Hold out your hands and let me lay upon them a sheet of freshly picked sweetgrass, loose and flowing, like newly washed hair. Hold the bundle up to your nose. Find the fragrance of honey vanilla over the scent of river water and black earth and you understand it’s scientific name: Hierochloe odorata, meaning the fragrant holy grass. In Ojibwe it is called wiingaashk, the sweet-smelling hair of Mother Earth.
Will you hold the end of the bundle while I braid? Hands joined by grass, can we bend our heads together and make a braid to honor the earth? And then I’ll hold it for you while you braid, too.
Robin Wall Kimmerer in her book Braiding Sweetgrass
If a project weighs on your mind heavier than the books on your back, pressing down until you can’t lift your head out of bed; if the graphs and charts and lectures slip through your brain like water and you know that if you try to read that page one more time, the ink of those words will make you blind; if the pressures of perfection or even ‘just passing’ forces you to your knees and chokes up your lungs until you can’t breathe–it’s okay. It’s okay to give up.
If the people in your life bring you pain where pleasure once stood and you dread the messages upon messages upon messages upon please stop calling me; if you can’t remember the last time they made you smile and even the ‘good times’ are beginning to blur at the edges because of all the tears you’ve shed; if you hide and avoid and try to make yourself smaller because they’re already consuming too much of you–it’s okay. It’s okay to give up.
If the dream you would’ve once bled to make a reality crumbles in your hands until you’re scrambling to build a palace out of the ash at your feet; if you stand there with your arms raised, scars bared, and can’t remember why you wanted to fight for this in the first place; if you struggle and scrape and scrounge and scream and not even your own echo will answer you–it’s okay. It’s okay to give up.
Tags: Alternate Universe, Fake/Pretend Relationship, i forgot about niall…, Past Zayn Malik/Louis Tomlinson, but it’s so minor that it’s only mentioned, Blow Jobs, Bottom Harry, Recreational Drug Use
“Your boy’s passed out,” Louis says upon entering the kitchen. He’s got a smug smile on his face, arms folded across his scrawny chest. “Kay,” Zayn shrugs, pouring two glasses of water. “Come on, Zaynie. What was that back there?” Zayn doesn’t even protest the God-awful nickname. “Nothing, just. We talked about that.” His shoulders tense automatically. They hadn’treally, but boundaries do exist. Which clearly, Harry has no problem invading. God, Zayn doesn’t even like him, doesn’t even know why Harry agreed to pretend to be Zayn’s boyfriend for the week. “Talked about him wanting to fuck in front of others?” Louis laughs a bit in disbelief. “S’different with him,” Zayn defends. “Well yeah, he’s your boyfriend. If you don’t like him as much as he likes you, tell him.”
You come into the kitchen
and start making coffee.
I want to put my fingers on everything you touch:
the teaspoon, the kettle, the foil bag.
You come into the kitchen and I am three days of trying to figure out how to tell you.
I am throat open for you.
I have a heart that is ten thousand miles wide,
and I would have built cities in it for you,
called all the roads by your name.
You come into the kitchen, you pour me a glass of water,
you make me breakfast
and you, you are countries so large that I forget their names.
You are circles upon circles all beginning and ending in your palms,
and I wish just one of them would begin in me and end in you.
But I can barely touch my food,
I am ravenous, I am lion hearted but I cannot
hunt for myself.
I am three days of I love you being stuck to the roof of my mouth.
But I am also three days of knowing that these sheets smell like her.
I am three days of knowing that in another three days
she will return and I will be gone.