Pale white witch bitch with black hair dyed green Black lipstick seeps through the cracks in your mouth, green juice lingers on your tongue Burn sage to black, claw your painted fingernails, clutch your crystals: No amount of colour will exorcise the white from your feminism. Do not cross into the realm where our fires burn and cauldrons bubble We have no @smallspells of your new age Our potions we uphold through millennia Halud and badam, cinnamon and cardamom Thick sweet moon milk drips from our yellow-stained lips.
I tore myself out of my own mother’s womb.
There was no other way to arrive in this world.
A terrified midwife named me Monster
and left me in the pine woods with only the moon.
My mother’s blood dripped from my treed head.
In a dream my mother came to me and said
if I was to survive
I must find joy within my own wild self.
When I awoke I was alone in solitude’s blue woods.
* * *
A woman found me and took me to her mountain home
high at the end of an abandoned logging road.
We spent long winter evenings by the fire;
I sat at the hearth as she read aloud myths of the Greeks
while the woodstove roared behind me.
She sometimes paused to watch the wall of shadows
cast by my antlers. The shadows danced
across the entire room like an oak’s wind-shaken branches.
* * *
The woman was worried when I would not wear dresses.
I walked naked through the woods.
She hung the wash from my head
on hot summer days when I sat in the sun to read.
The woman grew worried when I would not shed
my crown with the seasons as the whitetails did.
“But I am not a whitetail,” I said.
* * *
When I became a woman
in the summer of my fifteenth year,
I found myself
suddenly changed in the mirror.
My many-pronged crown had grown
into a wildness all its own;
highly stylized, the bright
anarchic antlers were majestic to my eye.
The woman saw me and smiled. “What you are I cannot say,
but nature has created you.
You are fearfully and wonderfully made.”
When night came it brought a full moon.
I walked through the woods to the lake
and knelt in the cool grass on its bank.
I saw my reflection on the water,
I touched my face.
You are fearfully and wonderfully made.
i want to take a bite of the moon like a mango, dripping dust and american flags. i want to pop the stars in my mouth - 3 at a time like the grapes we shoved in our cheeks in elementary school, proudly showing it off.
i want to feel full and heavy and drop to the floor with stars in my belly.
Summary: Phil wanted a sensible life, a fireplace and a picket fence, and Dan was a wrecking ball he could simply no longer afford to keep around. But once you care for someone, it never really goes away, a constant thread between the two of them. Divorced!Phan with custody over a child. Angst and Fluff.
Author’s Note:Honestly this fic has been in the works for a very long time, it’s my child, and I wrote it during many different periods of my life which is why it flits between happy and sad, I’m sorry but I hope you enjoy it!
opened the door, his hair stuck up just a little at the back, and one of his
sleeves pushed up, the other falling over his hand. Fuck. The same sinking feeling in his stomach. Always the same.
Because Phil was still breath-taking to him, despite the projected feelings and
the ink stained tears that hid in the crevices of his face. He was still
breath-taking. And not just because of his looks, of his gentle tilt of the
head and his bright blue eyes which seemed to reach inside of him (you could go
swimming in those eyes). But because it was him,
because he was gentle and kind and warm and he was Phil.
“A star falls from the sky and into your hands. Then it seeps through
your veins and swims inside your blood and becomes every part of you.” - C. JoyBell C.
Second house Moon people can instantly gauge the ‘feeling’ of a room. The individual is very sensitive to his surroundings in terms of vibration and decor. Every emotional experience seems to require a material outlet - be this through vices, intimacy, indulgence, or spending. Finances may fluctuate, and it may be hard for him to save money or acquire a steady income. He can have more than he needs, then struggle to make ends meet, like the shifting cycles of the moon that always changes. The second house is wealth and what is of value, and the moon works on internalized and indwelling levels. This could mean that the individual possesses tremendous inner riches. He can find luxury within. He can soak into the bubblebath of his soul.
The individual may find it hard to settle, and prefer to keep moving around. He is very imaginative and idealistic, and emotionally in tune with the people around him. Sometimes he can fantasize and become lost in daydream, and then feel that he truly lived the experience. It’s like he drips the liquid diamonds of a moonbeam, a creative spirit that spindles emotional impulse into art. He has a good eye for design, and frequently enjoys retreating into the cradling comforts of the paradise he has created for himself. Because the moon is fertile and the second house is precious values, there may be the strong urgency to have many children. He likes to keep others safe and tends to be quite security conscious. It is hard for him to see people going without.
Second house Moon people can be very intuitive when it comes to growing fortunes and business. It’s like he knows when to make the right move, when the appropriate moment has struck for him to shine like moonlight and show his greatest assets. He may have a soothing and lovely voice, in speech or even singing. There is a high amount of generosity here, and at worst the individual may become an enabler to someone else. The individual will likely treasure dearly what he has received from ancestors. It’s like he can feel the energies in the items that belonged to his great grandmother from generations ago. He can find treasure in just about anything and enjoys sinking into the mindfulness of being amongst sensory enrichment. His inner universe is dripping with moon icecream and crystal sparkle, and this is the world he creates around him in astonishing glow.
The said man looked up, and honestly if he didn’t recognize the voice he wouldn’t have had looked up. He was too busy with paperwork, tonight it seemed as though the world didn’t want him to sleep just yet.
And as for you, you just couldn’t sleep anyhow. This had been the nightly routine for a month now. He’d stay up late and you’d somehow find your way in his office to keep him company. Neither of you complained at all, just enjoyed each other’s presence in silence.
“I can’t sleep,” you said then averted your eyes to the beaten couch a small distance away from Gaara’s desk. He should really replace that soon.
Gaara didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to. He simply stared at you until you made your way to the couch with a blanket thrown over your body. You made yourself comfortable on that couch, watched Gaara until sleep decided to catch you.
He looked tired, but you guessed that he was so used to lack of sleep that this was probably a breeze for him. You noted the way his eyes slowly blinked when he supposedly took a break, the way his hair perfectly shaped around his jawline, the way the moon dripped through the windows, accentuating the color of his beautiful eyes.
In that moment, you’d never been more attracted to anyone.
“Goodnight, [Name].” You heard him say in his smooth voice. You didn’t notice it until now, but sleep was just upon you, so close. And before you closed your eyes, a soft smile was present on your face.
I’d like to take a moment to remind everyone to think for a moment: think of the women in the fields, praying to the Mother for a good harvest. Think of their joy when the crows stay away and their children have full bellies and their consorts bring meat to their hearth. Think of the sun kissing their shoulder and their cheeks and weaving its fingers through their hair. Think of those same women, carrying the best of their harvest and the best of the hunt out into field in the dead of night, full moon luminous and dripping breast milk moonlight on them from above. Think of the offerings they made. We will mourn the pain and death they’d come to endure at the hands of their oppressors at Samhain. For today, think of the joy and love they felt while the Lord of Light ruled the green. Think of the height of joy.
the secret history as a coven of boy and girl witches studying the craft in secret at hamden college under their former supreme, julian morrow.
they conjugate spells until their tongues are burning, make fire out of will on lucky strikes, a swell band of skeleton bones. richard papen watches from afar, copies snippets of overheard spells into book margins, feels the magic heavy in his bones and wants more more more - a boy obsessed. but voyeurs of the mystic don’t remain voyeurs for long.
in he’s dragged to the forest incantations slurred at the moon - dripping blood, bourbon, and porcelain wands. library haunts, cursed drinks at the tearoom, midnight meet-ups ‘round flats with bruised walls that always end unconscious. but richard’s true fixation is on henry winter, whose magic is as violent as it is strong. so when he finds out that his bumbling idiot of a friend bunny is next in line to be their supreme, drastic measures must be taken.
And she didn’t want a connection with just anyone. She believed in the old tales about love spells and sparks made from careless gazes from across the room.
So she aced her potions class.
So she laced her lips with honesty.
And it wasn’t just any connection;
it was the I can’t get enough of you,
it was the I will always want you around,
& it was the I can’t lose you, not again.
She lost those bitter feelings of being sweet.
And it was not a spell;
it was the potion that she made for him to drink, but she decided to drink it instead.
Love, the poison.
Love, the cure.
Love, the heart.
Love, the cracks.
Love, the letters.
Love, the fireplace.
Love, the burn.
Love, the scars.
Love, the bed.
Love, the sheets.
Love, the hands.
Love, the back.
And it was always going to be like this.
Something we could cast as a spell,
but something that would last as hell.
So we cried and we cried
and she tried and she tried.
Pain, the bottles.
Pain, the pills.
Pain, the lines.
Pain, the cuts.
Pain, the late night.
Pain, the chasing moon.
Pain, the sun dripping as a tear into the sea.
Pain, the sleeplessness.
Pain, the restlessness.
Pain, the anxiety.
Pain, the stress.
Pain, the depression.
Pain, the heartache.
Pain, the headache.
Pain, the truth.
Pain, the lie.
So she held her stories inside and wrote about it at 3 AM; while knowing he wouldn’t return phone calls or text messages.
So she cried about how it could’ve worked out, how it should’ve happened, but it did not.
But her story doesn’t end in tears.
It doesn’t stop here.
It doesn’t stop in a magical book
about princesses and hopeless princes.
It doesn’t start with Hey, I miss you.
It doesn’t end with I need you, stay.
It begins with her smile because love is lost, but love was here and love signed while she sighed her last kiss and last breaths of who she couldn’t be for him and she realized that he was not magic–
Summary: Never in her wildest dreams did she think her butler would end up being her boyfriend, yet there they were. Soul, the man who was only meant to be hired help around the house, helped her with so much more. From being her friend to her boyfriend to the center of her sexual desires. He had seeped into her life slow and steady. Butler AU.