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💑 zayla

💑   /   propose to  or  ask  my  muse  to  be  their  girl / boyfriend .  (  specify  which  . )

Zosia could not determine how long they had been at the festive gathering, although judging by the few not-so-subtle glances of surprise and under-the-table exchanges of cash she’d caught sight of; there had been several bets hinging the two introverts being long gone by now. In fact, if it were purely up to Kayla and Zosia’s wishes they certainly would have retreated to the comfort of their own oasis of home. Alas, it was a petite-sized third party that had thus far been the primary dictator their collective sustained participation in the party. Cordelia. 

Undoubtedly thrilled to follow hot on the heels of the handful of other children present; the young girl’s four-year old legs seemingly limitless in their energy expenditure as she skipped, jumped, and ran about the downstairs playroom. Zosia was in no rush to interrupt the fun company her daughter was so joyfully keeping.

However, inevitably, a reclusive moment of recharge of sorts was necessary. 

Over the course of the party, Zosia had barely left her place flanking Kayla’s side. The variety of their host’s provided drinks, snacks, and food had been imbibed in similar quantities and timing. At the end of hour four, both women were synced in the mellow and languid wavelength they occupied. Bloodstreams and flushed cheeks warmed by the cups of mulled wine, spiced apple cider, and hot cocoa served throughout the evening; being in a room crowded full of people was quickly losing appeal, yet Zosia was unwilling to curfew Cordelia. Not quite yet, at least…

The distant buzz of overlapping conversations that mingled over the light clinking of dessert spoons on porcelain was all but a muffled soundtrack to Zosia and Kayla’s eventual silent agreement to take a solo venture away from the main living room’s busyness and wander towards the sunroom at the back of the house.

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love to you is just a game || zashlyn

@closebywriting

It started again in late April. For months some sort of fragile and careful peace had blanketed their one bedroom apartment. It wasn’t meant to last, this kind of peace balanced on the thinnest line and inevitably was bound to shatter. Somehow she had never gotten comfortable with it, worrying whenever Ashlyn was even half an hour later than usual, or every time she got a phone call from a number she didn’t recognize when Ashlyn was away —half expecting her to be hurt, half expecting her to be dead.

Yet when it started out again, and although she thought she was ready for it, Zosia was completely unprepared to navigate the way it returned. It hurt, that after their continued presence in each other’s life and the love they shared, Ashlyn hid it from her, hid her addiction as though Zosia wouldn’t piece it together.

The changes were subtle at first, longer hours at “work”, coming home late in the middle of the night, Ashlyn being overly affectionate in the guiltiest of ways whenever she came home. And when it got worst, it got bad. Nights were spent wondering where Ashlyn was. The phone rang unanswered, or busy, and text messages were left on read. Soon nights turned into days and for days on end Ashlyn would be missing.

In those instances, Zosia received few carefully construed text messages reassuring her she was fine. But every time Ashlyn came home she looked worse than the last. She was losing weight, pale, hands twitching enough that Zosia had put their ceramic coffee mugs away in favor of less breakable ones. She was irritated, always exhausted, and seemed to be losing life right in front of Zosia.

Zosia tried to tell herself it was fine. That like the last time Ashlyn had relapsed she would be honest with Zosia and ask for help when she needed it. So she held her tight the rare nights Ashlyn made it back to their bed but the words ‘help me’ never came. And the more Zosia tried to meddle, the further away Ashlyn seemed to drift. Arguments only ended with Ashlyn leaving, and Zosia always felt her throat tighten at the possibility that ‘please stop pushing me away’ would be her last words to Ashlyn.

On the good days, because there were good days, Ashlyn would be the perfect picture of the girl she fell in love with who had held her heart since that steamy winter night in her fourth year of college. She knew Ashlyn had been dealing then and yet one night was enough to change both of them, albeit the change was slow from Ashlyn. It took a couple of beatings, a couple of robberies, and Zosia wiping the blood from her face one too many times for Ashlyn to quit cold turkey.

Except you can’t quit cold turkey in that world. So when she hadn’t heard from Ashlyn for a few days only to get a desperate text message from the girl in question asking for her to pick her up –no cops— Zosia knew she was in too deep. There weren’t many bones in her forearms and hands that weren’t broken once she found her. Ashlyn was high then, and the boat rocked and soon enough Ashlyn was on the very receiving end of what she had been giving other addicts – a quick fix, a temporary solution, and relief from pain.

They got through that, so Zosia assumed they could get through anything. Ashlyn got help eventually, sobered up. And then relapsed. Then sobered up again. Such was the cycle. But this was the worst she’d seen her.

It started again in late April, and by June Zosia was exhausted from staying awake countless nights waiting for Ashlyn. And the good days were farer and fewer in between. It was another sleepless night tossing and turning, clutching her phone like a lifeline when Ashlyn came home. She heard the keys scraping the door trying to find the lock, heard the way Ashlyn’s step thudded heavily while walking down the hallway. Like always, Zosia pretended to be asleep when Ashlyn walked into the room. Only instead of falling into bed like she always did, Zosia felt Ashlyn’s leather jacket thrown onto the bed along with her cellphone and her keys.

There was a pause, a choked sob and then Zosia heard the bathroom door shut. Soon enough she heard the shower running and opened her eyes. There was almost a paralyzing fear in her, a real alarm that things were… less than ideal. She sat up in her bed – their bed– and looked at the bathroom door, almost hopping that Ashlyn would come and ask her for help. But she never did.

A small vibration broke her out of her stare and she focused on Ashlyn’s phone. It buzzed again. And again. And again. At least five message in the spam of a few minutes. She picked up the phone, stared at the lock screen full of text messages from unsaved phone numbers and then put the phone down. This was not who Zosia was, she was not going to go through Ashlyn’s phone. But still. She needed answers, she needed to know. She bit her lip, inhaled and picked the phone up again. There was another pause before she put in Ashlyn’s pass code and her worst fears were cemented.

Ashlyn was dealing. Using and dealing. And, although she wanted to believe Ashlyn would never cheat on her, some of the text messages on her phone were racy and downright flirtatious. There were pictures received, but never reciprocated or requested. When Zosia put the phone down, the sound of the shower was gone and Ashlyn stood in their doorway, changed into clean clothes and hair wet from the shower. There were bags under her eyes and she was fidgeting. A new dark blue bruise coloured her right eye and Zosia could see the faint trace of lipstick on her cheek. And underneath everything, a hint of shame was shining through.

“You’re dealing again,” Zosia stated thickly. There was beat and then,

“No.”

Zosia scoffed out a laugh in disbelief.

“How do you sleep, Ash,” she whispered, her voice raspy. Her face was wet, why was her face wet? “How do you sleep when you’re lying to me?”

Zosia sniffled and wiped at her cheeks. Ashlyn didn’t answer.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

For the first time in months, Zosia saw Ashlyn’s face change into something other than indifference. She stood up and walked over to Ashlyn before grabbing the girl’s palm and putting the phone into her hand.

“I can’t be the girl that waits all night for you to come home. And I never wanted to be the girl that looks through your phone. I can’t be the girl that wonders if you’re cheating, if you’re even alive. So I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”

Ashlyn stayed quiet and so Zosia stepped back. She wiped at her eyes again and grabbed Ashlyn’s jacket and keys before turning back and pushing them into Ashlyn’s chest. Once Ashlyn had a hold on them Zosia licked her thumb and brought it up to Ashlyn’s cheek to wipe away the lipstick.

“Zo,” Ashlyn wavered as she pressed her face into Zosia’s hand, “I love you.”

Zosia paused and opened her hand before wiping away Ashlyn’s tears. “I know,” she settled for saying, her voice sounding anything but strong.

“I love you, Ash, but watching you leave hurts less than watching you die,” she whispered before pulling her hand away. She pressed a small kiss to the corner of Ashlyn’s mouth and then pulled away.

“I’m going to call Seaside and let them know you’re coming. Whether or not you show up is entirely in your hands.” Zosia sat back down on her side of the bed, grabbed her phone and clutched it in her hands.

Ashlyn stood still in the doorway, tears streaming down her face as Zosia’s did the same.

“Zo—”

“Go,” she forced out thickly, trying to build her resolve, “And come back sober or don’t come back at all.”

For a second it seems like Ashlyn was going to argue. But then Zosia felt the bed dip and the familiar smell of all things Ashlyn enveloped her as the girl’s leather jacket was wrapped around her. She felt a ghost of a kiss against the back of her head and shut her eyes. Then receding footsteps before the front door of their apartment opened and shut.

She pulled the jacket tight around her and laid back into their bed. And Zosia wondered if that was the last time she would ever see her alive

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lilacperilletters‌:

Whether or not Luci said something in reply, it barely registered in her own ears — a fleeting sentiment too weak sounding and automatic; forgettable and insincere. Flushed down the drain like the falling water that surged around them. Echo’s self sufficiency left Luci’s hands unfortunately empty, but she didn’t dare press for a different answer. Without an excuse to linger or walk a little slower with an extra weight to carry, she started ahead with wide and confident strides. Hands balled into pendulous fists at her sides, she took care to maintain at least two step’s worth of distance away from Echo. She desired not to watch the other woman out of the corner of her eye, knowing doing so would only tempt her to overanalyze even the slightest movement or sound she made. Luci tried to anchor her focus on the cold sensation of every wayward raindrop that marked her face, though it hardly provided a decent distraction. Soon there would be no storm overhead. Soon they would be cramming their bags into the same trunk, sitting in the same car, on the road and— Luce. It has the affect of whiplash. The abruptness of the simple inquiry turning Luci’s posture suddenly rigid, until even her feet refused to move a meter more. “Don’t…” Teeth clenched, preemptively cutting herself off, she inwardly scrambled to find something appropriate to offer. Something that sounded good and fulfilling. But to no avail. “Don’t ask me that.” Luci turned around fully, her stance still tense and stiff, but her expression foolishly soft and unmasked as she openly stared back at Echo. “You don’t get to ask me that.” Despite trying for more, her declaration didn’t amount to much more than a nearly incoherent mumble; as if each word would have preferred to stay safely tucked away at the back of her throat. “I–," she spared a sidelong glance at the rain, unable to prevent her thoughts from cruelly projecting an overlay of the many past occasions she’d stood in such weather, trailing behind the person she currently opposed. An energetic blur of blonde hair running around, unprotected by any raincoat or umbrella, and the empty threats Luci had administered between rounds of their giggly competitive puddle jumping (“If you get sick I’ll kill you.”) She blinked — hard — a few times, eyes still averted and stinging with the frustrating build up of an urge she refused to accredit. “I did what I had to do, E.”

If she though letting herself wonder had caused her pain, it paled in comparison to the easy dismissal that slipped from Luci’s mouth. The one that denied Echo the closure of knowing why, all those years ago, Luci had stopped picking up when Echo called. It had been hard on the both of them, Echo could admit as much, when Ethan had fallen ill so suddenly and so quickly. But Echo had felt like she could get through it with Luci by her side... until all of a sudden she wasn’t by her side anymore. And Echo was alone, in what seemed like an endless cave of grief. A testament to her name, all she could hear was her own echoes crying back at her. 

She resolved herself to the situation, hardened her face and tightened the grip she had on her duffle bag before exhaling an almost silent breath in the deafening of the rain. The familiar sting of tears pricked behind her eyes and Echo looked away and swallowed before clenching her jaw and scoffing. 

“Yeah, whatever then...” she muttered before walking past Luci and shouldering her in the process. The angry contact had the opposite effect Echo had hoped for, and her shoulder softened at the contact to pull her to a stop. “Sorry,” she mumbled dumbly, before making headway and heading towards the only car left in the lot. 

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and therein here lies your torment

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I don’t resist the seductions of darkness.

Jeanette Winterson - from Why I Adore the Night (via watchoutforintellect)

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disobedience (2018)

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I have wrung my hands and cried over no love all winter long.

Anne Sexton - from a letter to James Dickey featured in Anne Sexton: A Biography (via watchoutforintellect)

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