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Leila Chatti, Angel

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E. ROSIER / @wartcrn​

❝  ──  sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc. ❞

His knife, at her brother’s throat. 

Evan’s knife, at her brother’s throat — and she can already see the blade’s edge, can already feel its whisper across delicate flesh until excess red blooms across his chest — the color of roses; the color of rage; the color of the string of rubies he had fastened upon her neck weeks ago under the steadfast gazes of their parents. 

Esmeray realizes that she should say something — anything. That she should stop him; that she should fight him, should attack with the same tender brutality in which he wields the knife; as if she was born to use her wand as a weapon. Because wasn’t she? 

Her brother whimpers and Esmeray remembers their shared childhood: silent dinners and scraped knees; feet swollen and blistered under the weight of the Selwyn family name. And a hunger that grew with each passing day; that could only be cleaved with victory yet would bloom again like the heads of a hydra, ever-persistent. 

Nonetheless, it was a childhood that they shared: this arena they had been forced into when their bones had not yet solidified; where mercy had no place — not even for little girls with eyes too bright and hands that couldn’t stop shaking. Nonetheless, it was the closest thing she had ever known to love. 

But there are things older and murkier than love, and Esmeray stills as her eyes meet Evan’s, their gazes catching, and she isn’t able to look away, even as her brother’s hisses echo within the somber alley. 

When she speaks, it a mere two syllables, framed between a plea and a  dare. “Evan.” A single name, his, soft and intentional. Perhaps a reminder to herself, of who is holding the knife — an absolution of the malignity that resides within her and too closely mirrors his own. 

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ESMERAY SELWYN. 30. SHE/ HER.  𓆸 PENNED BY MAI

❝ the thought was this: that all my life had been murk and depths, but i was not part of that dark water. i was a creature within it. ❞

— intro. wanted connections. pinterest.

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Beauty, you walk on corpses, mocking them;

Charles Baudelaire, from Les Fleurs du mal (tr. The Flowers of Evil); “Hymn to Beauty”  (via enthymesis)

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“…he said loudly “I am not dying” and I said “for me you are.””

— Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait In Letters (via violentwavesofemotion)

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Melisa Aslı Pamuk as Yasemin Karatan in Yeni Hayat [8]