sanctamater - Tumblr blog

[sanctamater]

me realising amelia haunts the narrative both literally and figuratively:

[sanctamater]

bookmelia

[sanctamater]

Eid Mubarak, I love you all, may we witness a free Palestine within our lifetimes inshallah

[sanctamater]

GASP. YOU BRING THE DEVIL TO MY CHURCH @therelentless??????

[sanctamater]

ID: URGENT FUNDRAISER FOR GAZA EVACUATION FEES.

I am fundraising to support the effort of my friends in Cairo who are working to evacuate multiple families from Gaza. The prohibitively high costs must be paid in cash with USD, and due to restrictions on foreign currency in Egypt, money has to be flown in. This is very urgent, as registration could close at anytime given the possibility of a Rafah invasion.

Please share this widely and DM with any questions!

Venmo: @Laila-Shadid

Zelle: sallykthomas1@gmail.com

Paypal: amaladelyhaddad@gmail.com

[sanctamater]

everytime i see your pinned post it makes me giggle

hail satan you dumb brainrotted (REDACTED) and amen

[sanctamater]

EVERYONE. SHUT UP. THEY'VE FINALLY GOT A DATE FOR THE BIOSHOCK 4 TEASER TRAILER RELEASE.

[sanctamater]

mobile for u page making me look like a fool when i accidentally like a non mutuals post 😭

[sanctamater]

boop. :>

[sanctamater]

just found out the easter bunny plushies in the usa were originally named alice rabbits after alice roosevelt... amelia was fr based off of That Bitch

[sanctamater]

the heat is stifling; makes the missus dewitt sluggish, makes her irate and slow - the linen of her dress sticking to her back unpleasantly. she's always hated summer - the heat and stink of the city; the way no lemonade or ice cream or lace fan could ever bring her peace. but central park is quiet; filled with the hum of cicadas and the laughter of children, muddled conversations. their own has died out hours ago; emptied like the spread the cook had packed in a basket, the silence between mister and missus dewitt protracted. long. it's been that way for years, she thinks. over time, she had stopped talking - and even if booker tried ( and to his credit, he had ), the missus dewitt could not be bothered to answer. wasted effort, after all.

is light more silvery or gold? filtering through the green leaves of the oak they have found shelter under, she thinks it is golden now; an afternoon haze diffused by half closed eyes, a peace shattered when booker starts - twitches; gasps; and she shoots up, turning to look at him; their matching tobacco stained fingers and teeth ( the same rattling cough ); the exhaustion in their eyes - being a rich man suited him more than the lower east side ever had; god knows he'd gotten to play the part often enough in their - no. her home.

" if i was, i would have divorced you ten years ago. " her lip curls, sardonic - she's not biting yet, but it's as much of a warning shot the missus dewitt will ever give. she should be kinder. should be, but was not - hardened by the years of carrying so much upon her shoulders. the children, the company, him - @shamefil. it's easy to be bitter. now, missus dewitt had been to her fair share of sunday services where she'd clasped her grandmother's prayer beads and heard all sorts of things about forgiveness; but she figures that it's between booker and god; for he will not find it at her table. " but then, who else would put up with me? john astor? i hear he's looking for wife number two. " now, that would be a match made in hell.

" what was it this time? " bright eyes flit to him; laying in the shade, frying in the heat. the missus dewitt offers him a softer tone - hardly sweet, but gentle in its own way; gentle like a dull knife against an old butcher's block; the scars and grooves deep, made for her to fit in. finally, she looks to him. looks at him - how handsome and charming and careless he still is to her, after all this time. her attention is his, for but a moment, until flora fusses between them - and she sighs; gathering the child into her lap; pressing a kiss to wispy curls that are so like his, in every way. 

some days, she regrets their youngest. missuss dewitt knows she loves her elder children ( anna, she loves best. her beauty and her baby ); knows she would defend them fiercely through all; would help them weather any storm. flora is different. detached. a last chance for booker to play house with a woman who had long since walked out the door. her side of the bed is often empty, her place at the table abandoned. it was anna, always anna, who had convinced the missus dewitt to leave the safety of her office with its cavernous oak desk and its portraits of long dead ancestors that stared down at her in mute disapproval. no child should have to do that. perhaps she should not have had children at all; and a part of her selfishly tries to imagine this moment if none of this had happened. would she be happier? different, most certainly - but the missus dewitt does not think she would be any happier or kinder than she was now - it stings. cuts her to the quick as surely as booker's shaking hands and whiskey-stained breath had all those years ago. teeth bite down, pierce her lip, jaw grinding. a better woman would cry. no - a better woman would swallow her sorrow and continue. the missus dewitt is not a better woman ( some days, she hardly feels like a woman at all ); instead, she is furious. " you take her. she likes you more. " stiffly, hands that had coddled three children grasp their fourth, shifting the girl to her father unceremoniously, eyes still fixed on the elders of their bunch racing and chasing each other. God - and she doesn't pray often. doesn't think He could ever listen; she hopes He is now - God, please let them be happy.

sometimes, sometimes, @sanctamater said things, did things, and it made him feel like she had a whole other life he didn’t know about. sometimes she looked like she was a melancholy daydream, waterlogged, a labyrinth of longing. she looks perfect under the sun's heat, dew and sweat sticking to him like a baptism under the sun, he thinks, he’d never been good at this. he doesn’t sleep much these days, cigarettes clogging his lungs, the burning tip like a breaking sunrise. she doesn’t get it and that feels wrong somehow, her not getting him, not understanding that he’s the least holy, holy man walking around. the only thing sacred he’s communing with is her. he takes another drag of his cigarette and lays down, hand clasping hers, dry skin against her soft ones. 

he’s laid his palms on bible edge, his hand engraved with her name. he thinks, i want us to be forever, wants to offer her blackberries in a bowl, warm from the sun. he thinks, imagining the purple stains on her fingertips, i picked them just for you. doesn’t say any of this. instead presses a kiss to the thin veins of her wrist, eyes closed. there’s all this unnameable longing in his throat, like a clog down a drain, water and his regrets filling up the sink the way shaving foam makes the slow sinking murky.

“ are you sick of me yet? ” a lazy joke, too truthful, honest in a way he can only be with her. he wants to be the lake that carries her, her a lotus blossom, him the water, carrying her and she drinking him. his books of unshared poetry are all soggy with blood now, all damp with grave soil. sitting here, the softest grass imaginable beneath him, nowhere to go, no one to be. he thinks, tracing a vein with his thumb, desire is so different when god bore you hungry. choked with longing, wanting to become one with the grass. he is a murderer, but wasn’t every bible filled with blood? when god wanted wrath hadn’t he sent an angel?

[ sorry darling, sorry, i know i'm an animal in the night, some beast tossing and turning in it's burrow, i know that my hands have not always been kind. sorry darling, sorry, but you let a wolf into your bed and built it a nest of luxury, i can't help the scrabbling claws or the sharp teeth, but i can help you. i can try. do you understand just the breath of your name breaks my heart like the dawn ? like a wishbone snapped into uneven pieces, you're holding the bulk of it and asking for a better me, i'm trying like all things must try, must strive. how else to reach the holiness of your body ? the burning of your heart ? immolation at the touch of your grace, darling, you're the burning bush telling me to lead this tired body home. ]

“ just ignore it for now, it wasn't you. ” it was me. fear makes animals of us and he had shed his personhood with glee. he eats fruit ripe from red sunlight and imagines it’s fallen, bruised from god’s own mouth. imagines swallowing what sin she’s dipped her fingers in, he’s not a good person. but he can try to be one for her, to pull a layer of gentility over his mangled skin and coat himself in the tenderness of flowers blooming if it's in her name.

[sanctamater]

IMMACULATE (2024) dir. Michael Mohan

[sanctamater]

hi everyone! can you please consider reblogging or donating to a friend's family in gaza at this gofundme link? dua’a is attempting to leave gaza with her sister. please signal boost this.

[sanctamater]

[sanctamater]

i cooked here that's a mother and daughter

[sanctamater]

twin. where have u been.

NOBODY KNOWS ME LIKE U DO NOBODY GONNA LOVE ME LIKE YOU DO @doloridis