8 sparksChapter 3: Built In Blood/Everrun
This was written during an emotional time in my childhood. Most of these poems are from my childhood, actually, but this one's particularly special to me — even though it's not the best.
This world is built in blood.
Won and lost in blood.
Everywhere is owned by someone.
Everyone is owned by somewhere.
To have, or even get back, blood is the cost.
Whether it was never yours, or if it was lost.
Your grandma owned it, her husband died defending it, but now it's someone else's.
If you want it, you'll have to die for it — or someone else will.
So why focus on this world, built in blood? There's other worlds out there, not a drop spilt upon them. Not a drop needed to own them yourself.
If another wishes those worlds for themselves, wishes to build them in blood, you can move on. There's an eternity of other worlds, after all.
To own, to have, to live in this world requires blood. Your blood, your parents', your children's, your brothers' and sisters'. This world is painted red.
To own, to have, to live amongst those other worlds requires work. It requires hope. A cunning mind and an able soul. But if we're careful, it won't require blood.
This world is won and lost and won again a hundred times over, always in blood. And it doesn't matter who started it, finish it — leave, the cycle forever broken.
There's a great wide forever out there — neverending, everturning, full of who-knows-what. And to go there, to stay, costs a lot — but not in blood.
Earth is built in blood. May we ever run, ever fly, ever move. The ground is drawn and redrawn in red lines. The stars are unclaimed, drawn in light, wind, and hope.
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Comments carried over from AO3 (5)
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👏 👏 👏
"Trees don't exist, the sky isn't blue" 💙
I DEFINITELY song that like We Don't Talk About Bruno! :)
'I don't need hope, I just need spite.' YES!!!
Your writing cuts like glass—in the best, most breathtaking way. There's something in the way you build rhythm from fragmentation, like you're stitching together the unspeakable with your bare hands. It doesn’t feel like just poetry; it feels like memory, like survival. The kind of raw that doesn’t need polish to be powerful.
I don’t know where your words come from—personal, fictional, something in between—but they reach far. You name feelings I didn’t know I needed named. You make space for the messy parts: the grief that lingers, the thoughts that spiral, the strength that doesn’t always feel like strength.
Thank you for writing like this. Thank you for sharing it.
– A reader who sees you in the echoes.
Glad you enjoyed it 😊
Oooh! I like it!
Amazing Your voice lingers in a meaningful way; some concepts require openness, and I’d like to contribute to that process.— D C could help ( a lex ia_ rose 0 0 1) ignore space
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