not dead words

i. 
I am my own worst nightmare and there are no two ways about it.
I clink my wine glass against my chest, it shatters - conclusion, I am
made of stone. I try to bite the rust from beneath my thumb - conclusion,
I am a bicycle chain, adhering to endless walls. I pass through windows,
I pass through floodgates, through shaking hands - conclusion,
I am a phantasm. I am the night’s callous cat call, fondling the blushing sky,
ending the trees’ matrimony with a summer bloodier than my unkempt mosaic of a ribcage, seducing the winter, this body of contorted blooms. 

ii.
Where did the rain go? Why don’t we talk to each other anymore? Does it hurt
to look into my eyes, these sludge-filled pools of buckling brown where my
withering once presented itself as a death or a mercy? I don’t want to
travel through ragged portals of love in sub zero temperatures, and I’m sick of mapping the icecaps of your contaminated heart, your mottled stars, your pits of hunger. Yet I think, maybe we’ll be okay here, if we just close our eyes and mime home. If we just regenerate these wasted lives. 

iii.
I remember being twelve & accepting my existence, not as a girl, 
with hair worn like the willows & lips parted in eager breath,
but a bloodletting -  what froths at the mouth & fumbles for, desirous evenings, angry, humble, tragedies amidst the train station crowd, a reckoning, a massacre in motion, a smiting of seas, a grievance of scars. Reclaiming the might of hell itself. Loosening up your sore gut and the plump conscience. Trailing something pink between the thighs of shivering mountains. A beheading. Driving along country roads that turn you into a panting dog chasing its own tail. The first intake of breath after a kiss. Diving headfirst into fatal waters.

iv.
Sunday morning glory, silence in the barracks, the household walls sweat nervously, a second coming, surely, the birth of a god, surely! It can’t be the end. This can’t be the end. 

v.
Sweetheart, your love is a fetus, here, watch it grow, watch its tiny fists beat against the scraped surface of the mirror, and here is its spine (and you think, you can almost feel its heart, setting fire to all the villages on the other side of the river, maiming fences, stealing children) and here, we have the mouth, foggy as a swamp and slick with a warring tongue. It was never made to speak. It was made only to interrupt, to chagrin. 

vi.
We are a pagan ritual. We are a blast of cold air. We slide the knives into our sleeves. We engulf, we envelope, we are living, we are dead. I take your hand, I close my eyes. We feel our braces tighten. You lean close, you whisper: darling, there is nothing that can stomach us. Not in this world, not in the next.

Whatever you touch in me,
the tender, wounded spots on my heart,
the home you provide to my weariness,
the safety
of your gentle words
and warm embrace,
the hands
holding mine as you traveled
into the deep parts of my soul.
You will forever be a bittersweet taste to my longing,
my wanting for something more.
A glimpse at a richness that will never be satisfied.
How humbled I am
by gracious offerings of your self,
the wisdom poured into me,
the love showered on me.
But how my heart aches,
for it
will
never
be
enough.
It will never fill
this cavern of yearning.

-I am sorry I have demanded far too much of you

anonymous asked:

To be fair, Thea, Laurel Lance, and Captain Cold all had amazing character development outside of heterosexual relationships so The CW can do it. Ok, maybe not the best example because they are dead but Mon-El would most likely be dead or taking a really long nap by the end of the season.

oh yes yet another thing The CW excels at KILLING and/or SIDELINING   CHARACTERS FOR NO APPARENT REASON 

Anna - Polly Gray

Originally posted by sceawere

Request: Hi could you please write about Anna (Poll’s daughter) being actually alive and she needs her family to believe she is dead so she is finally able to come back to Birmingham and she meets all the family and stuff? Thank you :))

Anna - Polly Gray

The fire was not accidental. The police, who were unable to find your body in the remains of your parent’s house declared you dead anyway. They sent word to your parents, who were spending the weekend in London, telling them of the supposedly deadly house fire that had broken out overnight. They cancelled the rest of their plans and took the train back to Manchester but by then it was too late. You, still very much alive, were halfway to Birmingham.

It had been three days before the fire that you’d found a letter in your mother’s desk. It was addressed to you with the return belonging to a man in Birmingham by the name of Shelby. He had written on behalf of his aunt, who he believed was your mother. Though your family had never spoken of your origin you remembered distinct parts of it. Reading through the letter from Birmingham brought back long suppressed memories.  

Keep reading

WHAT THE FUCK HOLO PEARL

STEVEN I DON’T THINK YOU SHOULD KEEP THAT AROUND.

It seems like it needs Pearl to despawn it, or else it will keep hauting you forever.

Okay i BET Garnet knew this was going to happen but still let her do it nevertheless, just for the sake of Amethyst looking ridiculous.

These two have a very interesting relationship.

WHOSE IDEA WAS IT TO GIVE THIS SHIT AN UMBRELLA I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND

Garnet’s damn right, Steven. That thing isn’t even worth me pun-face-ifying it.

welp

Amethyst is fucking dead.

Words of wisdom right here, Garnet.

So avoid using the word ‘very’ because it’s lazy. A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. Don’t use very sad, use morose. Language was invented for one reason, boys - to woo women - and, in that endeavor, laziness will not do. It also won’t do in your essays.
—  N.H. Klienbaum, “Dead Poets Society.”
You know when you think you know someone? More than anyone in the world? You know you know them, because you’ve seen them, like, for real. And then you reach out, and suddenly they are just… gone. You thought you belonged together. You thought they were yours, but they’re not.
—  Ava Dellaira, Love Letters to the Dead