To let things be

In hope you open those eyes to see

Best thing is to let go

In hope things flow

Things aren’t how they use to be

I couldn’t force in able to see

I guess in such a end

We seen the same things

But only with different eyes

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All credit to the original photographer, whomsoever you may be.

IN THE SMELL OF YOUR SKIN

Even though

I have gone too far from you

But it’s the smell of your skin

That brings me again and again to you.

Even though

I now hate you

But it’s the smell of your skin

Which reminds me of the fact

That I loved you.

Even though

You put me in trouble

And gave me a lot of pain

Even this sounds incredible

But I still think our relationship ended in vain

And the truth is

I want to lost in the

Smell of your skin again.

©KM Diksha Bisht

Instagram:- idiksha_bisht

@queerborealbabe Hope you will like it.

#menjelangduapuluenam09

Meski punya dua saudara perempuan. Meski sudah sebesar sekarang. Meski mengambil keputusan bisa saya lakukan sendirian. Tapi kembali dalam dekapan ayah adalah kepastian.

Bagi saya dan mungkin banyak anak perempuan di luar sana, ayah adalah sosok cinta pertama yang jika harus dibandingkan dengan satu laki-laki saja juga nggak akan bisa. Ia hidup sebagai satu-satunya yang menempati hati putrinya dengan perasaan yang sama sekali nggak bisa tergambarkan.

Masih teringat beberapa momen yang hanya dilakukan berdua antara saya dan ayah. Momen yang kalaupun saya minta dengan menangis nggak akan bisa terulang. Karenanya saya menyimpannya dalam ingatan dan nggak berniat menghapusnya.

Menjadi ayah, saya tahu bukan pekerjaan mudah. Yang harus pasang badan untuk anaknya. Yang harus banting tulang untuk keluarganya. Yang harus pandai menata waktu supaya nggak kehilangan momen sama anak dan istrinya.

Beberapa kesempatan ayah saya malu untuk menanyakan kabar saya. Ia memilih menanyakan keadaan saya lewat mama. Saat itu saya bingung kenapa sih nggak tanya sendiri aja. Sekarang saya tahu, untuk seseorang yang nggak mudah mengungkapkan perasaan sayangnya pastilah sangat sulit.

Beruntung, sikap ayah berubah seiring dengan tumbuhnya putri-putrinya. Begitupun saya, saya nggak akan segan membuka obrolan kala sedang berdua dengan ayah. Untuk mencipta hubungan ayah dan anak yang sudah terpisah rumah kurang lebih 14 tahun tentu bukanlah hal mudah.

Tapi semesta selalu punya cara. Sebelum nantinya saya dikasih kesempatan untuk mengajarkan agar putri saya dan ayahnya bisa dekat, saya dan ayah saya diminta untuk terlebih dulu mendekat. Sudah hampir delapan bulan, setiap hari saya dan ayah bertemu. Kami membicarakan apa saja meski berdebat adalah suatu hal yang sulit dihindari.

Saya senang masih diberi kesempatan membuatkan kue untuk pertambahan umurnya. Saya senang masih diberi kesempatan memintanya istirahat sedang pekerjaan rumah biar saya saja yang lakukan.

Untuk ayah yang mungkin nggak akan baca caption panjang ini, percayalah bahwa doa-doa putrimu ini berkumpul di atas sana untuk kesehatan dan keberkahan hidupmu. Temani putrimu sampai lama ya.

How To Be an Exile | Excerpt from Chapter Five: “Know Your People”

“I never wanted him to feel he had to lie to me though.” Her eyes, pain filled, stared at Sivan’s creased letter. “I’ve always tried to be open.” Shaking her head, she said firmly, “I’ve kept no secrets other than the obvious.”

Yefet slowly came to a stop. “No… secrets other than the obvious?” His soft stare turned into a glare. “The obvious is the reason he left. It’s the reason you live in the woods. The obvious is his whole worldview.”

Carmelle creased her brows at him. “You’re defending this?”

“Are you asking me to blame him?”

She glowered. “I’m asking you to reason!”

“Good fucking Aethel.” He gestured sharply to the table. “Read his letter, think about his life, and try to talk to me again about reason.”

“So you’re blaming me?” Her voice was soft as pinpricks. After a moment of lethal staring between the two, Carmelle’s next words were laced with humorless laughter. “You don’t believe me either, do you? You don’t— you don’t believe me about the White Marked Force.”

Yefet’s sharp glare dwindled into pity. But still, he stared with his arms crossed.

“You’ve lost faith in me,” she whispered. In his unbreakable silence, her humor faded into desperation. “I’ve never lied,” she pleaded. “I— I’ve never lied to you, Yefet. Not— not about this.”

I said NO to him not because I love someone else but because I don’t have same energy or patience to let myself suffer again.

IF BORNE FROM SULLIED FLESH: parts and titles 

➼ PART 1 // THE BEGINNING: moonlit conversations, vanished leaders and the grief of those left behind

➼ PART 2 // THE ROOKIE: strange faces, unwelcome surprises and frogs in boiling water

➼ PART 3 // THE AFTERMATH: how do you re-arrange deck chairs while the Titanic sinks around you? pretty easily, at it turns out

➼ PART 4 // THE QUESTION: a suspicion, an investigation, a threat

➼ PART 5 // THE STORM: is there anything worse than the silence, after all of it is over?

➼ PART 6 // THE CROWN: a homecoming 

There’s only one trope that I really, really hate. While the “Redemption Equals Death” is boring and unoriginal, and the “Heroic Sacrifice” is one that I find quite beautiful and poetic if done right, there’s one that is close to them that, while not make me mad, hits me in the wrong way, the one I call, “Sh*tty Life, Good Afterlife”.

It basically consist in character A having a very horrible and depressed life, only to be killed (maybe self-sacrifice, maybe murdered by the villain, it doesn’t really make a difference) and been sent to a afterlife where they are finally happy and in peace with themselves.

In these cases, their deaths are literally the best thing that happened in their lives. Congratulations, you just legitimized suicide!!!

A companion

to come along all through your life

A well-wisher

to make you do great things

A savior

to protect you from falling down in life

A shoulder

to hold you when you’re broken

Seriously?

Do you need them?

Mostly we’re in

an emotional dependency with someone

and we at times regret for the same

Honestly, nobody in this bloody world

needs anyone

If you couldn’t handle your mental being,

who could do that?

You’re all that you need in your life

Embrace Seclusion

My fixity of purpose is like a phoenix. It is everlasting. Even if it dies, it is reborn from the ashes with the same aggression

È che mi sembra di essere un peso in più sulle tue spalle

anche se tu non fai assolutamente nulla per farmi sentire tale.

fantasy adornment / fred weasley

Prompt: Y/N has had a crush on Fred Weasley, their child hood best friend, since forever. They convince themselves Fred would never like them, but still life in a fiction world in their mind & dreams that he does. One day, at the end of a phone call, Y/N slips and accidentally says ‘I love you.’

Fred Weasley x Y/N

Originally posted by monicalover

Y/N always received a phone call from Fred on the holidays, a light conversation of Fred, ranting of the solace life of his and his hilarity consumed family. Y/N always silently on the other line, only delivering sweet, cheek tinting laughs at the correct time. She’d grown familiar to these calls and relished them, the dim and bitter house that she lived in not bringing her an amount of joy, only gloominess. Y/N knew it was better to be alone then spending time with her parents, but it still sucked to be in a depressed, unlit house on Holidays, shoving muggle cereal (cheap, dry corn flakes from her lovely parents) down her throat with a drop of almond milk in the mix.

“Molly says she’d ought’ to owl you the sweater she knitted ya. It’s bloody amazing, you know? You’ll look like a true Weasley with the colourful, oversized sweater.” Fred stated, a crooked grin heard through his mockingly whimsical and zoned out tone.

Y/N grinned, holding the phone close to her ear as her teeth crunched down on the stale cereal, her mouth left dehydrated and unsatisfied.

“Well, Weasley— you’ll tell Molly I thank her, yeah?” She asked, dropping her spoon into the plastic bowl as she boredly leaned into her cheek, a red blotch imprinted in seconds.

“Course’ I will, I’d bet she already knows your sending all your polite little ‘thank yous’ though. Stumbling on your words and becoming an obvious—“

“Freddie! For sweet Merlin, quit it!” Y/N rushed, scrunching her nose and rolling her eyes in good nature. She’d been so used to the eeary silent house she forgot the scorching red cheeks and uncomfortably poked stomach she’d got when hearing that boy-ish voice.

“It’s rather entertaining at how quickly I can get you flustered, I can literally see your bloody toasted cheeks from here, love.” He laughed, amused as you struggled even over phone.

“Whatever you pillock.” She replied, licking down her spoon that had milk dripped into the middle.

Fred hummed “alrighty, bye Y/N.”

“Bye Freddie, love you.”

And her heart fucking dropped, her eyes suddenly shooting from out of their sockets as her mind came to process the words. Y/N’s lips had slightly parted, astounding at her idiocy to blurt out the words she yearned to hear from him. Anxiety beat at her heart, slaughtering it and making her entire face drown in raw wine as she ducked her head into her hand. Her chest throbbed, an overwhelming jitteriness taking over Y/N.

She knew she could end the call right there and then, click off and sit in a corner to have a pity part for herself while mumbling a dozen profanities. Y/N was aware she could actually escape unlike if she was to do it in real life as Fred (if he even wanted to see her) would find her and demand answers or perhaps revoke their friendship.

“Love you too, Y/N. goodnight.” Fred enunciated calmly beore he exited the call and left Y/N staring at her white, clicking fridge with a screaming mind and fire lit cheeks.

Sometimes I will go long periods without writing. Other times my hand will be possessed by a whirl of words and my brain cannot switch off that apparent unending unconscious stream. 

Often when I struggle to bleed the pen across the page, I write about it. There are many ways in which a writer may express themselves about the afflictions of writers block. Ironic, isn’t it? Writing about not being able to write. 

My favourite thing about writing is the names we have have for the way we write or for what has been written. I like how something can be ironic or ambiguous. How you can make yourself redundant or make a malapropism, just with the right choice of words. 

I get frustrated when I cannot remember a name for something, but it has made me good at describing a thing. I wonder if I have always been this forgetful. But it is not quiet like forgetfulness, it’s more like the word is temporarily erased from my mind like it never existed. 

Isn’t it funny,

We’re told to love unconditionally

Then we’re told not to express ourselves

From start to finish this was awful, painful, a massive amount of stress, I’ve tried my best but it never seems to be enough, I stagger through the sludge anyway.

I burn with passion then I’m told it’s to much, to hot, to consuming. I want to run until I can’t, till the fire fades and nothing but ash is left. I’m told to stop, to relax, to think rationally and take my time. My independence is false, taking life like I’m told, rising up and standing strong only then it’s taken from me, striped nude and left defenceless. they tell me I have to let someone else take care of me.

I reach out, I surrender and then I’m under water, drowning, crying, pleading for help. I’m alone. When I’m bleeding from the eyes, visible for all to see, bruised eyes and pale skin. Im asked, where did that passion go? What happened to that beautiful rose?

Like nightshade lm poison but no one will leave me alone, I just want to live but you pick me, stroke my petals, and when my poison leaks into your vains, you crush me into cold black tar.

Diving right in, the fire of my soul mixes with the poison and oil, creates deep monotone palettes around me, filling my mind but leaving nothing behind. I’m washed away again. I paint the emptiness, great murals, colorful and full of life, I fill the canvas with stains of blood and flesh till not a single space is left blank, the purity and cleanness gone.

Looking from the outside, spying and prying, all you would see is a black canvas, wet and dripping, coagulating into thick tar like puddles. A woman, sleeping, drifting, dieing in front of it.

Sarebbe più facile amarmi se io fossi felice e spensierata più spesso, vero?