Prue Paimon
@pruepaimon.bsky.social
Poet. Does not play well with others.
Pinned
Prue Paimon
@pruepaimon.bsky.social
· Oct 3
A poets job
is to scratch at the truth
until it bleeds freely.
A neurosis
of picking at a thing,
trying to untangle its beauty
without leaving a scar.
#poetry
is to scratch at the truth
until it bleeds freely.
A neurosis
of picking at a thing,
trying to untangle its beauty
without leaving a scar.
#poetry
#Theskysavedroomforonemore moment
a final inhale, a pause
like the world was trying
to remember itself.
#poetry
a final inhale, a pause
like the world was trying
to remember itself.
#poetry
November 26, 2025 at 6:25 PM
#Theskysavedroomforonemore moment
a final inhale, a pause
like the world was trying
to remember itself.
#poetry
a final inhale, a pause
like the world was trying
to remember itself.
#poetry
Master of memory, slave of souls,
I walk the corridors of broken years,
keys jangling in my chest
like teeth pulled from old gods.
I am archivist of the unsaid,
curator of unfinished hauntings,
the reluctant priest
of everything I swore I’d forget.
#masterofmemory #foxprose #poetry
I walk the corridors of broken years,
keys jangling in my chest
like teeth pulled from old gods.
I am archivist of the unsaid,
curator of unfinished hauntings,
the reluctant priest
of everything I swore I’d forget.
#masterofmemory #foxprose #poetry
November 26, 2025 at 12:58 PM
Master of memory, slave of souls,
I walk the corridors of broken years,
keys jangling in my chest
like teeth pulled from old gods.
I am archivist of the unsaid,
curator of unfinished hauntings,
the reluctant priest
of everything I swore I’d forget.
#masterofmemory #foxprose #poetry
I walk the corridors of broken years,
keys jangling in my chest
like teeth pulled from old gods.
I am archivist of the unsaid,
curator of unfinished hauntings,
the reluctant priest
of everything I swore I’d forget.
#masterofmemory #foxprose #poetry
You can post suicide prevention numbers all you want. But if you really want to prevent suicide and depression why not stop being such assholes to each other online and irl.
November 26, 2025 at 1:01 AM
You can post suicide prevention numbers all you want. But if you really want to prevent suicide and depression why not stop being such assholes to each other online and irl.
Reposted by Prue Paimon
Weak.
Such a small word,
light as dust,
yet you fling it like a stone
aimed at the soft parts of me
you think I haven’t armored.
You the mouthpiece of the cynical,
the cheap-seat critics,
the brittle-tongued prophets
of nothing.
#poetry #criticsandcynics
Such a small word,
light as dust,
yet you fling it like a stone
aimed at the soft parts of me
you think I haven’t armored.
You the mouthpiece of the cynical,
the cheap-seat critics,
the brittle-tongued prophets
of nothing.
#poetry #criticsandcynics
November 25, 2025 at 2:49 PM
Weak.
Such a small word,
light as dust,
yet you fling it like a stone
aimed at the soft parts of me
you think I haven’t armored.
You the mouthpiece of the cynical,
the cheap-seat critics,
the brittle-tongued prophets
of nothing.
#poetry #criticsandcynics
Such a small word,
light as dust,
yet you fling it like a stone
aimed at the soft parts of me
you think I haven’t armored.
You the mouthpiece of the cynical,
the cheap-seat critics,
the brittle-tongued prophets
of nothing.
#poetry #criticsandcynics
Weak.
Such a small word,
light as dust,
yet you fling it like a stone
aimed at the soft parts of me
you think I haven’t armored.
You the mouthpiece of the cynical,
the cheap-seat critics,
the brittle-tongued prophets
of nothing.
#poetry #criticsandcynics
Such a small word,
light as dust,
yet you fling it like a stone
aimed at the soft parts of me
you think I haven’t armored.
You the mouthpiece of the cynical,
the cheap-seat critics,
the brittle-tongued prophets
of nothing.
#poetry #criticsandcynics
November 25, 2025 at 2:49 PM
Weak.
Such a small word,
light as dust,
yet you fling it like a stone
aimed at the soft parts of me
you think I haven’t armored.
You the mouthpiece of the cynical,
the cheap-seat critics,
the brittle-tongued prophets
of nothing.
#poetry #criticsandcynics
Such a small word,
light as dust,
yet you fling it like a stone
aimed at the soft parts of me
you think I haven’t armored.
You the mouthpiece of the cynical,
the cheap-seat critics,
the brittle-tongued prophets
of nothing.
#poetry #criticsandcynics
Creation is a quiet rebellion,
a tender refusal
to let the hard things harden me.
So I breathe,
unclench,
and let the poem arrive anyway
a fragile idea,
in the tumultuous world of existing,
not because it’s easy,
but because I couldn’t stop it
even if I tried.
#poetry
a tender refusal
to let the hard things harden me.
So I breathe,
unclench,
and let the poem arrive anyway
a fragile idea,
in the tumultuous world of existing,
not because it’s easy,
but because I couldn’t stop it
even if I tried.
#poetry
November 25, 2025 at 12:21 PM
Creation is a quiet rebellion,
a tender refusal
to let the hard things harden me.
So I breathe,
unclench,
and let the poem arrive anyway
a fragile idea,
in the tumultuous world of existing,
not because it’s easy,
but because I couldn’t stop it
even if I tried.
#poetry
a tender refusal
to let the hard things harden me.
So I breathe,
unclench,
and let the poem arrive anyway
a fragile idea,
in the tumultuous world of existing,
not because it’s easy,
but because I couldn’t stop it
even if I tried.
#poetry
Cruelty, Unmuted
They arrive like cold sparks
tiny, vicious bursts
from shadows that never sign their names.
Strangers with sharpened thumbs,
dropping venom in passing,
as if hate were casual,
as if your existence were an offense
they’d been waiting to arrest.
#poetry
They arrive like cold sparks
tiny, vicious bursts
from shadows that never sign their names.
Strangers with sharpened thumbs,
dropping venom in passing,
as if hate were casual,
as if your existence were an offense
they’d been waiting to arrest.
#poetry
November 24, 2025 at 1:39 PM
Cruelty, Unmuted
They arrive like cold sparks
tiny, vicious bursts
from shadows that never sign their names.
Strangers with sharpened thumbs,
dropping venom in passing,
as if hate were casual,
as if your existence were an offense
they’d been waiting to arrest.
#poetry
They arrive like cold sparks
tiny, vicious bursts
from shadows that never sign their names.
Strangers with sharpened thumbs,
dropping venom in passing,
as if hate were casual,
as if your existence were an offense
they’d been waiting to arrest.
#poetry
Reposted by Prue Paimon
My words are not beautiful.
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
November 21, 2025 at 3:15 PM
My words are not beautiful.
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
Reposted by Prue Paimon
Progress is measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
November 22, 2025 at 10:21 PM
Progress is measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
Reposted by Prue Paimon
Progress is measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
November 22, 2025 at 10:21 PM
Progress is measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
by every set of eyes but mine
people chart growth noting
in the subtle shifts I cannot feel.
I move through days
learning how to hold a body again,
pushing myself to be
#vss365 #measurable
My words are not beautiful.
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
November 21, 2025 at 3:15 PM
My words are not beautiful.
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
They come as they are
bare, unvarnished,
honest enough to bruise,
brutal enough to bleed.
This is the only language
I have ever trusted:
the kind that doesn’t pretend
to be anything other
than the truth.
#poetry
The Bat in the Attic
In the rafters something flutters,
a soft-skinned shadow with needle teeth
that sleeps upside down
and wakes at the wrong hours.
It isn’t dangerous, they say
just startled, just lost
but it beats its wings against the beams
as if the whole structure is a cage.
#poetry
In the rafters something flutters,
a soft-skinned shadow with needle teeth
that sleeps upside down
and wakes at the wrong hours.
It isn’t dangerous, they say
just startled, just lost
but it beats its wings against the beams
as if the whole structure is a cage.
#poetry
November 21, 2025 at 12:54 PM
The Bat in the Attic
In the rafters something flutters,
a soft-skinned shadow with needle teeth
that sleeps upside down
and wakes at the wrong hours.
It isn’t dangerous, they say
just startled, just lost
but it beats its wings against the beams
as if the whole structure is a cage.
#poetry
In the rafters something flutters,
a soft-skinned shadow with needle teeth
that sleeps upside down
and wakes at the wrong hours.
It isn’t dangerous, they say
just startled, just lost
but it beats its wings against the beams
as if the whole structure is a cage.
#poetry
A bit of something that I was told is good.
The Girl In The Forest.
Faint carvings on a central altar hinted at rituals older than the forest that now guarded it. Their shapes were fluid, not quite human, not quite anything mortal hands could have shaped.…
#creativewriting #novella
The Girl In The Forest.
Faint carvings on a central altar hinted at rituals older than the forest that now guarded it. Their shapes were fluid, not quite human, not quite anything mortal hands could have shaped.…
#creativewriting #novella
November 20, 2025 at 11:59 PM
A bit of something that I was told is good.
The Girl In The Forest.
Faint carvings on a central altar hinted at rituals older than the forest that now guarded it. Their shapes were fluid, not quite human, not quite anything mortal hands could have shaped.…
#creativewriting #novella
The Girl In The Forest.
Faint carvings on a central altar hinted at rituals older than the forest that now guarded it. Their shapes were fluid, not quite human, not quite anything mortal hands could have shaped.…
#creativewriting #novella
Fingers graze without landing,
a teasing geography of skin and thought.
Every brush sparks a question
I do not dare answer aloud.
The room tilts, folds, becomes
a private world of whispers and warmth,
where eyes speak in tremors
and lips hover like unsent letters.
#poetry
a teasing geography of skin and thought.
Every brush sparks a question
I do not dare answer aloud.
The room tilts, folds, becomes
a private world of whispers and warmth,
where eyes speak in tremors
and lips hover like unsent letters.
#poetry
November 20, 2025 at 2:50 PM
Fingers graze without landing,
a teasing geography of skin and thought.
Every brush sparks a question
I do not dare answer aloud.
The room tilts, folds, becomes
a private world of whispers and warmth,
where eyes speak in tremors
and lips hover like unsent letters.
#poetry
a teasing geography of skin and thought.
Every brush sparks a question
I do not dare answer aloud.
The room tilts, folds, becomes
a private world of whispers and warmth,
where eyes speak in tremors
and lips hover like unsent letters.
#poetry
#option #vss365 #polyamory #poetry
Some people are born with constellations
where others have candles
hearts wired to hold more than one sun
without burning.
Their love is not excess
but architecture,
rooms unfolding endlessly,
hallways widening to welcome
what is real.
Some people are born with constellations
where others have candles
hearts wired to hold more than one sun
without burning.
Their love is not excess
but architecture,
rooms unfolding endlessly,
hallways widening to welcome
what is real.
November 19, 2025 at 12:52 PM
#option #vss365 #polyamory #poetry
Some people are born with constellations
where others have candles
hearts wired to hold more than one sun
without burning.
Their love is not excess
but architecture,
rooms unfolding endlessly,
hallways widening to welcome
what is real.
Some people are born with constellations
where others have candles
hearts wired to hold more than one sun
without burning.
Their love is not excess
but architecture,
rooms unfolding endlessly,
hallways widening to welcome
what is real.
I tip the bag,
shake loose the rattling pieces
of everything I meant to say.
Vowels hide from me
skittish little things
darting into corners
where silence keeps them warm.
Consonants fall out in clusters,
hard-edged and useless,
all the wrong shapes
for the softness I’m trying to form.
#poetry
shake loose the rattling pieces
of everything I meant to say.
Vowels hide from me
skittish little things
darting into corners
where silence keeps them warm.
Consonants fall out in clusters,
hard-edged and useless,
all the wrong shapes
for the softness I’m trying to form.
#poetry
November 18, 2025 at 2:40 PM
I tip the bag,
shake loose the rattling pieces
of everything I meant to say.
Vowels hide from me
skittish little things
darting into corners
where silence keeps them warm.
Consonants fall out in clusters,
hard-edged and useless,
all the wrong shapes
for the softness I’m trying to form.
#poetry
shake loose the rattling pieces
of everything I meant to say.
Vowels hide from me
skittish little things
darting into corners
where silence keeps them warm.
Consonants fall out in clusters,
hard-edged and useless,
all the wrong shapes
for the softness I’m trying to form.
#poetry
The #Moon
I write to you in currents
a restless dragging at the hem of night,
an unnamed wanting that sways
even the heaviest waters.
You rise, pale and distant,
yet something in your quiet orbit
reaches down into the dark of me,
stirring what I pretend is still.
#MPprompt #poetry
I write to you in currents
a restless dragging at the hem of night,
an unnamed wanting that sways
even the heaviest waters.
You rise, pale and distant,
yet something in your quiet orbit
reaches down into the dark of me,
stirring what I pretend is still.
#MPprompt #poetry
November 17, 2025 at 11:50 PM
Her spine is wellworn
from my caress,
I open her,
slow at first,
then greedy.
I slide into her,
fingers sinking between
tight, waiting pages,
her paper rustles at my touch
as I spread her wider…
#poetry
from my caress,
I open her,
slow at first,
then greedy.
I slide into her,
fingers sinking between
tight, waiting pages,
her paper rustles at my touch
as I spread her wider…
#poetry
November 17, 2025 at 10:30 PM
Her spine is wellworn
from my caress,
I open her,
slow at first,
then greedy.
I slide into her,
fingers sinking between
tight, waiting pages,
her paper rustles at my touch
as I spread her wider…
#poetry
from my caress,
I open her,
slow at first,
then greedy.
I slide into her,
fingers sinking between
tight, waiting pages,
her paper rustles at my touch
as I spread her wider…
#poetry
All of me is there, poured out on the floor.
Someone please—grab a mop,
tidy what’s left of me,
offer a little dignity
to the mess I’ve become.
#poetry
Someone please—grab a mop,
tidy what’s left of me,
offer a little dignity
to the mess I’ve become.
#poetry
November 17, 2025 at 5:05 PM
All of me is there, poured out on the floor.
Someone please—grab a mop,
tidy what’s left of me,
offer a little dignity
to the mess I’ve become.
#poetry
Someone please—grab a mop,
tidy what’s left of me,
offer a little dignity
to the mess I’ve become.
#poetry
Life is a Rolled Up Newspaper
Kindness, it seems,
is a trick they never taught
yet I’m punished for performing it anyway.
I offer softness
and get the the thwack of how dare you
for nothing more
than caring.
#poetry
Kindness, it seems,
is a trick they never taught
yet I’m punished for performing it anyway.
I offer softness
and get the the thwack of how dare you
for nothing more
than caring.
#poetry
November 16, 2025 at 9:18 PM
Life is a Rolled Up Newspaper
Kindness, it seems,
is a trick they never taught
yet I’m punished for performing it anyway.
I offer softness
and get the the thwack of how dare you
for nothing more
than caring.
#poetry
Kindness, it seems,
is a trick they never taught
yet I’m punished for performing it anyway.
I offer softness
and get the the thwack of how dare you
for nothing more
than caring.
#poetry