Anon writes some poetry


                                            >You're writing poetry.

                                            >Ordinarily you wouldn't be caught dead doing it, but you're exploring alternative avenues towards getting Fluttershy to fuck off, so here you are in a secluded part of Ponyville's main park.

                                            >Just as Fluttershy routinely appears to show you equine-made horrors well within your comprehension, you're trying to meet her halfway with your own man-made retorts to get the message across that you don't want to fuck or start a family with her.

                                            >So far, you've both been failures, but you're starting to get into the creative rhythm of parrying her ceaseless molestations with your own unique witticisms.

                                            >You understand now how Fluttershy keeps it up -- once the creative juices start flowing it's hard to plug them.

                                            >You pause mid-stanza, sudden disgust making your toes curl in your shoes.

                                            >'Juices' shouldn't be anywhere near thoughts involving Fluttershy.

                                            >You chew the end of your pencil and squint at your notepad.

                                            >You've got something epic in mind. Something grand and dramatic, like an opera.

                                            "Should this be an ode? Or a ballad?"

                                            >For a while you doodle a little drawing of Fluttershy hanging from a tree, then get an idea.

                                            >You scribble out the words you'd written earlier and start again on a new line.

                                            "Enter an equine of excretory existence... it's a start..." you mumble.

                                            >Someone nearby sighs loudly.

                                            >You don't look up. Ponies will sometimes pass through even here, but there's nothing you can do about that.

                                            "Her end is nothing her friends would mourn? Too clumsy..."

                                            >Another sigh, this time closer, and a minute passes before you nearly leap out of your skin.

                                            >There's an unknown slate-coloured pony sat on the grass beside you.

                                            >You can't see her full face behind the mass of forward-thrown jet black hair covering her eyes, but she seems downright miserable; shoulders hunched, head tilted down.

                                            >As though the universe wishes to drive the point home, her cutie mark is even a black heart with a pin stuck straight through it.

                                            "You good?" you say after a moment watching her.

                                            >She sighs again and tosses her mane.

                                            >"I'm never... no, forget it..."

                                            >She sighs once more, doing nothing more than staring at the distance. Or into the mass of hair. You don't see how she can tell what's in front of her.

                                            >You shrug and return to your notepad.

                                            >If this is to work, you need to capture Fluttershy's purest essence. Just who -is- she? What is she to you and the world? How can you capture her mareish spirit in a single word? Does such a word even exist? It's no pity if there isn't...

                                            >You gnaw more heavily on your pencil, vaguely registering the mulching wood splintering on your tongue.

                                            >Poetry is not for the slow of mind, and son, you're the slowest mind in the West.

                                            >Your new companion shuffles closer to you. You can feel her staring, so you turn again.

                                            "So what is this, exactly?" You motion between the two of you. "Is this your spot, or something?"


                                            >"I never thought I'd meet someone else that liked poetry..."

                                            >She tosses her mane.

                                            >Come to think of it, you might have seen her around before, but you can't fathom where.

                                            "I think a lot of people like poetry, actually."

                                            >"No, they don't... Not like me."

                                            >She sighs. Your jaw clenches involuntarily.

                                            >The mare looks up, tosses her bangs aside, and gazes into your eyes. You don't know how your eyes look to ponies around here, but hers are pink and framed with huge bags like she hasn't slept for a year. Though it could be liberally applied mascara.

                                            >"Poetry is a window to the soul," she whispers with gravitas.

                                            "...Yeah, kinda," you say bluntly.

                                            >She nods slowly, her expression expectant.

                                            >"A window to the -soul-."

                                            "...Yep. Sure is."

                                            >"Do you... like that line? I thought of it myself. I put it in one of my poems. It's no big deal..."

                                            "A lot of people have commented on things being windows into souls. It's cliché at this point. Are you sure you're good? You look depressed."

                                            >She heaves in a deep breath, but before she can let it out you raise a hand.

                                            "Don't."

                                            >"What?"

                                            "Don't sigh. Stop sighing."

                                            >She frowns.

                                            >"It's just... that's just how I feel."

                                            "Going up to strangers in the park and sighing at them is a good way to get punched where I'm from."

                                            >She shrugs.

                                            >"Then beat me. Hurt me. Tear at me. Make me bleed. Dig needles into my veins and score glass over my heart, you can't inflict any pain greater than the sort I feel every day."

                                            >She sighs and turns away from you.

                                            >A chill runs up your spine. Memories of high school surge up like a geyser within you, haunted by the whining vocals of Gerard Way -- the voice of a subculture you'd long forgotten.

                                            "Oh god, you're an emo."

                                            >"Is that it? Another rejection? Put in a little box and pushed under the bed with all the other broken toys? Guess I'm just another fool who thought she'd found a kindred spirit... another tender heart to keep close, keep warm..."

                                            "Lady, you gotta snap out of it. There are better ways to make friends than being angsty and gay."

                                            >"Aren't you the one writing poetry?"

                                            "So?"

                                            >"Doesn't that make you a little bit angsty, and a little bit gay?"

                                            >She taps the paper you're working on.

                                            >"Little skulls and knives, a heart wrapped in barbed wire... are those the drawings of someone society welcomes with open arms?"

                                            "Hey, get out of my head, man, I'm not one of you."

                                            >"What's your poem about?"

                                            "It's about Fluttershy," you try to say it as gruffly as you can. "You know, her."

                                            >"Oh... do you... love her?"

                                            "Jesus, no, I want her to die. But murder's illegal, so I have to settle for hurting her feelings so badly she'll take herself out. I'm in arms race: if she wins, I'm fucked six ways from Sunday, if I win, she's buried six feet under."

                                            >The emo sniffs and tosses her mane.

                                            >"That's so dark," her eyes drift down your body and back up. "You're hot."

                                            >You leap to your feet.


                                            "Don't go getting ideas, lady, I've already got one mare ruining my life, I don't need another."

                                            >"Then we're both ruined. Two barren lives meeting on a night like this..."

                                            >She gives you a shy smile, but even that's performative. Just about everything she does is obnoxiously deliberate.

                                            >"It's fate."

                                            "It's four in the afternoon, you spastic."

                                            >"Yeah, but it's winter, so it'll be dark soon. Do you like the dark? It's the only time I feel at peace."

                                            >You do like the dark, actually, but you're not telling her that.

                                            "I don't want you trying to drag me into any emo shit."

                                            >She tosses her mane and smiles, then gestures at the pad you're crushing in one hand.

                                            >"I don't need to. You're already in it. I'll guess see you later... Anon..."

                                            "How do you know my name?"

                                            >The mare flashes a mysterious smile.

                                            >"You're... still wearing your uniform from Pone Mart. I saw you there today... I'll see you tomorrow, too, kindred."

                                            >And she shuffles off, eyes firmly directed at the ground.

                                            >You watch her go, stunned.

                                            >Then look at the poetry in your hand.

                                            >You stuff the entire notepad in the nearest trash can and sprint home.

                                            >Tomorrow morning you're quitting your job and taking up woodworking. No emo ever tried woodworking, and if Fluttershy sees how much effort you put into a statue of you kicking her in the cunt she'll surely leave you alone