books read in 2020 →the dream thieves, by maggie stiefvater (2013)
“You don’t have to do this,“ Ronan said. “There isn’t anything else, man.” “There’s reality.” Kavinsky laughed the word. “Reality! Reality’s what other people dream for you.” “Reality’s where other people are,” Ronan replied. He stretched out his arms. “What’s here, K? Nothing! No one!” “Just us.”
and since i’m posting oldies - this was originally an entry to the trc big bang this year, which didn’t make it to the end due to unforeseen and v difficult circumstances. i’m rededicating it as a gift to @xenogl0ssia , one of my bang partners. thanks for making this the first claimed prompt lol! that was a feel-good moment for me. hope you’re doing alright <3
“You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.”
i. You think you understand the world, that you’re somehow conquering it but you’re just stumbling in the dark looking for something solid to grab, someone solid to grab. You’re just a kid stealing pills from your mother’s medicine cabinet. You’re just a thief. Always just. Just a boy. Just a cokehead. Just got in the way. Just made him angry. Just needs to relax. Just take it like a man. Just get in and get out. Just come with me. Just stay. Just make it stop. Just make it all stop.
ii. You want to be the hero of the story, but you’re not even the hero of your own story. Boys like you don’t get to be heroes, they get to die, forgotten acts in long lost plays.
iii. You’re on your knees in front of this boy and you finally understand what religion is. It’s worshiping him, his hands in your hair, your name on his lips. You’re mouth whispering sweet prayers against his skin, while he curses at your touch. You wake up alone in an empty bed and remember why you despise religion, filling your head with lies of a promised land.
iv. You only like yourself when you’re drunk, you only like others when you’re drunk. They flock to you, feast on your goods, but still leave you empty. They never stay even the ones who do, choose others. You know he’d tell you different, try you make you know you are loved, but he is made to say that. You made him that way, birthed from the hell that is your mind, the perfect demon. Dark eyes, mouth made of sin, you’d follow him to Hades just to see his mirror image one more time.
v. You’ve been playing with fire ever since you could remember, blackening your fingers over candle flames, setting fire to leaves, to paper, to your curtains, flicking your lighter, watching the sparks dance away in the wind. You were mesmerized by wood fires as a child, watching the flames lick at the wood your Mother said to not sit so close, or you’d get burnt, she was right. You would get burnt.
vi. When the show ends and the curtains close the audience goes home, no flowers, no standing ovation. Just lights out. You’re alone in the dark and you finally can breathe.
(when dog metaphor’s get wildly out of hand…warnings for depression, drugs, dying dogs?? not real ones but idk, sadness, too many dog metaphors with a side of biblical references, also no constant tense used because lol why bother with that it’s 4am idc)
———-
It was something my mother use to say to me, don’t forget to feed the dog. Now she didn’t mean the actual dog-she wasn’t a fan of animals-she meant the metaphorical ones that lived inside of us. You know, you’ve heard the Native American tale-which isn’t actually a Native American story at all but originated from a white dude, what I pay attention in class-of the two wolves. The white and black. The good and bad. The selfless and the selfish.
There’s a black dog and there’s a white dog, depends on which you feed,
they dreamt and dreamt, and the stars wheeled overhead and away and the moon hid in the trees and the sun moved around the car. as the noon boiled down, they climbed out and stripped their sweaty shirts and dreamed in the heat instead.
you wanna go where your shit’s at. that’s where you go. you know it’s gonna be there, in that place. don’t let it know you’re there. it’ll change on you if you do. you’ve gotta be in and out, lynch. like a motherfucking thief.
