.
I tell them about the time I slammed the door in his face
and he didn’t move his fingers quick enough. Seven fractures.
I drove him to the hospital and stayed all night in the dingy little waiting room
despite the fact that hospitals suffocate me.
That is love, I say. And he’s gone.
Sometimes I start poems with the intention
of writing about my loneliness, deep and thick,
about my sadness, about my fear of being alone;
I always end up here.
Love, I say, isn’t infinite. It isn’t even long-fucking-term.
If I could harness that energy to ride to the moon,
I think I’d rather use it all and then die out there in space
than wait around loving people in a way I don’t understand.
Love, I say, forget about love. Let me tell you about sadness.
Let me tell you about fear. Let me tell you about hurt,
sitting heavy in my gut.
Let me tell you about the moon, the way it sits,
cradled in the sky, waiting.
And let me tell you about him and his eyes,
about the things we sacrifice
for the people we find beautiful,
about how the knowledge that I could ride to the moon
with all the energy I was wasting on him
never made me love him any less.