If I was a better girlfriend,
I’d listen more and judge less.
If I was a better girlfriend
I would have put your needs ahead of mine.
I’d never raise my voice when in anger,
Or speak in a hurtful manner.
I’d hold you close when you feel low,
and strive to be better.
If I was a better girlfriend,
I’d support your hopes and dreams,
and cheer you on when I can.
I’d stand by you through it all,
even through the thick and thin.
If only I was a better girlfriend,
I’d love you more than words could say,
Cherish every moment,
And never let you slip away.
Little vent poem about my ex! Remember girlies, you and your ex broke up for a reason. Don’t allow him to make you look like a clown by going back! Mwah💋
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Aerin x Raine for @oh-so-youre-a-nerd
Day One of the @choicesfandomappreciation Kindness event. Thank you Thia for being so generous in sharing your art with us (your use of shadow and light symbolism lives rent free in my head forever) and thank you for hosting and organizing the fandom gift exchange. You are a gem!
Warnings & A/N: None that aren’t canon compliant.
The tent is quiet, though beyond them the festival still goes on. Laughter and music muted and dampened by the canvas walls. He can almost imagine that there is no one else but the two of them in the ruins of that old temple.
Aerin is asleep. He can tell by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest which he watches from where he rests against Aerin’s shoulder.
He’s the most peaceful he’s ever seen him. The worry in his face has relaxed to a soft hint of a smile. The tension in his body has drained out of his muscles.
It brings him a small sense of relief to see. For this one moment, it’s one less worry he has. It’s healing in some small way that he doesn’t quite understand but accepts nonetheless. He will take healing in whatever small does it is offered them.
His eyes are drawn to the large, raised, purple scar that mars his lover’s chest and he traces its patterns with delicate fingers. They are strange and twisted paths. He’s not sure if he’s thinking of the scars or the journey that led them to find comfort in each others arms.
Does it matter? he wonders.
He decides it does not. Not really. Both are ugly, damaging, twisted, and stained. Stained with countless bad decisions and actions made by themselves and by others.
Both are beautiful in their own way. Each of those actions and bad decisions led them to each other. If he’s being honest, there was no other way to reach each other. Not when worlds and traditions separated them.
Dangerous and deadly paths can be made beautiful if you only have a bit of hope. Scars can be healed and trust mended with a touch of hope.
So he clung to that hope. Wrapping his arms around his hope. Holding it tightly, brushing back its hair to kiss his temple.
Yet hope is a beautiful and dangerous thing to cling to.
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