mmmmmadelin

yeet or be yeeted on

[angry-gestures]

Writing the same poem over and over

Each evolution just a little closer, a discovery and a treasure in its own right, but not quite accurate,

Trying and failing and trying again to capture the color of your skin, the glowing warmth of it under my hands, the myriad pleasure your body, your soul gives me

Delving into the cosmos, tracing you in the stars, mapping you in my sky,

[theladyofdeath]

The Cadre {Masterlist}

A Throne of Glass period AU: P.B., 1920s.

Summary: Orynth became Aelin Galathynius’s kingdom the moment the Prohibition began. She sang every night, the voice of the city’s underground world, her cousin selling the liquor that was banned by the authorities. She was living the dream, young and free, until the Cadre, until Rowan Whitethorn, came into her life.

Since Rowan Whitethorn returned from war, everything had changed. His aunt wants to take his crown, old enemies have returned as business partners, and he can’t sleep without feeling as if he’ll be suffocated by the memories of war. Little did he know that when he came back home he would be leaving one battlefield and entering another. Inspired by Peaky Blinders.

All characters belong to SJM.

Warning: mature content - language, alcohol use, drug use, sex, murders and shit.

Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 The End.

[theladyofdeath]

Reblogging because the final season of Peaky Blinders is coming….!!!!!!!

[mosfetransgender-deactivated202]

NEVER LET YOURSELF BE STOPPED BY WHAT IT WOULD HAVE BEEN LIKE IF YOU STARTED EARLIER!!!!! THE ONLY TIME WE HAVE IS NOW

[angry-gestures]

Flowers and the smell of you

Sunsets, stars, oceans

Nature an infinity of meaningless metaphors

Saying words I've already heard

I haven't been original in a while

[angry-gestures]

the night before

you wanted a kiss. 

face upturned, in praise or expectation,

neck crooked, eyes on eyes or opposite mouth, 

mouth relaxed or pursed in 

anticipation of the shape of me, 

a familiar fitting

then the undressing, 

a ritual i have practiced many times before, 

your shirt is soft in my hands,

your arms are lifted above your head, unwavering, 

as i expose the soft swells 

and sacred hollows

of your body 

you let me take control, 

the subtle power of giving up power

this trust humbled me,

makes me disciple, not God

as i worship your collarbones 

the column of your throat 

the curve of your jaw,

careless, ravenous, thankful for

the feeling of you against me; 

your heart beating so hard 

i could taste it through your skin,

the reunion that feels like coming home.

in the end, it is this:

a balance, or a realignment, 

with me laying across your chest, 

your face buried in my hair, your arms resting on my back

and breaths synced so that when i inhale

you exhale 

and our lungs do night fight for space

the mourning after

you wake up in my arms

or, rather, i in yours

with the way we are tangled

like roots of an old tree

we lay there in your bed,

trying to preserve the last communion,

an exchange of body and blood,

and then i uproot myself from our hallowed grove

the mattress holds the shape of me

when i am gone, you will move to that spot, 

a corpse interned in decomposing dreams

i get dressed in silence, 

stumbling over discarded clothes and stacks of books 

you watch, eyes following the sun rise on my body,

soft dawn light blurring hard lines

when i look like the person i was the night before, 

a false priestess, a sinner

i give you your last rites

i bend over

kiss your mouth, 

your forehead your chin both cheeks, 

and your mouth once more.

you close your eyes, 

grieving a death that has yet to happen

in the end, it is this:

cleansing by the light of the new day’s sun

as i climb through the window,

step around the saplings you planted,

and abandon our grave.

[angry-gestures]

if she were here

she would hold my face in her hands

and she would catch my tears with her thumbs

and i would cry until i was breathless and empty

if she were here

i would be able to smell her

and hold her

and feel her heartbeat

but

she is not here

so i will hold myself

[angry-gestures]

what is love after death?

do you tuck the memories into your heart

and when you missed them

unfolding them like an old photograph

worn along the creases

do you brush your thumb over her face

imagining how her cheeks felt

in your hands

when you kissed her

what is love after death?

precious tears like drops of gold

watering grief flowers

so that their roots grow

strong enough to crack solid concrete

what is love after death?

meaningless

but it is the only thing keeping her alive

[angry-gestures]

i write so much

about how i can’t breathe without her

but the truth is

i can

[angry-gestures]

[angry-gestures]

i want to lay on the ground

and sink into the earth

and decompose into dirt

my tears water this soil

i will grow flowers out of my grief

the sun will shine on all of my pain

and it will be easier to breathe

[angry-gestures]

I feel like there’s a desert inside of me where there was a forest.

I feel like I’ve been hacking away, pretending that something’s there but all I’ve been giving people is sand and all I want to do I lay down and dry out in the sun.

I’m so tired and hysterically panicked that I’ll feel this way for the rest of my life and all I can imagine is a future where I will feel like this all the time and I want to die. I want to die. I am so tired.

[angry-gestures]

gaaaay

He wanted a kiss.

Face upturned, in praise or expectation, neck crooked, eyes on eyes or opposite mouth, mouth relaxed or pursed in anticipation of the shape of him, a familiar fitting

The meeting, quick or savored, brief comfort, the pattern of a long familiar intimate relationship, slow burn heart ache, closed eyes, deprived sense so others are more

the smell of him, being so close, the sleep still lingers in his pores, the mint is still on his teeth

the feeling of him, warm mouth against his, chapped or not, soft or unshaven skin, pressing and pressure, the warmth that blossoms in his chest and spills like liquid sunlight to his toes and ears and suddenly he's more awake than he's been in years

[angry-gestures]

I still have your old clothes.

When we were together, I wore your clothes as a form of intimacy with you, a joining of sorts. You forgot them because they became mine, folded in with the rest of my laundry.

When I put on your old clothes now, that were well loved and stained with paint or makeup or food, it is a hollow recreation of you in which the arms that hold me are yours, not mine.

Our break was not clean. You took too much me, so I will keep the things you left: unfinished art whose value lays in the fact that it's unfinished, in which the audience creates their own end or is haunted by a lack of closure; clothes; crockery you thrifted and loved because you were enamoured by the leftovers of other peoples' lives.

I do not like the bedroom because it is exactly the same.

I do not like living room because you took the couch and got paint on the hardwood floor. This room is the first thing I see when I come in from the street. Every time I open the door I am confronted with opposing facts that proved your existence in this space: a glaring emptiness and a thoughtless mistake I cannot scrub off.

I cry in the kitchen with the lights turned off and I’m a ghost in our home. I am surrrounded by soft laughter, scratches from your grandmother's record player, eggs sizzling in a frying pan. In this memory, this lie, we are making breakfast together. You are wearing my shirt. We drink orange juice out of cut glass you found in an antique shop. We eat in comfortable silence and watch the sun rise. My job had awful hours, but you insisted on starting our day together, every day. Besides, you say, the light of the early morning is good for painting.

When the last drop of orange juice bursts on my tongue in the way sunshine is blinding after exiting a poorly light building, the memory fades and I can't breathe. I cannot breathe. I am alone.

[angry-gestures]

i am angry

i am angry that i don’t get to set with my back against your tombstone and read you the things I wrote to/for you/me

i am angry because you were fourteen and so much better than me

i am angry that i am now the sole keeper of our memories and i am shit at remembering and i wake up in the morning with your words in my ear and i can’t breathe because i forgot what your voice sounded like

i am angry that no one else remembers you

i am angry because you are dying again

because your heart beats slower in my mind

and i need to write down how it felt to put my head in your lap and fall asleep

safe and warm

as i die to keep you alive

—

I used to live to hurt for you

[angry-gestures]

Here is everything I did in the time it took for me to forget you:

I woke up without you beside me. You were not curled into my back, legs intertwined with mine. I did not hear you groan with displeasure as I untangled myself, and I did not smile, knowing that I was going to be missed.

I brushed my teeth, watching my eyes instead of yours, making no effort to think of a joke to make you laugh and inhale toothepaste.

I made breakfast for two and threw the other half in the trash when I was done.

I stood naked and looked at my body in the mirror, getting to know it like an old friend I lost touch with years ago. I familiarize myself, so that everytime I see my skin I am reassured of my strength, rather than stunned by the soft shapes of my chest and stomach and thighs and back.

I put on clothes. I spend little thought on the underwear. My jean shorts have worn pockets and frayed hems, but they've always made my ass look great without strangling my vagina, so I wear them anyway.

I start my car and turn on music that I'd be embarrassed to show anyone else, and it awakens a secret, sacred part of me that is sacred because I have not shown to anyone else. My music is loud, with the bass turned to the max, and I can feel it resonate in my chest like second heartbeat. The windows rattle and crumbs in the cupholder dance.

When I hit the highway I floor the gas pedal and start screaming. I scream until it hurts. I scream until it stops feeling real. I roll down the windows and then it felt like the world was screaming for me, so I stopped. My eyes watered and my mouth felt stretched, like I'd spent the day laughing or putting my mouth around a leaf blower.

Slowing the car feels like a release rather than a restraint. I am coming down. I am empty in a way that leaves me open and ready for anything new. I am not empty in a way that makes me relive everything good. I am not empty in a way that aches like a phantom limb, like I am missing something I know I'll never have again, and this fact only makes it hurt worse.

I took this journey by myself, so you are not lounged in the passenger seat, feet on the dashboard and one arm out of the window, hanging onto the roof of the car. I pick your hair of the headrest and toss it outside. As the wind carries it away, all I feel is excitement for the next road.

[angry-gestures]

When I walk in the late afternoon,

After morning showers made the trees glisten,

And the midday sun dried the deck

And warmed the wood,

As insects and leaves become a symphony in the forest around me,

I realize that this place belonged to nature, first.

The people that lived here

And played on the water,

Are as significant as the gnats that dance in the porch light after dusk,

Or as the sparks that fly off the bonfire,

Or as the stars in the night sky, as I lay down next to my best friend, and hold her hand, and without words we understand each other.

That is to say

We are just a temporary part in the history of this place.

The one thing that will last is the mountain,

And maybe the trees,

And maybe the symphony.

But this moment, now, is infinite too.

I will forever be stretched out in the sun,

My hair curling up as it dries,

Reverently listening to the movements of the forest.

Or maybe a muscian myself,

With shrieks of delight as I launch myself off the balcony,

And hit the dark waters.

[angry-gestures]

love letters to my dead best friend

the goodbye i never got

the same story told a million times in a million ways

i think i love you will atone for my sins

i love you doesnt mean shit