Prue Paimon
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pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon
@pruepaimon.bsky.social
46 followers 55 following 130 posts
Poet. Does not play well with others.
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pruepaimon.bsky.social
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
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. They strike fast, drive-by judgments aimed at the softest parts of anyone who dares to breathe out loud. Their words cut on contact, but still, they carve hoping you’ll swallow their poison, hoping the wound will stay open. But cruelty spoken in flickering blue light is still just cowardice in costume. A hollow echo wearing a mask that dissolves in daylight. I am not built of pixels. but bleeding into becoming, a pulse, a presence, too strong to be dimmed by someone who’s only brave when no one can see their face.
November 24, 2025 at 1:39 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
I’m early my apologies but I couldn’t resist tomorrow’s prompt #FoxProse
#poetry

Her eyes sparkled,
like pools of still water
quiet until you lean close enough
to see the whole sky trembling inside.
Welcomed by depths,
you felt the pull of something ancient…
Her eyes sparkled, like pools of still water quiet until you lean close enough to see the whole sky trembling inside. Welcomed by depths, you felt the pull of something ancient, a hush that knew the language of those who have lost or are lost, the way deep water recognizes every stone ever thrown into it and never once refuses to hold the weight.
November 23, 2025 at 2:05 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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
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 a little less afraid, a little more here, a little quieter in my self-doubt, a little louder in my living. Everyone else swears they see change but inside, everything feels unfinished, blurry, same.
November 22, 2025 at 10:21 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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. Some nights it’s quiet, hanging like a dark thought I pretend not to see. Other nights it careens wildly, tearing through insulation, turning dust into weather. I’ve set out gentle paths, cracked open windows, left small offerings of light yet it returns to the attic’s hush, curling itself into a tight, trembling knot above the place where I sleep. Maybe it isn’t here to be banished. Maybe it’s a creature that learned my name long before I learned its. So I sit at the top of the stairs, listening to its restless stirring, and whisper into the dark: I know you’re afraid. I am too. But we’re sharing this house let’s try not to tear each other apart.
November 21, 2025 at 12:54 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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
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. Touching them sent a low hum through the fingertips, a vibration that sank into bones. Shadows pooled unnaturally along the edges, folding and unfolding like a creature breathing. They gathered around broken pillars, curled along fallen lintels, and rose in thin tendrils whenever the wind hesitated. At times they felt watchful; at others, beckoning. Above, the canopy broke just enough for a sliver of moon to fall directly onto the altar a deliberate shaft of light, as though the sky itself participated in whatever ancient covenant had been forged here. The ruin did not feel abandoned. It felt expectant. Every stone, every whisper of moss, every curl of darkness hinted at a presence both patient and insistent. The structure might have been broken, but its power was not. It moved in the air like heat, like breath, like desire given form waiting for the next offering, the next surrender, the next body brave enough, or desperate enough, to let it in.
November 20, 2025 at 11:59 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
“Action,” the brain muttered, as it continued its cornucopia of incongruities. Thoughts tumbled over one another, each insisting on importance yet dissolving the moment they were grasped...
#vss365 #action
“Action,” the brain muttered, as it continued its cornucopia of incongruities. Thoughts tumbled over one another, each insisting on importance yet dissolving the moment they were grasped. A memory of laughter folded into the shape of a question mark; a fleeting regret shimmered like heat over asphalt, impossible to touch. Logic tried to organize the mess, but the brain shrugged, scattering rules like confetti in a storm. Colors hummed against the edges of perception, sounds made shapes in reverse, and somewhere beneath it all, a pulse whispered insistently, demanding motion, demanding meaning, demanding nothing at all.
November 20, 2025 at 5:03 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#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. They do not divide themselves; they multiply not fractured, but fluent in the language of many. Some people are simply built this way: open creatures, tethered to more than one, not by #option or rebellion but by nature a truth as steady as gravity. And loving many is not a compromise for them. It is the only way that feels like breathing.
November 19, 2025 at 12:52 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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
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. I rearrange myself again and again, shifting tiles of almost, half-syllables, but nothing lands on a triple-word big enough to hold the truth.
November 18, 2025 at 2:40 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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. When you lean close, shorelines rearrange themselves; I cannot help but follow, pulling forward, pulling back, an ancient rhythm I never agreed to yet answer without question. In your absence I breathe, a slow exhale across the sand, leaving behind the glinting debris of everything you’ve lifted from me. And when you return the whole sea moves.
November 17, 2025 at 11:50 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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
Painting of a woman’s fingers sliding into pages of a book. Painting is red letter no 8 by Jen Mazza 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. The voice inside drags me deeper, a pulse I feel in my chest as I stroke her open. She is a lover who gives until I tremble, then withholds just enough to make me beg.
November 17, 2025 at 10:30 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
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. I anticipate the snap, the tug of a too-short leash pulling me back into shape. The lesson breathe small, don’t pull, don’t reach for anything that isn’t offered. Because this is what happens when gentleness is a crime, we circle the same battered hope hoping we will be remembered as good.
November 16, 2025 at 9:18 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Softer Ink

Sometimes I do things just to hurt myself
as if the pain I choose is somehow
more palatable than the pain inflicted.
I scroll endlessly through conversations for facts.
#poetry
Softer Ink Sometimes I do things just to hurt myself as if the pain I choose is somehow more palatable than the pain inflicted. I scroll endlessly through conversations for facts. Memory edits itself like propaganda, turning heartbreak into history, and I, the unreliable narrator, keep rewriting my own crimes in softer ink.
November 12, 2025 at 8:51 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Fine Line
There’s a fine line between eccentric and crazy,
I ride that line like a circus animal on a unicycle,
balancing teacups of logic on my head,
wearing a grin stitched from yesterday’s confessions.
#poetry
Fine Line There’s a fine line between eccentric and crazy, I ride that line like a circus animal on a unicycle, balancing teacups of logic on my head, wearing a grin stitched from yesterday’s confessions. Spectators clap politely, unsure if it’s art or accident. The ringmaster calls it living, but I call it survival spinning plates of memory, juggling apologies, and smiling through the wobble as if it’s intentional. Not inevitable.
November 9, 2025 at 10:49 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
After So Many Deaths

After so many deaths maybe I’m numb,
like waiting for the next one
a phone call I don’t want to answer.
Grief comes wearing my father’s shoes,
tracking mud across the floor.
#poetry #death
After So Many Deaths After so many deaths maybe I’m numb, like waiting for the next one a phone call I don’t want to answer. Grief comes wearing my father’s shoes, tracking mud across the floor. I stopped trying to clean it I just rearrange the furniture so the stains look intentional. I talk to his photograph. He answers in silence that feels heavier than words. The dead are polite that way, always waiting their turn to speak. I don’t light candles nonsense never staved off the inevitable. Now I keep the dark as a pet. It follows me from room to room, I pretend I’m fine.
November 9, 2025 at 7:00 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Snow.

Snow arrives like a new beginning,
softening the world’s sharp edges.
It hushes the arguments of color,
turns fences into suggestions,
and lays a cool hand on everything that hurts.
#poetry #snow
Snow arrives like a new beginning, softening the world’s sharp edges. It hushes the arguments of color, turns fences into suggestions, and lays a cool hand on everything that hurts. Under its careful touch, trash becomes sculpture, rooftops dusted with purity, and even the scars of the road are smoothed into forgiveness. It is not callous, this forgetting only pause, a clean page left open overnight. In the morning, we wake to find the world in white. Snow dusted rosemary photograph.
November 9, 2025 at 6:53 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
The Machine
Insert coin flashes warning
the slot is stuck in refusal
through years of force,
demands, and expectations
jamming the gears.
#poetry
The Machine Insert coin flashes warning the slot is stuck in refusal through years of force, demands, and expectations jamming the gears. Once, bright buttons pressed for sweetness, for comfort, for anything that feeds. Now the lights flicker, the inventory mislabeled desire dispensed as duty, affection in wrappers of fatigue. They shake it hoping the threat will revive its mechanism, bang the glass, whisper please, as though prayer might restore what has ultimately given up. But the codes no longer work. The selections blink error, and behind the fogged pane something weeps, refusing to vend.
November 6, 2025 at 10:01 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
The Fall

They say Satan fell
when his burden grew too heavy
or so the story goes.
But maybe he jumped,
escaping responsibility and rhetoric,
taking the only exit left open.
#poetry #satan #feminism
The Fall They say Satan fell when his burden grew too heavy or so the story goes. But maybe he jumped, escaping responsibility and rhetoric, taking the only exit left open. And like women, he was vilified his refusal called rebellion, his freedom named sin. Perhaps the fall wasn’t a failure at all, but the first act of courage ever written wrong.
November 6, 2025 at 11:47 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
The Place No One Steps Foot

There is a field I never go
grass grown high with hesitation,
roots tangled in apologies,
the soil damp with memory.
No one steps there anymore.
Not even I,
though I dream of its scent,
the caress of the wind.
#poetry #MPprompt
November 5, 2025 at 4:20 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Flakes Fall Uniquely

Flakes posture
Falling in their failing,
Uniquely determined to control the narrative.
Because behind the curtain
Is chaos before the performance.
And I am not interested
In bad actors
And uncomfortable seats.
#foxprose #prompt
Flakes posture Falling in their failing, Uniquely determined to control the narrative. Because behind the curtain Is chaos before the performance. And I am not interested In bad actors And uncomfortable seats. The script keeps changing anyway lines crossed out mid-breath, motives rewritten under harsher lights. Applause becomes accusation, the stage a mirror of confusion, and every gesture rehearsed to death. Let the curtain fall, let the dust rise I’d rather face the silence than play pretend.
November 4, 2025 at 12:46 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
The Trouble with Being Literal
I take people like paperbacks
face value and fragile spines.
You say, turn the page,
and I do, expecting plot,
but there’s only subtext
and coffee stains that don’t explain a thing.
#poetry #writerscomunity #literal
The Trouble with Being Literal I take people like paperbacks face value and fragile spines. You say, turn the page, and I do, expecting plot, but there’s only subtext and coffee stains that don’t explain a thing. You speak in metaphors, I start indexing for meaning alphabetized, cross-referenced, hoping for a glossary of intent. But your tone shifts like editions, and I’m still on the first print run, dog-eared in confusion. You tell me I’m reading too deeply, as if there’s any other way to read. I underline everything you say, not because I’m obsessive, but because I’m astonished by how easily you improvise language, how you make sense without ever needing the footnote.
November 4, 2025 at 11:53 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Domestic
There’s nothing domestic about it.
No home in the house,
no safety in the shelter.
It’s dishes smashed like punctuation,
doors slammed into silence.
It’s the smell of dinner gone cold
while apologies simmer on low.

#vss365 #domestic
Domestic There’s nothing domestic about it. No home in the house, no safety in the shelter. It’s dishes smashed like punctuation, doors slammed into silence. It’s the smell of dinner gone cold while apologies simmer on low. It’s the bruise hiding beneath the polite word “argument”. There’s nothing domestic about it. It’s a war fought in whispers, occupation of the everyday.
November 3, 2025 at 11:20 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
The ground exhaled
a low, growl from its belly,
something buried too long
somehow remembered itself.
As if all it’s thinking were for naught,
as if it could reach an answer
without disturbing the magma
of what lies beneath.
#BlueskyRelay #poetry #thegroundexhaled
The ground exhaled a low, growl from its belly, something buried too long somehow remembered itself. As if all it’s thinking were for naught, as if it could reach an answer without disturbing the magma of what lies beneath. But it’s in the fear of speaking where the fault lines whisper, and molten doubt stirs below thought. It holds its tongue, but the silence cracks, lava spilling from the unsaids, a slow confession encased in heat.
November 3, 2025 at 8:24 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Manic Monday

I don’t compartmentalize
I can’t separate
It all bleeds together
And I become fragile.
Monday is just as manic
as every other day.
Another kid, another catastrophe
my real job is to care.
#bedroomeyes
#poetry
I don’t compartmentalize I can’t separate It all bleeds together And I become fragile. Monday is just as manic as every other day. Another kid, another catastrophe my real job is to care. But care is a currency that never replenishes, and I spend it like riches I haven’t earned yet, without thinking, until I’m dizzy with the cost. I try to shelve my sorrow between paperwork and patience, but empathy seeps through every folder’s edge. By evening, I am nothing but open wounds in sensible shoes, still trying to save whatever can be held.
November 3, 2025 at 12:51 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Creature
Let me spin you a fantastical tale
of the creature that lived
between want and need
in the thin slip of time
where light forgot.
#poetry #vss365 #creature
Creature Let me spin you a fantastical tale of the creature that lived between want and need in the thin slip of time where light forgot. It was not born, nor made, but gathered by a collage of history, stitched from sighs and discarded dreams, shaped by sorrow’s cold hand, its spine a string of broken promises, its breath the sigh of doors that never opened again. It loved once — or thought it did a warmth that faltered to a flicker, too brief, leaving silence where joy mocked its efforts. So it wandered. Through fields of unspoken apologies, across the ruins of hope, stumbled into forests of desolation looking for a place that would remember it kindly. But the heart has no mercy for what cannot die and cannot live.
November 2, 2025 at 1:57 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
I want someone who calls madness beautiful,
who kisses the edges of disaster
and says, my—how exquisite.
#poetry
I want someone who calls madness beautiful, who kisses the edges of disaster and says, my—how exquisite. I want hands that know how to hold a ghost, lips that reassure like a mantra that never tires, eyes that gleam like candlelight and spark like an ignition when I enter. I want the kind of devotion that sees my demons and asks for a dance instead of an exorcist. I want someone who doesn’t flinch when I bloom in strange directions. I simply want someone who would burn down heaven just to keep me warm.
November 2, 2025 at 1:38 AM