Prue Paimon
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pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prue Paimon
@pruepaimon.bsky.social
130 followers 85 following 250 posts
Poet. Does not play well with others.
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pruepaimon.bsky.social
#writingcommunity #poetry

I am the story I have reclaimed
not the one told about me
in careful voices
or filed under acceptable damage.
I gathered myself from fragments
a name mispronounced,
a silence mistaken for consent,
a body taught to disappear politely.
I am the story I have reclaimed not the one told about me in careful voices or filed under acceptable damage. I gathered myself from fragments a name mispronounced, a silence mistaken for consent, a body taught to disappear politely. What was taken did not vanish it waited. I am not healed; I am authored. Rewritten in real time, edited by survival, published without permission. I carry my history differently now not as proof, not as apology, but as a living text that will not be corrected again. I am the story I have reclaimed, and I am still being written.
December 24, 2025 at 1:50 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#vss365 #jump #poetry

Jump.

Sometimes I stand at a precipice,
teetering close—too close—yet not quite
enough to taste ruin
that familiar almost comforting morsel of existence.
The ground behind me
has already stopped arguing.
The air ahead is persuasive…
Sometimes I stand at a precipice, teetering close—too close—yet not quite enough to taste ruin that familiar almost comforting morsel of existence. The ground behind me has already stopped arguing. The air ahead is persuasive. I cannot be moved. Not by hands, not by reason, not by the careful voices calling my name from safer places while others bicker and urge me on. I could jump into the abyss, into ether, into the old familiar urge to unmake myself. The choices sit shoulder to shoulder, so close they share breath. Seconds apart. Identical in weight. Radically different in aftermath. So I stand balanced on the thin miracle of not yet.
December 23, 2025 at 12:28 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
The Solstice Curse

On the longest day
(or the shortest the sign flips when no one’s looking),
the gate appears
between the clock and the mirror.
#poetry #solstice
The Solstice Curse On the longest day (or the shortest the sign flips when no one’s looking), the gate appears between the clock and the mirror. It is painted like a crass wonderland checks and curls and promises staffed by a freakshow: a man who counts shadows, a woman with a drawer of extra Tuesdays, a bell that rings only when lied to. The curse is subtle. Nothing leaps out screaming. Time stretches itself like taffy pulled too far, sweet and alarming. You win incomprehensible prizes shaped like omens: a prophecy shaped like a teacup, a warning stitched into laughter, a rule that only applies today. By dusk (or dawn, depending), the gate vanishes. The sun behaves. Everyone agrees it was harmless. But you feel slightly rearranged. The solstice is a carnival folded into a day, a curse disguised as whimsy, leaving behind the residue of unsettling certainty that the world knows how to tilt, and will curse you again.
December 23, 2025 at 12:46 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#2wordprompt #dusty #rebel #poetry

The Dusty Cape

The cape was dusty,
disintegrating politely in the corner
along with time that pretends it isn’t complicit.
Being good had turned into
a risk assessment,
a brightly colored warning label
crafted by people who never planned to bleed…
The cape was dusty, disintegrating politely in the corner along with time that pretends it isn’t complicit. Being good had turned into a risk assessment, a brightly colored warning label crafted by people who never planned to bleed. Virtue made you slow. Made you predictable. Made you easy to point at when something went wrong. They taught you goodness like a safety drill: stand still, raise your hand, trust the system to notice. The system never noticed. So the cape learned the shape of dust and you morphed into a rebel because no one ever comes to save the hero. Because heroes are only useful while they absorb impact. After that, they’re excess fabric flammable, conspicuous, best kept out of sight. Goodness didn’t save you. It marked you.
December 22, 2025 at 12:44 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Why don’t they #fight?
comes the echo,
ricocheting through my skull.
He’s hurting you
make him stop.
#vss365 #fight #poetry
Why don’t they #fight? comes the echo, ricocheting through my skull. He’s hurting you make him stop. Then I meet my own reflection and understand: he is abusing a nation, and they are trapped the way I was cornered by fear, trained to survive, punished for resistance. So I close my mouth. Not because I don’t know. But because I do.
December 21, 2025 at 2:07 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Not Far From Here
#poetry
There’s a place not far from here
but miles away from where you are
measured not in distance
but in what we don’t say.
You can reach it standing still,
letting your mind slip its leash
and wander into softer weather.
Time behaves differently there.
December 20, 2025 at 8:13 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
No one wears #humble anymore.
It’s out of fashion
mistaken for weakness
instead of grace.
It doesn’t shine under bright lights,
doesn’t clammer for attention.
#poetry #vss365
No one wears humble anymore. It’s out of fashion mistaken for weakness instead of grace. It doesn’t shine under bright lights, doesn’t clammer for attention. It knows how to stand without rearranging the order. Humble speaks in lowercase, lets silence finish the sentence, steps aside without needing to be remembered for it. Once, it was an heirloom passed hand to hand, honour stitched into the seams, pride turned inside out. Now it hangs in the back of our closets, unworn, waiting for a body brave enough to see if it fits.
December 20, 2025 at 12:47 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#prompt159 #sensewrds

Above her, the moon agreed
not absent,
just reduced,
hesitating in its own light,
a sliver insisting this was always
the intended shape…
December 20, 2025 at 2:43 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#prompt #sensewrds #poetry #prompt160
Customer Service Will Be With You Shortly

Empathy is sold by weight now.
We scrape it off disasters with a spatula,
wrap it in paper that says Thoughts & Prayers,
and charge extra for eye contact.
Please take a number.
Customer Service Will Be With You Shortly Empathy is sold by weight now. We scrape it off disasters with a spatula, wrap it in paper that says Thoughts & Prayers, and charge extra for eye contact. Please take a number. Yes, even you— especially you— with the open wound. We harvest tears in sanctioned zones. Unlicensed crying voids the warranty. If you bleed without permission, it’s considered vandalism. Empathy wears gloves. Not for hygiene but deniability. Nothing personal if it slips, if it drops you, if it forgets your name mid-sob. Children are banned from the premises. They give too much. They ask why. They try to help without billing codes and disrupt the ecosystem. Shiny compassion melts into flesh. Flesh hardens into policy, and smiles with gold teeth. At closing time, we hose down the floor like a slaughterhouse. Stories clog the drain sweat, blood, promises. All perfectly biodegradable. The sign flickers as we lock up: WE VALUE YOUR EXPERIENCE (not enough to keep it). Tomorrow we reopen. Bring exact change.
December 19, 2025 at 12:18 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
I regret to inform you—
regret doing the heavy lifting
so no one else has to carry it.
A word that bows politely
before it delivers the blow.
Please be advised—
#vss365 #regret #poetry
I regret to inform you— regret doing the heavy lifting so no one else has to carry it. A word that bows politely before it delivers the blow. Please be advised— danger, but make it courteous. An emergency in sensible shoes. Thank you for your understanding— thank you in advance for swallowing this, for nodding while something collapses quietly inside you. We appreciate your patience— as if waiting were a virtue and not a requirement imposed by people with better chairs. Warm regards— because even cold decisions like to dress themselves in cardigans. Sincerely— a promise that nothing here is sincere at all. This is how we hurt each other now: with spacing, with salutations, with language that smiles so no one has to watch it draw blood.
December 18, 2025 at 4:33 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
I #examine every detail
like it might confess
if I stare long enough.
The tilt of a sentence,
the pause that lingered
half a beat too long.
#OurPoetryX #poetry #examine
I examine every detail like it might confess if I stare long enough. The tilt of a sentence, the pause that lingered half a beat too long. I replay moments frame by fragile frame, as if truth hides in the background noise a missed tightening, a breath miscounted, something almost said. I examine every detail because I was taught that harm arrives disguised, and certainty is a luxury never afforded to those who must prove they were hurt. So I catalog the wreckage. Not to be believed but to believe myself.
December 17, 2025 at 8:55 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
December 17, 2025 at 12:47 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Recall

Memory doesn’t come back whole.
It returns in revisions
and this is where doubt learns to speak.
They say: If it were real, you’d remember it cleanly.
As if pain respects chronology.
As if fear doesn’t scramble language,
as if survival doesn’t edit for mercy.
#recall #vss365
Memory doesn’t come back whole. It returns in revisions and this is where doubt learns to speak. They say: If it were real, you’d remember it cleanly. As if pain respects chronology. As if fear doesn’t scramble language, as if survival doesn’t edit for mercy. A victim recalls in fragments a smell louder than a face, a moment heavier than a timeline. The body remembers first, the mind follows later, and the story arrives bruised. But the listener wants symmetry. Beginning, middle, end. Consistency that behaves. They confuse accuracy with comfort and call the absence of polish a lie. Each retelling is put on trial. Not the act the memory of it. Disbelief is easier than accepting that truth can stutter, that trauma fractures time, that certainty is a privilege not granted to those who were hurt. And so they ask memory to behave like evidence when it was never meant to be proof, but testimony. What survivors offer is not perfection, but persistence: the courage to recall again and again, knowing the telling will be doubted.
December 17, 2025 at 12:24 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Love
is not a gentle word.
It holds more wreckage
than wonder,
it winces more than it warms.
#BlueSkyRelay #love #poetry
Love is not a gentle word. It holds more wreckage than wonder, it winces more than it warms. I love but the word itself is sand in my mouth. Four small letters that arrive ahead of broken hearts, disappointment, abandonment. So now I keep it where it can’t be dropped quiet, unsaid, for myself.
December 17, 2025 at 12:57 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
And the stockings were hung by the taxidermy with care.
Fireplace with stockings hung and taxidermy on the mantle. Also on the mantle is my mother in law left gold urn, my dogs black urn (beanie), my father in laws urn in gold on the right.
December 16, 2025 at 11:12 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
I reach for one
and it changes,
slick with time,
dropping through the present
with a soft, unbothered thud.
#vss365 #poetry #memory
I reach for one and it changes, slick with time, dropping through the present with a soft, unbothered thud. Sometimes it arrives polished, over-handled, too smooth to trust. Other times it snags with a splinter of grief, and grips with the weight of a certainty just before the flight of knowing. They slide between then and now, never quite belonging to either, leaving behind a sheen that sticks. It's the feeling of having been something exactly once. All other versions a facsimile an almost but not quite. Memory does not promise accuracy. It says you will not hold me, but you will feel again and again where I passed.
December 16, 2025 at 12:01 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#SenseWrds #prompt158
It grips on the branch
long after one's patience has been lost,
skin holding like a held breath.
#poetry
It grips on the branch long after one's patience has been lost, skin tight like a held breath. Pry it from its becoming and you learn a lesson that time punishes urgency. But in time, it loosens, turns generous, offers without apology, collapsing softly into itself as if waiting were the point all along.
December 16, 2025 at 2:42 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
#inchoate #poetry #BlueSkyRelay

It lives in half-sentences,
unfinished poems,
a tremor in my mouth
before the language arrived.
#inchoate #poetry #BlueSkyRelay It lives in half-sentences, unfinished poems, a tremor in my mouth before the language arrived. I carry it like a map with no legend, only smudges where meaning might one day settle. Inchoate things are patient. They wait for breath, for courage, for something to finally say this is what I am.
December 16, 2025 at 1:44 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
I am strung up
with anticipation, desire,
with garlands, baubles,
and dusted with glitter.
Tinsel and lights adorn my frame.

#Bedrooomeyes #garlands #glitter
I am strung up with anticipation, desire, with garlands, baubles, and dusted with glitter. Tinsel and lights adorn my frame. You praise the shimmer, the obedient sparkle, the way I stand still and call a present in presence. The bulbs run hot. I delight in the warmth of looking festive while carrying the weight of being on display. I glow; your angel, Because endurance, shines. #Bedrooomeyes #garlands #glitter
December 15, 2025 at 1:36 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Today’s sketchbook drawing. Thought it was good enough to share.
“Season’s Ghosting.” ink on paper.
#art #christmas
Pen and ink drawing of a window with a curtain Christmas tree and something hiding behind the curtain and somethings haunting from outside.
December 14, 2025 at 6:50 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Divine Bats

They fell sideways, not down
missed hell entirely,
slipped into the margins
where light goes
to pretend it isn’t curious.
Upside down isn’t rebellion,
it’s perspective…
#poetry
They fell sideways, not down missed hell entirely, slipped into the margins where light goes to pretend it isn’t curious. Upside down isn’t rebellion, it’s perspective. It’s what happens after you’ve seen God and decide the clock tower tells the truth faster. They laugh in frequencies history misplaced, confess in spirals, drink the night like it owes them money, chasing what refuses to be seen. Devils call them traitors. Angels call them embarrassments. Both offended by creatures who kept the wings and shed the obedience. They didn’t fall from grace. Grace flinched. Bats just kept flying long enough to notice.
December 14, 2025 at 1:48 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
Prompt 157
#sensewrds
They say magic is in the air
a shimmer, a blessing,
something that drifts down
if you are worthy
or lucky
or quiet enough to receive it.
But I’ve watched magic blister palms.
#poetry #prompt
They say magic is in the air a shimmer, a blessing, something that drifts down if you are worthy or lucky or quiet enough to receive it. But I’ve watched magic blister palms. I’ve seen it in bent backs and stitched seams, in the ache that settles behind the eyes after hours of making something out of almost nothing. Magic is not a weather pattern. It does not simply happen. It is forged hammered out in repetition, measured in breath and sweat, paid for in time that never comes back. Magic lives in calloused hands that keep going anyway. In the muscle memory of care. In the way labour teaches matter to obey intention. Every lit room, every story held together by tired fingers is proof: the spell is not spoken it is worked. And when they tell us magic is everywhere, what they mean is someone made this.
December 13, 2025 at 9:11 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
A #wisp of it
not the thing itself,
just the rumor
left behind in its wake.
Like breath on cold glass,
a spark that fades
it curls and thins,
unwilling to stay
but not quite gone.
#poetry #BlueskyRelay
A wisp of it not the thing itself, just the rumor left behind in its wake. Like breath on cold glass, a spark that fades it curls and thins, unwilling to stay but not quite gone. You try to name it as if by naming it one harnesses control but it loosens at the sound, preferring almost. All that’s left is the feeling of having been brushed by something that never meant to be held.
December 13, 2025 at 12:32 AM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
In the Manner of Nin

I have lived my life
like a secret room
with the door half-open inviting,
yet trembling at every footstep
that dares to cross the threshold…
#MPPrompt #poetry #anaisnin
In the Manner of Nin I have lived my life like a secret room with the door half-open inviting, yet trembling at every footstep that dares to cross the threshold. Desire, for me, has always been an atlas of mirrors I touch one surface and feel the echo surface elsewhere, a geography of reactions mapped in the darkness. I learned early that we become the stories told about us so I rewrote myself in margins and moonlight, inking my edges until they gleamed loud enough to be believed. Inside me, there is a thousand small rebellions perform their soft mutinies yearnings that taste of truth, truths that taste of freedom. I let them rise, unashamed, like warm breath on cold glass. When I love, I love with the entirety of a dream breaking open not fragile, but luminous, as if the shards of my becoming could refract the world into something gentler than what made me.
December 12, 2025 at 2:31 PM
pruepaimon.bsky.social
The Krampus Comes at Yuletide

When winter gnaws the mountain’s bones
and frostbite inks the door,
when lanterns blink like watchful eyes
and wind curls round the eaves once more,
#poetry #krampus #yule
The Krampus Comes at Yuletide When winter gnaws the mountain’s bones and frostbite inks the door, when lanterns blink like watchful eyes and wind curls round the eaves once more, the old folk whisper keep your fire, your hearth must not grow thin for Krampus walks on cloven feet where Christmas ghosts begin. He rattles chains for truth untold, for promises gone slack, for every vow you meant to keep but let fall through the cracks. He’s not a beast of malice wrought, nor punishment alone he’s winter’s stern reminder of the debts our hearts still own. For every kindness left undone, for warmth you could have spared, for all the brittle hopes you broke when you “never cared,” he gathers them like fallen twigs to feed his embered sack, and leaves you with an ember too a chance to take them back. So when you hear his midnight tread and feel his breath like coal, Krampus comes but once a year to tally up your toll. He comes to warn the weary ones who think they’re past repair that even winter’s fiercest beast believes there’s light still there. Victorian Krampus with children in his sack.
December 12, 2025 at 12:49 PM