P.B

Joined June 2021

8 stories

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Well, hello there…

Stories (8)

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Make Believe
I was born beneath voices that swallowed mine whole. A house where silence spoke louder than soul. Where praise was a stranger,
By P.B 7 months ago in Poets
No Is A Full Sentence
Effective immediately, I hereby resign from the following positions: The Strong One™ The Quiet One (Unless It’s Funny, Then I’m Allowed a Quip) The One Who Never Says No Because “She’s Just So Reliable”
By P.B 8 months ago in Journal
His Feet Are Mine
Morality is a fickle beast. People like to act like it’s simple, like there’s a clear line between right and wrong, like we all just know which side we’re on. But that's a lie. No one really knows. Not deep down.
By P.B 10 months ago in Critique
To my first
There’s still a part of me that wonders if we are soulmates. It’s a childish, naive sort of dream, the kind that gets me hurt. A lot of dreams that have to do with you often get me hurt, but they hurt because you’re my first true love. It was ugly at first. I wasn’t ready. That first time we got together, we didn’t think it through, we were just two lonely 16 year olds and we fell in love in a time of hopeless, desperate need. I thought I would always look back on that first year and wish I’d never done it. And when we broke up, for the longest time, thinking back on that first year hurt.
By P.B 2 years ago in Confessions
Ode to the Nothing
If there was something left of comfort to me, It would be the Nothing in my mind, The Nothing comes and goes, on bus rides or walks,
By P.B 3 years ago in Poets
The Homeless Musician
To my lover, sweet and invigorating, I feel your warmth like a blanket, I smell your scent, sharp and intoxicating, That wicked scent, my favourite,
By P.B 3 years ago in Poets
Crying in public
Like the tightening grip of Fear's fist in your chest when you lean over a towering building, I am afraid to cry to you.
By P.B 3 years ago in Poets
Clockwise
She was not alone. Aideen had grown accustomed to the sound of her own footsteps as her boot met with the wetness of newly rained on soil, the mud streaking the leather like paint strokes on canvas. She knew what it sounded like to be alone...
By P.B 5 years ago in Fiction