the first one is out of a poem by

Seventeen things you have to learn for yourself
as a Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Questioning, Intersex, Asexual, Pansexual
or otherwise Queer youth
by the time you are seventeen.

One is that the first Pride was a riot
I don’t mean that it was full of laughter, or that it was some grand party
where everyone spiraled up to dance among the stars
because the only glittering that night
was broken glass on cobblestones.
The first Pride was a riot
on the backstreets of New York
and they never tell us
that night
we won.
The only protest
in a decade full of turmoil
where the cops had to hide out in the bar they raided
and run from shouting rioters
who fought to reclaim the only patch of ground they had ever claimed as theirs
the first Pride was a riot,

and two, around the same time it took place
it was a debated topic in the gay community
whether or not they should say
that they weren’t mentally ill

which, three, homosexuality was removed
from the American Psychiatric Association’s list of mental illnesses
in 1974
congratulations
all it took was a vote to declare that, whoops, we were never mentally ill

except, four, there are still teenagers being tortured today
in what some dare blaspheme as “therapy”
used to destroy their self-identity
in the hopes of making them normal.
except, four, the queer community still carries overwhelmingly high rates for poverty and homelessness and depression.

Did you know that, five,
over half the children forced into conversion therapy
commit suicide?

And six, that lesbians
were regarded as “hangers-on”
of the movement
by much of the gay community
before the AIDS crisis?

Because it turns out, seven can wear a rainbow on your shirt
and still be a bigot.
There are people who stick rainbows in their ears
or wear them on their fingers
or slap them across their cheeks in badges of defiance
and will still hate you for the color of your skin
or the size of your thighs
or your gender
or the way you like to kiss two or more genders
or none of the above.
Don’t ask me why this happens
it just does
I think it might be that we’ve all been taught to hate ourselves
for so damn long
that we don’t understand what to do
in a space with no hate.
Or maybe it’s that the space seems too small, because

eight, there are people who will tell you that you are not enough
that you do not reach the magical benchmark of “gay enough” to pass through the gate even
especially
when you are some flavor of the rainbow other than straight-out gay.
eight, this is bullshit
eight, those people are bullshit.
eight, you are enough.
eight, there is always enough room.

nine, there is no overarching “homosexual agenda”
sorry
we’re all kind of flailing along in here trying to figure out some way to make it work
when most of us have nothing in common
except that society looked at us in different ways and decided we didn’t fit
so we could all go be misfits together
under one big rainbow flag

but just so you know, ten, there are plenty of other flags
there is one for you, I promise

and eleven, misfits may not all need the same things
but we need to stick together, especially in a world where

twelve—refer to point seven—there are lesbians who hate other lesbians
for having the audacity to be born in a body
that everyone looked at and saw “boy”
which brings me to

thirteen, there is so much to understand.

fourteen, you need to understand
because we need to stick together
and to stick together we do not have to be the same but we do have to understand
and it will be hard because
you were probably thrown into this world with no warning because

fifteen, being queer is not genetic and we are not unique among minorities
in that we collect our heritage through broken bits of history and research in a world constantly working to make those misfit bits go away
but we are unique in that when we try to prove our legacy
we can be laughed down
or re-erased
or flat out ignored
but I swear to you
you have a history as old as Alexander the Great
as beautiful as Sappho
as dignified as Abraham Lincoln
and as proud as Eleanor Roosevelt.

But even with that behind us
sixteen,
they have always watched us die.
because even though the bystander effect is bullshit, sixteen
Kitty Genovese was a lesbian, sixteen
Ronald Reagan is a mass murderer, sixteen
our children, your brothers and sisters and  siblings of all stripes and all colors and sexualities and genders are being murdered
through neglect
and rejection
and hate.

Sixteen, there is an entire generation of gay and bisexual men
missing from history
because the government chose to do nothing
when they were dying by the thousands.
sixteen, we died from the disease and died from going back into the closet and died for staying there and died for coming out,
sixteen, they laughed at us because they believed god was punishing us for daring to love,
sixteen, ashes of your forerunners rest on the lawn of the White House because
SIXTEEN, THEY HAVE ALWAYS WATCHED US DIE.

SEVENTEEN
you are allowed
to be angry.
You do not have to be one of the nice gays
or one of the nice trans people
or sweet or kind or educate the rest of the world in something less than a yell
you are allowed to be so furious it scalds your bones
at the way we are forgotten
and passed over
at the way, as soon as June becomes July
we are expected
to go back to dying in silence
and mourning our dead
and kissing all alone
when no one can be offended
at the sight of us.
You are allowed to be angry
and scream down the stars
to shatter like broken glass at your feet
because you know what?
The first Pride
was a riot.

—  October 11
Journal Prompts

figured i’d take a stab at making some prompts. Tag me if you use them!! I wanna see what you make :>>>

1. Pick a year, maybe the year you/your friend/your crush was born. Find out important things that happened that year. The top song played on the radio, the movie that won at the oscars, any notable inventions? 

2. Pick a color. Do everything in that color. Try different shades of the same color, or do it all in one shade for hard mode

3. Draw a self portrait without looking at yourself on one page, and another one while seeing your reflection/a picture of yourself

4. Make a playlist of your current favorite songs / use their lyrics 

5. What’s your favorite room? Your bedroom, a class room? Why do you like it? What’s in it? Draw it. 

6. draw an alternative world. Maybe it’s the same as our current word but some people have horns? Maybe it’s a world entirely encompassed in an hourglass? 

7. Are you superstitious? If yes, write/draw about you biggest superstition. If no, write/draw about one that interests you. 

8. Where would you go on a roadtrip? Write/draw about the locations you’d love to see.

9. Write/draw about how you feel at 3am. 

10. Whats your first ever memory?

11. Sit in front of a mirror and make 5 funny faces and draw yourself. 

12. Write / draw your favorite myth. 

13. Draw your hands 

14. Collect all the ‘left over’ bits for a week: receipts, fruit stickers, notes, wrappers. Then make a journal page out of them. 

15. Print out one of your favorite poems. Cut each word out and rearrange it. It probably wont make any sense but it will still somehow feel like your favorite poem. 

4

A handful of sky deities from Philippine Mythology.

Mayari, the one-eyed moon goddess of war and beauty, Tala and Hanan, the morning and the evening stars, the protectors of the moon, and Libulan, a lunar deity, and his husband, Sidapa, slayer of Bakunawa the moon-eater.

Spanish colonialization has erased many of the Philippines’ lore and folktales. Out of the hundreds of poems and epics written, only two remain. The rest are lost  to the flames of Spanish priests. (Yet we treasure what we have.)

The Philippines was the first country in Asia to have ever rebelled against European colonizers.

today is the last day of buwan ng wika, or the month where Filipinos celebrate our heritage. Maligayang Buwan ng Wika!! 

1. I wasn’t in love with you anymore, but god, this knocked the wind out of me.

2. You were just here.

3. You were just here.

4. Do you remember? The frozen food pressed to your shoulder, the way you shook with the knowledge of a barely avoided death?

5. My mouth. Yours.

6. I had been struggling with my old poems about you. You know, you were the first one I ever wrote. I had some questions for you, Cleveland. I suppose I don’t have them anymore.

7. It isn’t even seeing you kiss her that’s the problem. It’s that you share a table.

8. Maybe “wife” bothers me, too. I know how that word sounds, coming from you. Remember? Those long drives? Perhaps I still exist as your heart when you hit the road.

9. You still exist as mine when I hit the words.

10. I couldn’t read them aloud anymore, the poems. That old pain. It didn’t exist. We had chased it away with chocolate and cherries. Still, you occupy a shelf in the bright. In the cold .

11. You always have been impossibly careless with my heart. With my new lives, all of them.

12. There’s a Smiths song – if you were reading my texts I would send you it – it goes: and I’m not happy / and I’m not sad. I’m not sad, seeing you happy. She looks as full of light as I used to when you kissed me. I am glad for her. I know what you have to give.

13. It’s the loss of our friendship. More a removal. A reopened scar, from the last time. Remember, how we were friends? We’ve been so good at it. I can’t believe you won’t hear from me now. I couldn’t believe you wouldn’t hear from me, then. You know the words. 

14. I just wanted to wish you well. I just. I just wanted to be what I always have been. Yours, in whatever form we decide.

15. Nearly two years since we met and you still find new ways to let me down. I think it impresses me more than it wounds.

16. You told me all about her, remember? We discovered we had both loved ghosts, since the last time you cried on my couch. Do you remember? The things that we allow to haunt us take root in the end. I need to change my sheets.

17. I wonder if I am the ghost now. The woman you never had the courage to keep. Do I haunt you, darling? I can hear your voice saying yes. Feel the reach of your arms as I spin out of them, laughing. Do I echo?

18. You kissed me like you used to, the last time. You will again, the next. You always do.

19. In a poem I never got the chance to read you, I said that you exist suspended in time. In flashes of white sheets. Bathed in orange light on the Golden Gate Bridge. Spinning me around on a cold February evening. One year ago today.

20. One year ago today, you laid next to me. We cried about something that doesn’t matter anymore. It didn’t matter then, either.

21. Do you remember the words? Of that last song at what we thought was the last breakfast. You sat me on your knee.

22. Your hands shook as you held me tight. I put my lips to your ear. Do you remember? The words. Say them with me.

23. In my own sick way / I’ll always stay true to you.

—  Upon Seeing Your New Girlfriend For The First Time. Charlotte Ford.

but it’s like-
the night throbs in my veins sometimes
and i don’t know what to do with this energy?
it isn’t my heart, no, not that, not anything known,
but it flows like blood would and i want to leap out of the window-
i want to meet the stars / i want to tell them that the night
isn’t the darkest place that i’ve been but even when i’m there
somehow starlight still guides me.

l.s. | it flows like blood would © 2017

sanvers high school au where alex has a big gay crush on maggie and starts an anonymous instagram poetry account where she writes cheesy sapphic poetry

and then it BLOWS UP and the whole school is following it and speculating who the author is because it gets really fucking romantic and all these girls are swooning and alex swears to never come clean because it’s embarrassing af 

and people start trying to compare everyone’s handwriting to this account’s but alex manages to get away with it because she’s one of those people who can write in like 7 different fonts of handwriting

but duh maggie knows it’s alex because they’ve had english together since freshman year and she always sees the little poems alex doodles in the margins but she doesn’t know it’s meant for her but she’s had a crush on alex for AGES

so she starts quoting alex to alex in all of their conversations and alex starts bugging out and realises that maggie knows but she’s still too nervous to make the first move

so she writes a poem that’s explicitly about maggie (idk dimples and short or some other shit) and maggie pulls her behind the bleachers and kisses her and alex was like ‘they were all about you, you know’ 

and then they make out a bit more

anonymous asked:

Headcanons for losers club meeting in group therapy.

I took this a bit further than I meant to, I hope you like it though because I love addressing mental health
(I based it off my own experiences and knowledge so I’m so so sorry if anything is not accurate)

- They all have the same therapist (she’s called Jackie) but they’ve never met each other

- she takes them all for different things

- Bill has depression from loosing his brother (‘n-n-not dead…j-j-just m-m-missing) and anger issues from getting frustrated with his stutter

- Beverly has depression and PTSD from her father and addiction to smoking

- Ben has social anxiety and topophobia from moving so much and getting bullied

- Mike has insomnia and PTSD from his parents death and having to work on the farm

- Richie has ADHD, bipolar disorder and addiction to smoking just from genetics and how his parents treat him

- Stan has chronic OCD and anxiety from his father being a perfectionist

- Eddie has chronic Mysophobia , anxiety and is the worst hypochondriac she’s ever seen

- She has problems with all of them being closed off for some reason

- Bill doesn’t like talking because when he tries to talk about loosing his brother his stutter gets worse, then he gets frustrated and gets overwhelmed

- Beverly just can’t bring herself to talk about it, talking about her dad sets off her PTSD and she gets super defensive about her smoking

- Ben is actually quite intimidated by Jackie, he knows deep down that she wants to help but can’t help but feel like he’s just putting his problems on someone else’s shoulders

- Mike is the easiest one to open up, he needs to know that someone is there and supporting him but at the same time he can’t talk about his parents without tearing up

- Richie talks about everything that isn’t his problems and wastes their hour pretty much every time, although some days he comes in and pours his little heart out

- Stan has told himself if he lets people know about his problems and says them out loud then it’ll make it all worse

- Eddies the only one who’ll willingly talk about what’s happening although he’s insecure about telling her incase she thinks he’s stupid

- so basically, she has a hard time with all of them but she still wants to help them all so bad

- So she proposes to her team leader that she should have an extra session with them once a week where they’re all together

- once she gets the all clear, she tells them about it

- They all agree sounded slightly worried and unwilling, other than Richie who was having a fantastic day and is ready to meet his new fucking friends

- the first session was…interesting to say the least

- Jackie set the chairs in a circle

- the first to arrive was Stan, he always needed to be early no matter what incase he missed something and took the seat next to Jackie

- Eddie was the second to arrive, he took the seat on the other side of her

- As a therapist, this warmed her heart as she knew they did that to feel safer

- She introduced them and got them talking about why bedrooms should be kept tidy, needless to say they become friends right away

- Bill was the third to arrive, he had gotten the wrong room at first and was kinda upset

- he walked in whispering the paragraph that helped his stutter, looking down

- He didn’t look up until he was sitting down at the furthest seat from Jackie in the circle

- She started to introduce them but he honestly wasn’t listening, he was too busy staring at the cute boy with curly hair in front of him

- Stan catches him staring but that doesn’t stop him, he just watches as Stan’s cheeks redden

- next to arrive is Ben and Mike, they weren’t really friends yet but they helped each other find the room

- And finally, Bev and Richie walked in taking as if they had been friends for years (slightly late)

- apparently Richie’s lighter had given up on him so Bev offered hers up, they became friends pretty quickly

- Ben is awestruck by Bev

- They both sat in the remaining two seats left

- As soon as Richie sat down he noticed the small boy next to Jackie and ended up doing the exact thing Bill did with Stan

- Jackie goes around the circle, asking everyone to introduce themselves and their problem and also say how they’re feeling today

- When it comes to Richie, he’s still looking at Eddie

- ‘I’m Richie, I have ADHD and I’m so fucking gay right now’

- Everyone (including Jackie) laughs, they like Richie already

- The session went okay, nothing too interesting happened and they just talked about stuff

- Jackie definitely noticed how they became more open as the hour passed by

- Although Richie spends most the time flirting with Eddie

- Stan leaves last, Bill waits for him by the front door and Stan swears he didn’t tear up a little

- Bill does this and walks Stan home after every session, after the sixth time they start holding hands

- Eddie eventually grows super fond of Richie so one day when said boy walks in and doesn’t talk or even really look up the whole hour, Eddie is pretty worried

- after the session, Jackie asks to talk to Richie privately and Eddie waits by the front of the building even though it’s raining

- Richie comes out after ten minutes, sniffling with red tearful eyes

- ‘Oh hey, Eddie spaghetti….isn’t your mom worried you’re not home yet?’

- 'I’m more concerned about you than my mom right now’

- Richie offers to walk Eddie home, giving Eddie his black denim jacket littered with patches somewhere along the way

- Richie also uses this time to explain his ADHD and bipolar disorder to Eddie

- 'Is there any chance I could get my jacket back? I’ll probably stay out for a bit’

- 'Sure…why are you staying out if it’s raining?’

- 'Just, parents and stuff yanno’

- with that, Eddie demands Richie stay over until his mum comes back or the rain stops

- Ben starts writing little notes and poems which he puts on Bev’s seat before every session and are signed anonymously

- Bev thinks it’s Bill at first but she sees Stan and Bill holding hands on the way home so she crosses him off the list

- one day, whilst she’s out smoking to get away from her dad she bumps into Richie

- she decides he’s a good smoking buddy and they become close, sneaking out pretty much every night to smoke together

- Richie saw Ben putting a note on Bev’s seat one day and honestly he just can’t keep it to himself

- 'Why don’t you ask Ben if he’s your secret admirer?’

- 'I might just do that’

- She leaves a note on his seat one day, with her number and the words 'my heart burns there too’

- To say Jackie is pleased with them and her decision to make their group is an understatement

You know what to do (add more) - xo

Love first visited me when I was fifteen.
Love was best friend;
love was not meant to be.
He loved me,
and I thought I loved him too
for a while.
I destroyed him over two years
with my selfishness -
I was only fifteen.
I left carrying a broken heart in my hands,
and lost a best friend.


First love came when I was sixteen.
This time, it had warm brown eyes, soft hands and softer smiles.
It whispered shy confessions into my ear, and they sounded so genuine I made the mistake of believing them.
Love told me that I was the most beautiful thing that happened in his life, and it held me on nights I couldn’t sleep.
First love continued for about two years, during which I experienced the painful reality of giving your all to someone.
It taught me passion, pain, sadness, anger, betrayal.
First love was as blissful as it was torturous.
It left with me shivering on the cold bathroom floor, with months of sadness to follow.


Now I am nineteen, and love has decided to fleetingly appear out of nowhere.
Love now has a childish face but sturdy hands and broad shoulders.

It caresses me with tenderness I have not experienced before; it shares my joy and my sadness as if they were its own. Should this love not work out, I’ll be broken again; but I will go on living because one day I know it will visit me again.

i am confident i am over you. so much that some mornings i wake up with a smile on my face and my hands pressed together thanking the universe for pulling you out of me. thank god i cry. thank god you left. i would not be the empire i am today if you had stayed. 


but then. 


there are some nights i imagine what i might do if you showed up. how if you walked into the room this very second every awful thing you’ve ever done would be tossed out the closest window and all the love would rise up again. it would pour through my eyes as if it never really left in the first place. as if it’s been practicing how to stay silent so long only so it could be this loud on your arrival. can someone explain that. how even when the love leaves. it doesn’t leave. how even when i am so past you. i am so helplessly brought back to you.

—  one of my favoruite poems from Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur

Here’s some little things I thought about while in target ok (this is purely based off of Jughead in the show Riverdale so these are non-asexual but if u want an asexual one let me know !!!!!)

———————-

-Jughead isn’t a super PDA person but you’re literally the equivalent of a baby Koala so he sucks it up and holds your hand in the hallways and let’s you cuddle up to him in a booth at Pop’s

-ok but when u guys are alone Jughead is super affectionate like he’s got himself wrapped around you

- you guys get in disagreements and get a lil hot headed with each other but u guys never ever fight

-except for that one time when Jughead got in to this mode where he literally shut everyone out and only focused on his novel and u had to set that boy straight

-now every time he gets too immersed or you want his attention, all u gotta do is reach over and hover a finger over the screen (“don’t touch it you’ll leave fingerprints”) and he gets the message

- Pop’s every day after school

-you’re literally the most loyal customers

- although when you guys go an an actual date every once in a while, you’ll go bowling or check out a new restaurant or something

- You buy Jughead stuff all the time like clothes and stuff even though he has his own job because sometimes he shows up to school and he’s got holes in his shirt and it irritates you so much

-when you found out Jughead was living in the drive in because of his situation with his father, you went to Archie’s dad and told him, and told him (word by word) “you are part of the reason he doesn’t have a home now, so you better open up your doors for him or I swear to god-”

-and Fred stopped you right there and told you he would

-you would have had him come live with you but your dad wasn’t a huge fan of the idea

-your mom loves him though

-literally loves him to death

-so he’s over at your house all the time

-and Jughead obviously isn’t a big sexual person, like normal “sexy” stuff doesn’t turn him on, like short skirts and crop tops or any of that

-but g o d

-you are like, an actual angel to him

-he could literally stare at you for hours and hours

-one time he spent the night and left one of his shirts and when he came over one morning you hadn’t gotten ready for school yet and you answered the door and

-you were wearing his shirt

-just his shirt

-his palms literally started sweating, like he literally wanted to slam the door shut and take u right against the wall and that was definitely a new feeling for him

-he respects you so much, he literally has so much respect for you

-before you guys got together, you had fallen for the game that the jocks played and after Chuck Clayton had humiliated you publicly when he pretended to ask you to formal you had been put in the playbook as “the freak”

-When Jughead found out he literally decked Chuck Clayton

-literally punched him in the jaw so hard Chuck stumbled and almost fell

-and Jughead ended up walking away with a bloody nose and a busted lip

-and you cleaned him up and yelled at him and told him it wasn’t worth it and he said  “of course you’re worth it, you’re always worth it”

-and that was the night u guys got together

-you and Jughead never like think about having sex or doing that kind of stuff because neither of you are really huge on it and you guys just aren’t really sexual people

-your first time is like a hint of awkwardness but just like super natural and stuff and it’s rlly intimate and loving and he holds you all night after

-and he wakes up the next morning and you’ve got his shirt on again

-and the next morning you ride him in the shirt

-Jughead literally supports you with anything, he’s honestly your number one fan

-when you tried out for the river vixens he was there

-when you sang in the talent show he was there

-when you did your first musical gig he was there

-and same with him, like you’re always proofreading his articles for the blue and gold for him and being his helping hand, almost like his test rat for his articles and novel and such

-and he’s got a whole folder full of poems and little journal entries and shit he’s written about you

-he will never admit it though

-you guys are so in love and it’s great bc the both of you would never cheat on each other and lie to each other and you guys just have a really healthy and strong relationship that nothing and nobody could get between

I hope she falls in love with who you really are, and not what you pretend to be. I hope you really see who she is inside rather than how her makeup makes her look. I hope you feel complete when you lay next to each other at nights. I hope she understands how long you had to wait before you found her. I hope you know you weren’t her love at first sight or her first kiss or her first dance. You had different path, she had another. Give her the space to understand you and love you for who you are, because she isn’t used to such good guys who promise her galaxies, she isn’t used to love so deep and pain so rare, she isn’t used to slow kisses and infinite care. She is different, she is afraid of you but she is holding it on. She sees something greater than you do, all you need to do is be there.
It isn’t about finding the right one, it is about holding on to the first person you think when you wake up, it is about the person you want to make coffee for, it is about the first person you want to cry your heart out too. Love is rare, but connections are strong. Build a connection, build a force. It takes time, she will take time, you will learn with time. She is beautiful and so will be your story.

1. you dream of green, of a world where you do not hold him in you like a purple wound; gaping, savage and angry. in this universe, he does not whisper out of your room at six in the morning 
while your mouth still reeks of crying

2. you spent the first three weeks sick, voice an empty mailbox. others pitied your silence, but you were secretly fond of it, of the listening and the witnessing, of remaining apart and together at once; if someone had looked closer you might have come apart - the stories they imagined
didn’t bubble so much as leak like when you were young you were at a lake and scooped up pebbles and let them drop back into the water,
grain by grain,
learning how to sow

3. what comes forwards from the closet is always the same figure, and his mouth is never there. you got the house blessed but there’s still demons. you are also numb and speechless, also a figure, but a figure that represents more than a figure that exists. who are you in the minds of other people? this idea haunts you more than the ghost, who of course is only doing his job, so you forgive him.

4. four is a bad number.

5. you spat it up with your toothpaste into the white porcelain of the sink you grew up with. the sink you have stained with paint and hair dye and lipstick. you feel like seafoam, floating and irresolute, a saline solution that mimics the art of blood, pumping through veins that constantly argue.

6. you miss him so much you attempt to write a poem about it and instead fixate on the skin by your fingernail, ragged and raw like lung meat.

7. for a moment, you think of saying
i’ll be good,
come back to me.
you could tear off your loose bits even if it meant using teeth.

8. eight is also a bad number. four and four. two eyes, or a headless snowman, or the day before her birthday, or also one more than seven, a good number, the down after the up. the wheel always turns, seven always turns to eight, and you always get left behind.

9. inside of a panic attack, you remind yourself that he would have hated seeing you like this.

10. maybe it wasn’t him but rather how you looked in the mornings.

11. the problem is that wounds always stitch with white skin, scar tissue, bloodless memories in physical form, your body’s complaint list against you, a tally of your sins and how many times you’ve let down yourself and everyone around you, like you stand not in a puddle but a halo, an aura of defeat, a mobile mass of tiny moments, each with their own mouths and teeth.

12. you learned about the nature of scars naturally, and then unnaturally, and then again in tenth grade biology. you thought there was something funny and sad and odd that your body won’t put blood back into the places you’ve scratched it out. as if that could get you to stop picking wounds. when you were little and in pain the first thing you did was shove whatever was bleeding into that maw of yours. you suck on pain. succor it.

13. you itch a scab off by accident. new blood crawls out, hungry and demanding. thirteen is a fine number. prime number. the incident of your mental illness is undiscussed, a featherlight touch in your poems.

14. fourteen isn’t a bad number but it’s not a good one. when you turned fourteen you didn’t know you loved her. a summer spent like stamps, shipped and shattered, freshly licked. you cut yourself on the envelope, and your tongue bled.

15. is that what this is about; bleeding tongues.

16. is that what this is about; forgiving him and moving on.

17. is that what this is about; no more air in my lungs.

She’s Just Not That Into You » Part V (A Harry Styles Miniseries)

Miss the previous parts? Part One » Part Two » Part Three » Part Four

Check out the inspiration behind Harry’s home here!

As always, this miniseries is dedicated to @stylesunchained. Thank you for your screaming for no spoilers, my love. It wouldn’t be proper of me to not thank @chrissy22787​ and @permanentcross​ for their continued support and also continued screaming over this story. Where would I be without you three?!

Let me know what you think! Happy reading.

Originally posted by she-is-beautifully-broken

After secluding himself for the better part of two days, Harry decided it was best to consult someone about his next move, if there was one at all. Nick was the only plausible option, as he was the one who introduced you to Harry, and he’d known you longer than Harry had. Much longer. He’d told Harry that he considered you to be one of his best friends, which shocked him a bit, considering Nick didn’t mention you all that much. But, plenty of time had passed since Harry was in London for an extended period. Nick was a magnet for friends, and he was allowed to make more without Harry around…

…especially if they were friends like you.

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red

red was the color of stanley’s cheeks when he first asked bill out.



red was the color of the licorice that stanley bought for bill on their first date at the movies.

bill never really liked licorice

red was the color of the watch that bill was wearing when they first held hands.

bill never really liked holding hands.

red was the color of the ink that stanley used to write bill a poem as a gift for their one month anniversary.

bill never really liked poetry.

red was the color of the first milkshake they ever shared.

bill never really liked milkshakes.

red was the color of stanley’s lips when he first told bill “i love you”

bill never responded.

red was the color of the hickeys that were scattered all over bill’s neck to his collar bones.

but here’s the thing, stanley had never given bill a hickey before.

red was the color of the blood that trickled down richie’s nose after stanley had punched him for hooking up with his boyfriend of six months.

well, ex-boyfriend.

red was the color of the wine that stanley stole from his mother to help him get the heartbreak off of his mind.

bill never really liked the color red.

bill never really loved stanley.

“Do you still love him?”

“No. But I miss him. God. Some nights it’s just a dull throb and it’s calm and steady but then other nights. The bad nights- My whole body shakes and my pillow soaks up enough tears to last me a lifetime. I lose my breath and I feel for him on his spot of my bed but then I remember that he doesn’t have a spot because he’s gone and I’m alone and it fucking hurts. I don’t love him. But I couldn’t tell you that I’d turn him down if he asked me out somewhere again. I can’t be sure I would deflect his kiss. My body. Mind. It longs for him. But I don’t love him. Because when he left he broke my heart..
And if I keep saying I don’t love him, maybe one day I’ll believe it.”

—  One day I’ll believe it.
sunshxnequote-s

anonymous asked:

I absolutely adore your writing, especially the piece about Judas at Christ's grave. Have you any more "queer Jesus" pieces, if I may describe them as that?

THE ‘KEATON ST. JAMES IS QUEER FOR GOD’ POETRY MASTERPOST

the disciple who loves jesus arrives at the tomb - the one you mentioned, in which judas visits christ’s grave, and it’s sad and also gay

pink marble & gold paint - a trans man meets jesus for the first time

gold dust - the intersection of trans identity, an anxiety disorder, and going to heaven

valentine - i’m gay but mostly i have a crush on god

your mother claims she saw a ghost at the supermarket - a mom thinks about her bi son and a queer judas metaphor haunts the peaches & avocados (homophobia mention tw, suicide mention tw)

redemption (dictionary poem xxv) - a shameless self insert where i make out with jesus

trans jesus - like it says on the tin, an ode to my fave trans man, jesus christ

ache - a shameless self insert where i gay marry jesus, or maybe just a human man, either way, the marriage is gay

rumors about jesus - technically this isn’t explicitly gay, but i wrote this fragment admiring jesus and i’m gay, so it’s gay subtext

judas meeting an angel - he’s on the way to heaven to get kissed by the lord because forgiveness is a core value of christianity

The Art of Remembering // Spencer Reid x Reader

Prompt: Reader is left without her memories after surviving a car accident involving an unsub.

Requested by: Anonymous

Originally posted by toyboxboy


Spencer could hear himself scream your name as he watched the scene unfold.

It was difficult to see. He watched the unsub’s car, the one with you inside of it- tied up with rope that dug into your skin and tape across your mouth that muffled your screams. He saw it hit the wall. He wasn’t sure if the unsub had lost control or whether he had done it on purpose, choosing to end his life instead of facing the consequences that came with being caught. All he knew was that his heart stopped beating the moment the car crashed into the building and sent you flying through the broken windows and onto the hard pavement.

He was sure you were dead. Your body laid limp amongst the shattered glass on the floor. Blood was seeping from the back of your head and he could feel his heart being torn as he ran towards you, his eyesight blurred at the tears that instantly filled his eyes.

It was all a blur. He remembered bits and pieces. The harsh flashing lights of the ambulance. The blinding white walls of the hospital. The hard seats of the waiting room. The feeling that overwhelmed him when the doctor came in to announce what had been your fate. He remembered the sense of relief when he said you had made it.

His heart didn’t truly shatter until he was allowed to see you. You were finally awake and he was ecstatic as he rushed in to wrap his arms around you. What he didn’t expect was the way your body froze in a mixture of alarm and confusion. He pulled away and he immediately saw it in your eyes. You didn’t remember him.

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Progress // a poem by anonymous

The first time I called myself gay out loud
I was alone in my room with no one to overhear
and yet the word was still whispered
as soft as falling snow,
nearly drowned out by the beating of my heart

The first time I realized I was looking at my friend in a way that you could hardly call “platonic”
I was disgusted with myself
For weeks, I was ashamed I had betrayed her trust, and I damn near memorized every fiber in the carpet at my school from spending my days with my head bowed with the weight of my guilt

The first time I introduced myself as a lesbian,
I recoiled at the ugly connotation the word had in my mind
I hurriedly corrected myself to “gay” and blushed as I avoided my classmate’s eyes

The second time I called myself gay, i was still alone in my room, but I steeled myself for the words to come out and this time I didn’t let myself trail off into silence, I looked my reflection straight in the eyes and my voice doesn’t waver as I confessed the truth that had been eating away at me

The next time I caught myself looking at a pretty girl, I wondered if this was how the other girls felt when they looked at boys,
If so, I thought I could almost excuse their silly little giggles and flirty remarks they made when they talked to their crushes.

The second time I introduced myself as a lesbian, the word came easier.
In the back of my mind, dark thoughts still swirled, but in that moment the bright smiles of my supportive friends kept them at bay

Now, when I call myself gay, I feel proud

When I talk about pretty girls I feel happy

When I introduce myself as a lesbian, the word feels right


All this is not to say that I’m fixed now,
that I’m Miraculously Cured of my internalized homophobia
far from it in fact.

There are still days
Where peoples words get to my head and I find myself doubting my love for girls,
There are still days where I have to remind myself that it’s okay to like girls
There are still days where the word lesbian makes me feel icky inside and I use the word gay instead

But the graph of your growth is rarely a perfect upwards diagonal,
so there are going to be bad days,
I can promise you that,
but I can also promise you that they will get farther and farther apart,
Until the good, outnumber the bad,
and you can breath freely again

frankenstein poem

-playlist on shuffle

-make a free-verse poem using the first line of the first song, the second line of the second song, etc. etc. until you reach song five or six, that seems about long enough.

-alternately just take the first line of each song, whatever’s easier for you my dude

ex: “take me for a ride, I’m the one you pushed aside
it’s only in your head you feel left out or looked down on
she loves the sea and her people
at the same time, at the same time
the sun is down and we’re bound to get exhausted and so far from the shore”

-profit???

-actually these could be interesting writing/art prompts