May we be free and wild,
To roam the mountains and the dark streets at night.
May our bodies be loved and respected,
Our minds trusted, educated and empowered.
Our hearts full, our feelings valid.
May our daughters and their daughters know all this and more.
know what to do with you darling, that’s the problem, They can’t
sit you down and shut you up, put you in a box, Or play you
at your own game, Because how
can you be so calm when you’re a hurricane of a woman, All power
and strength and independence? You’re not
pretty, soft, quiet, You’re
beautiful, strong, powerful, determined, Sexy as hell, But they don’t
know what to make of you, You are a
once in a lifetime kind of woman, That little
boys may pass up for the safety of everyday girls, But you know
your worth, You could
bring them to their knees if you so choose, So don’t you
dare forget, Wear your purpose like an armor and one day you’ll find the man that doesn’t try to
puzzle you out by stripping you of your strength,
Sameen’s voice in Farsi is liquid and gentle. At least, it seems that way to you now, hearing her speak for the first time, your head in her lap and your eyes closed. One hand weaves through your hair; the other holds her father’s battered copy of Rumi’s love poetry.
It’s late, but neither of you can sleep. The spring night is unseasonably warm, so you’ve folded back the sheets and are currently sweating in a tank top and a pair of boxers from Sameen’s drawer. Seemed fair to steal, since you’re the one who dropped off and picked up her laundry at the wash-and-fold around the corner. The shirt you’re wearing is old enough that, even freshly laundered, it smells like her.
You don’t know what the words mean; you simply let them wash over you and through you. Sameen reads limpidly, fluently, in musical phrases. She smooths hair over your temple, cards through the strands, winds a curl around her finger.
The heat is making your shoulder ache; the painkillers you reluctantly took have only just started to work through your body and soften your thoughts. None of that matters much now, with your cheek resting on Sameen’s inner thigh and her voice pouring over and into every part of you.
the bed time ritual of turning to your absence,
asking the space if it is right, if all the moments
that lead into this moment are satisfied?
when i read a story or watch a television show,
i track the plot, the tiny threads that should be seamless,
but run jagged, imperfect. my sheets, that are soft
only because they are old, a hundred times washed.
not because they are fine.
forget the metaphor. remember i was your girl.
remember the feel of my ankle, the way
i cut into a slice of a cake with a spoon.
the sweetest thing can also be a hard thing.
that’s a line. here is another one, uncrossed,
emphasized by a dozen rational thoughts and
a sense of decency. isn’t that the bare minimum
for loving someone? would i give up my good girl
crown for a happily ever after? does it matter?
i know what you want to hear and what you really think.
i begged once. i’ll never want again.
i dont have second lead syndrome this time, i fully ship min hyuk and bong soon, but seeing gook doo’s rejection made me want to cry so badly- his situation, where he realized his feelings too late and could only watch her slip out of his fingers right as he turned around and tried to grasp, is so heartbreaking in that the issue of timing in love confessions is so real, and that he can only blame himself later on for missing his chance. its the concept of “almost” and “what could have been,” and having to watch his heart break right in front of me, the evidence of his emotions written all over his face, that break my own heart as well even though i know inside that they werent the right ones for each other anyways ;;
hey to all you people who like to romanticise women wearing headcoverings,
take it from me, a kid who grew up looking out from under a headscarf -
take it from me, way too many women who wear headscarfs are wearing them because they’re forced to.
i don’t mean any disrespect to women who make their own choice to wear headcoverings. but seriously if you haven’t experienced that kind of community, you don’t understand the kind of pressure/coercion that exists to make females cover themselves.
if people had seen teenage me, they would have thought my headcovering was adorable and exotic. but it damn well wasn’t. it was a symbol of how much my life was controlled by the patriarchal social structure i was living under. i wouldn’t have been allowed out of the house without it.
tl;dr: it’s great that some women find wearing headscarves empowering, and good for them. but please, please everyone stop romanticising something that for LOTS of women is nothing more than a tool used by men to keep them submissive and under control. For some of us empowerment comes from casting our headcoverings aside.
Expressing love for a “bad” character while also expressing strong dislike for a “good” character is not necessarily “bashing character B to make character A look better.” Sometimes it’s simply expressing one’s preferences.
Jaune, walking around a Mistral market, examining fruit:
Huh...not bad pri-
Jaune, cutting himself off with a dropped jaw, watching long red hair walk along the road behind the stall he's at:
I....it can't be...
Jaune, puts down the fruit and charges down the market line, keeping pace with the red headed woman, finally cutting over onto the road she was walking along, panting out of breath:
Is it...is it really you?
Red headed woman, who Jaune realizes is much older than who he hoped it was:
Are you okay young man?
Jaune, standing up straight, his face saddened:
S-sorry...I thought you were someone I know...
The older red headed woman's eyes light up, she grabs hold of Jaune's hand:
You!! Oh she was certainly right, you're very noticeable! And handsome too, oh so handsome.
Jaune, awkwardly looks around:
Ummm...who? Who was right?
Red headed woman, flustered and takes her hand back:
Oh goodness, I'm so sorry! I should have introduced myself before. I'm Pyrrha's mother. She told me so much about you in her letters. It was the closest thing to physically seeing her fall in love for the first time.
Jaune, frozen in his place, forcing himself to speak, trying not to give away any sense of pain or sadness:
O-oh...I'm glad to hear it.
The older woman looks at his oddly, then looks around:
But why are you here in Mistral? Shouldn't you be in Vale helping with reconstruction?
Jaune, at a loss of words:
Well, I...you see.
Red headed woman, with a smile:
Ah, regardless, where's my daughter? Her letters have stopped recently, but now I know it's because she was on the road with you! I haven't seen her in so long, I'll cook you both something wonderful!
Jaune, unable to hold back anything, tears now streaming down his face, collapsing to the ground:
Summary: Negan has a surprise for you, but things don’t go the way you planned
Word Count: 2,791
A/N: Finally a lengthy chapter to thank you all for waiting patiently! I wanted to have a little mentions to the reader’s past in this chapter so it just ended up kinda long. There is also quotes from the show in this chapter, but I didn’t quite make it go the exact way it happened in the show, so I apologize for continuity errors! Masterlist is here. Enjoy!
Three loud knocks rapped on your door.
You sat up, incredibly confused because there was no light streaming through your window. No one normally came to wake you up this early and you began to wonder if something was wrong.
You sat up quickly and approached the door cautiously. You took a deep breath and held it before opening it.
“Hope I didn’t catch you in the middle of a wet dream, darlin’.”
Whenever we encounter an ancient text written by a woman:
Some ancient white male classicist: “I’m just gonna put this out there, I have had the most amazing revelation. This writing is pretty good right? Maybe (Sulpicia) (Perpetua) (Insert woman’s name) was actually a man, and that would explain why its so good right? Riiiiiight? I knew it. I’m right. High five for scholarship guys”