To Trust (the great societal “you”)

I am not supposed to trust you.

I am not supposed to trust that you won’t throw me under the bus, or slam the door in my face, or whisper my secrets into unfriendly ears.

I am not to speak with you as though I believe in you. I am not supposed to think the best of you, though I am so inclined. I am not supposed to approach you with open arms, palms outstretched, offering of myself in ways that could end up hurting me. Because in the end, they say, you will hurt me.

Because I trust too easily and believe to deeply, and I can’t seem to grow out of the childhood naivety that tells me the world and its people are good.

I am not supposed to take you at face value, but I’m not supposed to look deeper than that.

I am supposed to protect my papier-mâché heart with brick walls that look strong, yet approachable. I am supposed to invite you into the antichamber of my mind, but no further. I am supposed to guard my soul, because it is so easily broken by my own aptitude for honest words to fast friends.

I am not supposed I trust you. And I have been burdened and burned and betrayed far too many times for that.

But that doesn’t mean that I won’t.

Hakuouki: Oni Dreams (poetry, HijiChi inspired)

*reposted/reformatted for blog purposes*

-Hakuouki: Oni Dreams-

In the night-every night-he can feel it.

Pulsing.

Burning.

Aching.

Closing his eyes, he holds his breath. He waits. The images come.

These sored dreams are, for all their perversion, everything he cares to remember. And yet, he fights to forget.

The sensation, reminiscent of the quench of most painful desire, different still-more raw even than…more base, and combined with her…

…her presence, her scent, her small sighs-sounds she though he wouldn’t notice underneath the hitching breath and trembling fingers…

“H-hijikata-san…”

Lips on taunt skin.

“…Don’t you dare turn around.”

He opens his eyes.

He raises his arms above his head.

In a western bed, his hands are shaking.

His throat burns.

It isn’t an unbearable pain. It is a lust.

But this… this isn’t something he asked of her. And now she’s safe, far from danger comprised of heat and war.

His guilt…misplaced?… devours him in waking hours, his own desire as he tries to sleep in a humans’ world.

He is a monster now, but anything that must be done to protect the Shinsingumi…

…no, to protect his lady…

…ideals embodied by a way of life and a young woman’s smile…

…are well worth it in the end, even if that end is

death.

Image result for hakuouki ghost chizuru hijikata

“Captains, On Her” (Poetry Collection — Hakuouki)

Hijikata:

I hold her hand, so small, in mine.

As our fingers intertwine, as her thick hair tangles in the crook of my neck, as her tears fall silently, one hand gripping tightly my yukata…

her lips even now refusing to say my given name, too much even as she’s shaking…

Only now do I finally understand.

Image result for hijikata chizuru


Harada:

Her love is thicker than Kyoto smoke.

This girl is more a woman than I’d dreamed—that’s not to say I’d entertained the notion, yet

her eyes that night, they flickered in the fire light, casting longing shadows that I couldn’t overlook if I’d wanted, and I…

…I thought I might consider it real enough to try…

if she’d had those eyes for me.

Image result for harada hakuouki chizuru


Saito:

Unchanging notions cast aside normality of life I’d thought to miss,

summed up in compulsion: one tick, sword swiped clean and sheathed.

She is sakura blossoms in snow, and I am a shadow on the mountain

of Shinsengumi glory. These things I do not take for granted.

Image result for saito chizuru hakuouki


Okita:

My heart has never raced for anything but the kill, and yet

open spaces left abandoned feel a little less empty when I’m

with her.

Image result for okita chizuru hakuouki


Heisuki:

I’ve been called a kid so many times,

and I feel it

when she looks at me.

A sacred thing I can’t help but admire,

she smiles with sparkling eyes

like a fever dream I had when I was small.

Bushing cheeks on maiko girls so soon

become her;

Tell me, Sano-san,

Am I too young for this?

Image result for heisuke chizuru hakuouki


Sannan:

I thought I’d hate to say it, but…

She is the means to an end

An omnipresent blinder, a puzzle in the eyes of flawless research

—An impression on bloodly Okita—

—An impertinence to Hijikata—

A dictation on MY heart

Words spoken with the sweetest hint of bitter goya

And the gall only a young, plucky girl in men’s clothing can deliver!

Who is she—SHE!—to make me—I, who have given up HUMANITY—feel so…

…monsterous?

Image result for sannan chizuru hakuouki


Nagakura:

I feel like I’m sending my only son to fight a war,

Or my only daughter to her wedding.

Or maybe a butterfly into a spider’s web or a rabbit into a fox’s den, but you get the picture

And I know that Sano doesn’t look at her that way, but I’ve seen Heisuke’s eyes, that kid

In keeping with a theme, I’m not as oblivious as some might say,

But I’ll choose this labeled ignorance for a reason:

Give me fifteen minutes with a geisha and I’ll make it count,

But a lifetime well spent isn’t long enough to spend with her.

I’ll take this role with pride, old man jokes aside—

Chizuru is a treasure; only certain men—my pals—are good enough.

Image result for chizuru nagakura hakuouki CG

Atashi no Kuudere *short version*

Kuudere: a character who doesn’t express emotion readily even amongst friends, often identified as cold or uncaring. Characters’ kuudere natures vary; while some kuudere are simply unemotional, others suppress their emotions because they cannot understand or label them, thus having no idea how to proceed but with perceived or true indifference. This type of kuudere may border on dandere (see term dictionary, "dandere"). Some kuudere suppress all emotion; fewer suppress only serious emotion.

Atashi no Kuudere

or “Cool Affection”


 

Image result for male kuudere

This smile most loved is a secret.

It’s halting,

a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, shadow-lurker, “I hate dogs” smile

dependent on sincerity…

…or abject mortification.

What it says is,

“Don’t touch me,”

while holding out a hand for mine

and, “You can do this yourself”

while reaching over my body

to wrangle volume controls—This smile

is real

and sometimes,

the only thing that is.

 

 

 

[Dedicated to Husband]

To Ship or Not to Ship: That is the Question -misquoted and misrepresented

“To ship, or not to ship: that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous secondhand chemistry,

Or to take arms against a sea of poorly construed AUs,

And by opposing end them? To ship: to interpret;

No surety; but by interpretation to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That an OTP is heir to, ’tis a compulsion

Devoutly to be wish’d. To ship, to interpret;

To interpret: perchance to canonize: ay, there’s the rub;

For in that canonization what dreams may come

When we have shuffled beyond this current material,

Must give us pause: there’s the respect

That makes calamity of so honest aversion;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of unmet longing,

The tears of unmatched emotion, the protagonist’s demise,

The pangs of despised love, the series’ delay,

The insolence of fan translations and the spurns

That patient merit of the diehard fangirl takes,

When she herself might her quietus make

With a deeper appreciation and author’s intuition? who would lacking bear,

To lust and swoon over a worthy husbando,

But that the dread of nothing at series’ end,

The disappointment of that to which once watched

No viewer returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those AUs we have

Than flock to titles which we know not of?

Thus fandom does make shippers of us all;

And thus the native hue of ‘cannon only’

Is sicklied o’er with the dreaming glimmer of hope,

And enterprises of great pith and fanart

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the labeling ‘unconfirmed.’–Soft you now!

The fair HijiChi pairing, in thy creators prayers

Be all my head-cannons remember’d!”

-Willy S. with a little help from Shoujo T. ❤


*image is HijiChi fanart uploaded to Pinterest by “user”

**title image is SanoChi fanart from https://sylphalchemist.files.wordpress.com/2010/11/kiss1.jpg

At Least There’s Some Beauty in That (a reflection, with premise)

I don’t even know what I’m doing.

I should be writing a challenge piece. I don’t even know.

This reflection came about because Keiko nominated me for a “One Lovely Blogger” Award; it got me thinking about things my audience may not know about me (for purposes of fulfilling the challenge requirements). I love having a place where I’m 100% free to be my rambling self, but it got me thinking about my non-blog writing* (which you may indeed not know about, because why would I have mentioned it?) and about that other side of me that gets… um… gloomy… sometimes.

And I wasn’t even sure that I was going to post this because it became entirely introspective and rather personal and a touch emo…

And I’m feeling fine, I promise! I meant to talk about my writing in general, like current projects and the like*, but then this emotional word vomit confessional happened.

I mean, it’s like a journal entry wherein I spoke to someone else.

AND YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO PUBLISH A DIARY, SHOUJO; WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Man.

I’m such the occasional dichotomy.

But hey. Let’s make some poor, oversharing decisions. Yay!! ❤


Because you may not know it yet, and if I’m allowed the sin of pride…

I’ve written since I was a child. Teachers, professors, and peers have told me that I do it well. They tell me that my work makes them feel. This seems only fair, since I’ve struggled with the intensity of my own feelings throughout life. I suppose that my extreme emotion can at least manifest this benefit to me, no?

I’m terribly empathic, and I can make you feel something.

My heart knew it that it had found what it called passion when I was about 16-years-old, and I spent my high school days with pencil in hand, writing manuscripts and journal entries like those of Harriet the Spy (abet kinder). College lead to midnight poetry jams and controversial short stories read during slam sessions. They weren’t always good, but they were real. I leaned a lot about where my passions rooted, and about both my skills and weaknesses.

I’ve dabbled in many genres and formats, and I studied closely under an amazing children’s author (who I can’t name because then you’ll know where I went to school, but she gives great life advice), but feeling something and conveying that something and making a person think have been the driving forces behind my more serious writing for years.

Most recently, my foray has been primarily poetic.

I’ve always loved poetry. (Have you read “Patterns” by Amy Lowell? You should…) The genre can capture so much using so little, and the shortest of scenes can tell a story more profound than some novels.

Conflict comes in that most of my own best pieces prove dark, and they have since I was young. It was once a running gag amongst my closest friends that only I could title a poem Joy that would make one want to cry. (I did and it did?) I come across quite bubbly in my ramblings, and rightly so as I’m generally a cheerful, silly person. But my usual highs are high and my occasional lows are low. I’ve always been a deep well of both positive and negative emotion.

Though I am most often in good spirits, occasionally my thoughts take me to dark places; those places scare me because of my past struggles with depression, but they produce some of my most profound work.

Those places are rare nowadays, but we all have our struggles.

I don’t share these works on the blog because of their dark nature and because they make me vulnerable, but I’m proud of them. The last thing I want is to drag someone down a slope of self-effacement or depression… but they’re honestly good.

And they aren’t all so dark that they’re scary. Some are simply introspective and vaguely morose by consequence, you know? Some are about the truths of life, or dynamics between people, or my anxiety.

But when I’m hurting or scared, and the darkest of it all comes exploding from my fingers and my mouth and my eyes…

At least there is that comfort, right? There is some beauty in that?

Anyway, you’ve seen a few of my I-wrote-this-in-literally-five-minutes-so-it’s-okay-if-you-hate-it pieces, usually Hakuouki inspired. I promise that my heavy stuff is better.

I’d love to self-publish an anonymous book of poetry and short story pieces someday. I’ve seen others do it with varying degrees of success. But could I justify projecting all of those downright negative or even vaguely melancholic feelings onto someone else? Could I do that? And what would the consequences be, if all I want to do is project positivity into the world? My emotional release isn’t intended to cause harm.

In any case, I say again that, if I’m allowed to be proud of something (and I think everyone should be allowed to feel good about themselves), it is this; I guarantee that my writing can make you feel something. Even if that something hurts.


*I’m ~150 pages into a YA novel that I plan to one day rewrite from scratch (taking on a totally different perspective and tone). I’ve also plotted out my fantasy/historical novel, and started the prose for a children’s book. (^^)

featured image from Praxisuwc.com