ᴄᴏɴᴅᴇᴍɴᴇᴅ.

@mxskedman is over and we’re watching Stardust and Luna’s never seen it before so she’s making the most adorable little squee noises at bby Charlie Cox

THESE EMOTIONS ARENT MINE TO CONTROL

            there’s a kind of sorrow that hangs from her bones, and she keeps it tucked safely within her ribs, a cage inside her chest —- for the most part. in his presence, the weight of it seems to pull her down, and her heart aches with everything that’s happened between them —- and all the words she’ll never know how to say. she’d swear the sound of it beating is loud as a drum as she waits the mere seconds between his words, and once upon a time that thrumming would have been all he’d need in order to know exactly what she couldn’t say. 

          things have changed. the space between them molded into something new – something neither of them knows how to maneuver around, it seems, and she hadn’t been ready for the tension that swirls around them like smoke, threatening to choke the very air from her lungs. why then, does she keep coming back?

          ‘ i didn’t think i’d be back, either. ’

          she sees the strain in his face and for just a moment reaches her hand as though intending to touch his cheek. halting the movement before making any contact with his skin, natasha busies herself with rolling the leftover gauze and storing it away before finally giving an explanation to a question he hadn’t needed to pose out loud —- though only a half-truth.

          ' you needed my help. ’

he’s not sure he believes that either -- his lie detecting talents go wasted on natasha’s steady heart. not a backtracking flutter in sight, even as  ‘ help ’ reads too shallow an excuse to come all this way. he’s put his body through WORSE; didn’t bother her then. 

perhaps a measure of guilt, or something close to it, does weigh on her conscience. it permeates the air as her hand sweeps the air above his split cheek, another flash of indecision. death’s tart perfume. matt allows a muted sigh to escape his lips  ( a ghost of contact, flush with her allowance )  &  for eyes to blink shut, if only to display vulnerability as DUE. 

he doesn’t MEAN to appear so desecrated. must be a talent, sustaining overlapping wounds for so long. fingers extend of their own accord. pausing her flurry of precise movement -- he needs to keep himself busy, too. they hook in nat’s forearm as question marks, pulling her close once more. 

‘            that simple? 

Charles Bukowski, “The Genius in the Crowd” (via ebriosity)

Nicola Goldberg, from The Prettiest Girl in the Psych Ward

He must have been in the Christmas crowd,  or one of them. each Mass running together until they’re all the same mass the same families, sisters, crying children; the same scrum at the parking lot, faces only resolving into focus when the sanctuary is  empty  enough  to  echo  with oxygen pumps in the early morning. He didn’t mind not having that burden.

Does he sink back into his old armchair and worry about Matt Murdock? No. And yes. 

‘           You’ll have to jog my memory.

if it’s good news, Matt sure doesn’t seem satisfied about it.

‘          it was, something about a -- 

the sentence stumbles in haste to find some sort of RESOLUTION. whether in the form of acknowledgement, absolution, abhorrence -- he’s not picky with reactions, fleeting & sentimental as they are. matt trusts lantom to lend them clarity. steep inhale ends with mouth tightened, sucking the words back into mind’s vacuum. 

matthew’s not used to sounding ludicrous; he takes himself too seriously for that. tongue wets his lips to smooth passage, enunciated molasses-slow. deliberate as testimony. 

‘           a mind-controller. kilgrave. it, um.              it made me wonder how a man could be allowed              to have so much power. to the point where making             up your mind & being committed to the good fight             isn’t even close to being enough. 

he’s already berating himself for having revealed just this side of too much.  ‘the good fight’? matt, you’re a LAWYER. 

           ‘ yeah yeah, bleedin’ out, buzzkill, no sexy times for old men —— life or death, don’t pretend you ain’t echolocating my sweet ASS when i sashay on by. ’

and for once in his life, dead ears bless him with silence through the painful scrape of damp cloth from red skin that’s somehow audible through sight alone, enough to warrant the clutch of his eyes in a wince and the low hiss that his tongue presses to the roof of his mouth. and that sweet empathy between humans is always such a bitch, his casual demeanor —- among other physical assets —- shrinking back up inside him as a web of gauze rings itself around his sterile hand in layers. prepping the patient consists only of the two bits of ibuprofen he slips then into matt’s hand.

             ‘ smell that, tiger shark? that there’s the salty scent of every bleach stick i own being OBLITERATED by the bloodsponge that was once my entire domicile. i’m talkin’ tail-tucked, face-in-the-dirt, coupons-wasted BULLSHIT. all those years of greasy pizza stains completely overwritten by the siren song of some backalley brawl —- it’s the casualties, matty, it’s the price we pay. literally. tide ain’t cheap. ’ a moment to feed the needle through a flame licked out by his old lighter, and now they’re playin’ ball.  ‘ turn around and think of happier times, kid. SUTURE CITY ain’t pretty. ’

press of candy-coated tablets in his cusped palm are PROMISES smattering the ground, clinking high like plastic beads. it’s hardly a matter of trusting the resident nurse  ( whose hands are cold & steady marbled, as sure of themselves as they come. he’ll lock the words up under his tongue, but clint’s movements are CUTMAN; the iced pressure between winning & losing a match )  -- if anything he’s a stubborn sonofagun who prefers gnawing pain to tickling numbness. the needle’s slip to surrender. 

molten copper runs down his nostril as gutted abdomen rolls into the straw couch, rotisserie style.   yeah, the stench of body fluids & cleaning chemicals whiffs up from the cushions to greet his offices. eyes sting like knives from the blanket of hospital bleach & the needle’s tug into flayed flesh, salt-licks bubbling over. his visage crumples against the fabric, which is a SCRAPE in its own right. a GRUNT batters the glottal stop. matthew wastes no time: 

‘              okay, but did you ever --                consider a career in POETRY. 

maybe the couch has some virtues. his teeth clench until the enamel grinds off & pulp cavities grin vampiric, ripping open his mouth’s delicate insides. clint works; it ain’t pretty, but at least it’s a familiar agony. in this world, there are few capital-T Truths. he’s lucky to have found ONE, & endures it with stillness learned from his father. 

‘              I don’t know about you, but I’m having a great                  time. least we’re not getting shot at. has to                   count for something. 

Margaret Atwood, from

Selected Poems II: 1976 - 1986 

           ‘ nice try, evel knievel. i already pulled you all starry-eyed outta the friggin’ sewage once today —— no way am i lettin’ yer clown-nose ass be the blacked out CHERRY on top of this meat pie. and my couch. ’

still, a tinge of empathy rings out in a hollow orchestra of been there, done that, same. the clasps of his first-aid kit snap off in two flicks of his thumb. ‘ now take off your shirt and don’t waste time tryna be all sexy about it. you’re getting blood on my pillows. ’

‘         let’s be honest right now -- your couch has seen            way worse than this. least of all from me. 

escapes smartly on a wince; a cut on his back has been oozing blood into this couch for at least a couple of hours, transfusion style on now-crusted fabric. sitting up would expose the spot  &  he’s in too much agony to deal with clint’s sudden nurse tendencies. clasping the costume’s collar, matt slowly peels upwards  ( blood & sweat salt-tacky against his taut abdomen ). the rebuttal is muffled by black spandex as it clings to his face, slowly suffocating -- 

‘          why would I? critical injuries don’t count as foreplay,             despite popular belief. 

Trista Mateer, excerpt form “Luna Park,” Honeybee