Stop messing round with that fire,
Living like love is just a gun for hire,
Cos one moment its just messing round,
To your wiki saying she’s your spouse,
Oh but its not just girls,
Cos yeah one moment I was tearing off her blouse,
Now she says she’s living in my house,
Babe I know you said you’d never smoke pot,
Its just; that burned Like your first splif,
Now we just hanging around in the dark, you’re pale as a ghost.
Stop messing round now, cos am too stoned,
You’re know I can’t save you cos in this game am too gone,
She’s only seventeen, and thinks at sixteen am all there is,
But a degenerate kind, baby am definitely not what you need,
She wants to dance with devil, Mr brownstone is just grave,
Oh Y’know the drugs will drown her out, just too young,
Can’t believe this is my life, smoking and fucking in the back,
How come black women are scrutinized for getting colored eye contacts, weaves and even lighter skin so as to live in a safer society but white women can literally get a fake body to be “thick” and over-tan their skin and black men think that’s “sexy.” Either black men truly think we’re inherently unattractive or don’t like how we look but have no problem with white women literally buying or “working” for our bodies. It’s like y’all call us ugly and then contradict yourselves. As I said before, people have always been attracted to us, they just refuse to see us as human and valuable enough to have relationships with. That’s why most black men who argue with me over their being trash have a whole page of visibly black woman butt ass naked or in sex positions. If half of these white women are so “beautiful” for the very features we’re called ugly for, black women should have been the standard of beauty. Face it, black women are the standard but unlike black women changing their aesthetic to be seen as more human, other women do it as competition towards us to make sure they ‘always look better.’ Most.
AT 12 WE SAW A CREW MEMBER COME OUT OF THE BUS AND @sohelpmedun ASKED IF HE COULD GIVE MY LETTER (+ CLIQUE ART) TO THE BOYS AND HE SAID YES HE’D PUT IT ON THE TABLE IN THE BUS
AT 12:45 I WAS SO FREEZING COLD I WENT TO BUY A COFFEE IN RECORD TIME
AT 1:20 TYLER AND MARK ARRIVED AT THE VENUE AND WENT TO THE BUS AND I WENT UP TO THEM (KEEP IN MIND THAT THERE WAS STILL NO SECURITY BARRIER BUT I WAS SCARED I’D BE BOTHERING THEM SO I STILL KEPT A BIT OF DISTANCE). TYLER WAS WEARING A THIN OLIVE GREEN HOODIE WITH THE HOOD UP AND A BLACK/DARK BLUE CAP HE LOOKED SO FUCKING GOOD. I SAID HI TYLER AND IM PRETTY SURE MY VOICE WENT A LIL TOO HIGH PITCHED AND HE SAID HEY HOW’S IN GOIN AND I FUCKING DIED AND I SAID GOOD AND HEY MARK AND MY MIND WENT COMPLETELY BLANK I WANTED TO TELL HIM I HAD A LETTER AND ART FOR HIM BUT ALL I COULD DO WAS STUTTER AND TYLER SAID LATER OKAY I SAID OKAY AND THEN I SAW SECURITY WAVING AT ME TO GET BACK SO I DID AND TYLER AND MARK WENT INTO THE BUS AND REAL SOON AFTER THEY WENT INTO THE VENUE
SOON AFTER I MET A COUPLE LOVELY PEOPLE WHOSE TUMBLRS I DID NOT CATCH BUT WE HUNG OUT AND WAITED FOR THE BOYS. BY THIS TIME I WAS DYING TO PEE BUT I HELD IT IN. THE SECURITY DUDE PUT UP THE BARRIER.
BETWEEN THAT TIME AND 2:30 TYLER WENT INTO THE BUS, JOSH ARRIVED AND ALSO WENT INTO THE BUS. WHEN WE SAW TYLER WE CALLED OUT TO HIM AND ASKED IF HE COULD COME OVER BUT HE SAID HE WAS COLD AND DID THAT CUTE LIL THING WHERE HE RUBBED HIS ARMS TO EMPHASIZE THAT AND IT WAS SO FUCKING CUTE I DIED AGAIN. MY MIND WENT BLANK AGAIN AND I COULDNT GET MY CAMERA OUT IN TIME SO I DIDN’T GET TO SAY ANYTHING ELSE TO HIM EXCEPT HI. WHEN JOSH GOT ON THE BUS WE YELLED HI TOO AND HE SAID HE WOULD COME SEE US LATER AND I YELLED I GOT ART FOR YOU BUT I WASN’T SURE IF HE HEARD BC HE HAD ALREADY GOTTEN IN THE BUS
AND THEN !!!!!!!!! AT 2:30 JOSH CAME OUT AND SAID IS THERE ART FOR ME SO THAT MEANS HE FUCKING HEARD ME AND I DIED YET AGAIN BUT APPARENTLY THERE WAS A GIRL WHO MADE ART FOR HIM AND SHE GAVE IT TO HIM AND IT LOOKED RLY GOOD IT WAS LIKE OIL PAINTING OR SOMETHING. ANYWAYS JOSH SAID HE COULDN’T STAY LONG BUT HE COULD TAKE PICTURES AND. HERES THE BEST PART. I ASKED HIM DID HE SEE MY LETTER AND HE SAID WHERE IS IT DID YOU GIVE IT TO SOMEONE AND I SAID YES HE SAID HE’D PUT IT ON YOUR TABLE AND HE SAID OKAY THEN I’LL SEE IT LATER AND BY THIS POINT MY BRAIN WAS ON AUTO FUCKING PILOT I DONT KNOW HOW I DIDNT JUST COLLAPSE RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM OR PEE MYSELF BUT I HELD MY SHIT TOGETHER AND DIED FOR LIKE THE MILLIONTH TIME. I TOOK A PICTURE WITH HIM AND HE WENT INTO THE VENUE.
I FUCKING MET TYLER JOSEPH AND JOSH DUN LOOK AT THAT HAIR THOSE CURLS HE IS SO BEAUTIFUL UP CLOSE AND NICE HE IS A LITERAL FUCKING ANGEL AND AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
IM GONNA GO WAIT OUTSIDE AFTER THE SHOW TO SEE IF I COULD CATCH THEM AGAIN
It was something he had done since he was small– smiley-face suns and stick figures– but he had kept going. He had learned cross-hatching and shadowing; depth, perspective, and color; patience.
Until age ten, until the letter, Dean had drawn himself a suit of shining armor, a dragon to slay. He had drawn aliens and ray guns and wings. They were adventures that he wanted but that he could not have.
When he first arrived at Hogwarts, he drew Nearly Headless Nick’s stiff collar in his notebook margins. He tried to capture the flick of sparks off Flitwick’s wand, Seamus’s singed eyebrows at supper, the owls swooping overhead.
He had never been away from home before for more than an overnight. He drew the gentle curl of his mother’s hair, gilded in sunlight. He had learned how to draw the shine and to pick out colors and bright glare on matte paper by drawing imagined plate armor. But he drew the light on his father’s (stepfather’s) (father’s) crooked glasses, his sister’s sparkly nail polish when they held hands crossing the roads. There were things he missed that he could not have.
Dean hid the sketches under his bed and showed Seamus his little comics about Snape’s greasy hair instead.
In the war, Dean holed up in hollows and friendly attics and Muggle pubs. He drew Umbridge the Toad, noseless Voldy confused by the last dozen plus years of wizardly pop culture, the Ministry of Magic with its fingers stuffed in its stuffy ears.
He drew Snape as Headmaster, his sneer easy after seven years of notebook margin practice. Dean drew the Dark Mark over London’s skyline and he left his work nailed up around Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, Godric’s Hollow. He signed his name. He had things he wanted to say.
There were long days when he didn’t talk to anyone– walking old fields and long roads, sleeping in haystacks. There were long weeks when he only talked to strangers– passersby, shop owners, sympathizers, snatchers who he traded curses with.
He drew the Gryffindor Common Room, hearths all ablaze. He listened to Lee Jordan’s radio show on the crackling airwaves. He drew his little sisters, who had gone to France with his mother and father. He drew faces from the darkened boys’ dormitory– Harry’s long bangs hiding his scar, Neville practicing his dance moves for the Yule Ball, Ron asleep with his head on his thick Weasley sweater, Seamus grinning at him over a three a.m. game of cards.
Seamus had taught him Exploding Snap. Dean had taught him poker, gin rummy, go fish. Dean sketched in Seamus’s eyebrows as curling bits of smoke, laughed, and pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders in the sympathizers’ basement where he was spending the night. There were things he wanted that he could not have.
When the snatchers caught him near Hogsmeade, they took his knapsack. They took his sneakers, his wand, his spare cloak. They burned his notebooks in the hearth of Malfoy Manor before they led him down cold stairs and left him in the dark.
It was a long few months where he saw no sunlight except for a few precious moments where the sun hit the high, angled windows just right.
Ollivander and Griphook were already there in the dark. Luna came later. Blonde hair in a tattered cloud, one earring missing, she thanked the Death Eater for holding the prison door open at her and drifted inside. Dean, for all they would remain friends for the rest of their lives, was never quite sure how much of Luna was just Luna screwing with people.
It was a long few months– Dean got them to give him some paper and pens eventually. Luna made papier-mâché earrings. Ollivander napped six hours a day and they all piled him high with their extra coats and blankets and socks. Dean sat for quiet hours with Griphook, drawing his wife as Griphook grumbled “what an ugly face– so full and smooth. My wife’s a beauty, you better draw her as such.” Dean sketched in a jagged cheekbone, a crooked chin and Griphook almost smiled.
When Dobby got them out, Dean had pages and pages stuffed in his pockets, clenched in his hands. He carried them out with him, into sea air.
Ollivander made them replacement wands with old hands and tools transfigured from driftwood and beach glass. Dean walked out to the water while he worked and watched the waves mumble along the stones.
His sisters were somewhere on safer shores, his mother’s hair all gilded with sun, his father’s spectacles shining. Dean had told them he couldn’t go with them, he couldn’t run.
“They called you Gryffindor,” his sister Ella had said. “Not stupid.” Little Jenny had been crying and so had his father. His mother had packed him a bag full of clean socks. The snatchers had tossed it in a ditch somewhere outside Hogsmeade.
Dean and Luna left Ollivander and Griphook at Shell Cottage and then they went to Hogwarts.
In the years that followed, Dean would draw the war. There were things he didn’t want to forget. There were things he wanted to dredge up from the sludge and splatter down on paper, hoping maybe to keep them from circling his head at night, wanting attention.
He drew the protective dome that rose up over Hogwarts, the candles in the Great Hall, Cho Chang’s face lit up from an Expelliarmus– tried to capture light, tie it down to the page. Dean had killed three people in the war– snatchers, Death Eaters on Hogwarts grounds– and he drew their faces over and over when he couldn’t sleep. He drew Neville’s face (tired, kind), Ginny’s glare, Luna’s gentle, distracted smile.
Dean didn’t draw the first glimpse he’d had of Seamus after the capture, the escape, the night he and Luna set foot on Hogwarts ground. It wasn’t something he could draw. Dean didn’t remember the light on his hair, his cloak sweeping over stone, new muscles, new scars, new inches of height–
Dean remembered standing in the Room of Requirement with old classmates and new students moving around him, both his fists curled tight into the back of Seamus’s robes, both of Seamus’s tight on his arms. He remembered the heartbeat thudding up the column of Seamus’s throat, where Dean’s forehead was pressed close. He remembered not wanting to let go. He remembered letting go.
Dean remembered coming back into the Great Hall after the battle and looking at the dead– at Fred Weasley, whose crackling voice he had heard on so many late cold nights; Nymphadora Tonks, who he just barely remembered from first year; Remus Lupin, who had made him feel smart in class; Lavender Brown, who Dean had danced with at the Yule Ball– but not Seamus. He didn’t see Seamus there. He was sick and guilty with gladness.
Dean didn’t draw the dead, after. Dennis Creevey made a book of his brother Colin’s photos. Dean sat down with a blank page, a good pen, and tried to draw Fred’s grin. There were things here he didn’t want to forget. He scribbled through half-done smirks and tangles of unruly hair he just couldn’t get right. He tossed the botched pages in the fire and, after a long moment staring at his fireplace and seeing the hearth of Malfoy Manor, Dean put his pen away.
After the war, Dean went on camping trips with Luna, watched her look for creatures that might or might not exist. They skewered meatballs and chopped vegetables and roasted them over fires.
After the war, Dean went over to have tea and jam at Griphook’s. He recognized his wife when Griselda Griphook opened the door and grinned up at him. His tattered old sketch was framed and hung in the front hallway. There are some things that survive the dark, that escape into the sea air, that come home.
When Dean went with the Gryffindor gang to go cheer for Ginny Weasley’s Quidditch games, Lee Jordan commentated in the stands, sending George over into fits of laughter, red hair shaking into his eyes. There were days when no one expected an echo of that laugh, when no one flinched at the absence– less and less rare as the years went on. Ginny flew, twisting into tricks that she’d taught herself on her brothers’ stolen brooms. They cheered.
Ollivander’s hands were old. All of him was old. Dean showed up for an unplanned visit one day and found him in the back, gathering up the phoenix feathers his shaking hands had knocked to the floor. Dean helped him gather them up, sat him down, then brushed the plumes out gently and laid them out on the work table. By the time he was done, Dean had a job.
Seamus was trying to learn how to cook and it was going about as well as spellwork ever had for him. “Dean could just draw your eyebrows on,” Ella told him sweetly when he and Seamus visited Dean’s family for dinner.
When Dean came home from Ollivander’s, the whole flat smelled like smoke. The windows were thrown open to let the sunlight and cold air in, so Dean didn’t unwind his scarf.
Seamus sat on the floor by the coffee table, eating Chinese food out of a take-out container with a fork. He looked up, his fingers greasy, his winter coat bundled tight, his shaggy hair gilded with sun.
“Hey,” said Dean. “Stay there,” said Dean and went to find a notebook, digging in his pocket for a pen.