Scribble Me Words

Image Credits: Max_Turbo, Prompt Hunt "Half my skin remembers burning. The other half dreams of snow." Rays hurl down icy spears— Sweat droplets turn to crystalline tears,  The weight of heat pressed against my skin Numbs the nerve stirring within. A furnace pulses—barely alive— My tether to this body’s drive. The asphalt simmers, cracked and scarred, A path to kingdoms frozen and marred. The gleam of grief beneath the rime, A pyre of longing, aching, lost— Reduces breath to cinder and grime, Life splintered by its fragile crust. If fire and ice went to battle Across this chest where storms reside, Would they burn me with their yearning Or freeze me with a will unturning? Would their cancelled-out union At the bones' behest, Melt away my skin in longing or Fracture it beneath winter’s breath? Would I stand between fire and frost, Or crumble into both—undone and lost?  

Image Credits: Julian Selemin, Contra Honestly, I think I dislike you— But often I find myself pausing Somewhere between indifference And what else did I expect? Dislike feels too mild, But hate sounds too much. You have a way Of drawing things out of me That I don’t always recognize Until it’s too late. I’m not sure who I resent more— You, Or the version of myself That keeps repeating the same pattern, Even while trying to resist it. My guard slips. Things I’d rather keep hidden Come into view, And I try to mask it all With confidence that doesn’t hold up. Nights arrive quietly, Not full of promise, Just the same weight Of thoughts looping back again, Unchanging. I tell myself I dislike you— That it’s buried deep, Under disappointment, Some anger, And a quiet frustration With myself. There’s no grand feeling now, Just a blankness That mirrors your calm, Which somehow unsettles me. And when I see myself— Really see— I’m not shocked, Just a little t...

Light On- Maggie Rogers Image Credit:  Alexey Bednij, My Modern Net So she thought, about the ins and outs of their time in the sun, when the breeze carried them into the clouds, their bodies floating— together, in sync. She thought about the way they moved in unison, not touching, yet still feeling— shallow breaths, subtle looks. She thought they were one. She thought they could stay like that: every summer— maybe even winter— moving together the way they did best, lying still, the rise and fall of their chests. But he had his plans. And she? Just her thoughts. Was it only fun for him? Should it have been nothing more? Losing touch, losing breath, crashing hard to the ache of earth again. So she thought she’d be done. Yet there he was—again. And she was back in the clouds, thinking of when it all began.

Image Credit: Generated by AI using OpenAI's DALL·E model (2025) When the clouds didn't vex me  And the future seemed so far away When I lacked courage to speak Was I better off then? When nightmares have turned into reality And storm clouds have swallowed me whole When the darkness in my heart has reached a fever pitch Am I safe now? 

I'll save you between my pages Give you an afterlife of sorts And when I unravel the things I hold dear And the silence threads itself through my veins I'll still have you speaking to me through those pages.  If your crimson blood fades to nothing among the leaves If the silence of your existence Talks louder than your whispers I’ll follow your steps into oblivion and back Where the sun and the moon braid their light And the stars align in the night Write to me in mystic symbols  Sing to me in symphonies of distance  Speak to me with your eyes of diamonds  Your soul spun from innocence  So if I were to fall asleep in perpetual longing Your lasting image will be mine to keep. 

Pavlo Pavliuk on Unsplash When she was just a  petite fille,   Of only single digit, A friend of hers, to her, had said, Words dipped in magic, on a rainy day.  You listen first to the sound, Of the roar of the rain as it comes,  And then you see, the falling drops,  Beyond the trees, then over you.  Those words, in her, lit a wonder, Though simple and silly as they may be. A vivid image of that time,  Still flashes by till this day.  Of a petite fille , listening in eager, To the roar of the approaching rain,  Smiling at the person, whose words, Had just made her day. As the rain began to touch her skin,  She turned and skipped back home. She left behind the gentil garçon ,  But not the magic of ses mots. French to English Translation:  Petite fille- little girl Gentil garçon- sweet boy Ses mots- his words