#let me rephrase that poem hold on

[uruhasbubble-tea]

hey, do you know that i love vessel from the band sleep token? you probably don't but now you do. i love him so much sometimes idk what to do with this all in my chest. i hope he's smiling a lot these days.

[luvfy0dor]

"We're gonna be timeless !!" ♡⁠˖ BSD x GN!Reader ੈ✩‧₊˚

╰┈➤ Fyodor Dostoevsky, Chuuya Nakahara, Nikolai Gogol

Warning; Spoilers for mersault arc/Fyodors means of communication in his part, soft!Fyodor bc I am goin thru it, relationship intolerance, Nikolais bit isn't in exact correlation w/ the song

Description; Drabbles inspired by Timeless by Taylor Swift

A/N; Writing this while trying to figure out what to do for another fic help I'm so nervous the person isn't gonna like it but we ball 🫡 in Nikolais part I tried avoiding saying balls like it was the plague but yk

Love Letters w/ Fyodor Dostoevsky

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ “I would've read your love letters every single night, and prayed to God you'd be comin' home alright”

• His love letters are romantic and very detailed, making sure he conveys exactly how much he misses you. He likes to write you short poems, understanding how much your heart swoons at the sweet and romantic words.

• Fyodor writes to you while he's in Yokohama, telling you how his plans are going and his estimated time of arrival at home. He continues this habit, even when in Mersault. He sends letters to you via the manipulated vampire guards, instructing them to take great care of the thin envelopes.

Scenario !! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

Your heart beats quickly as you made your way to your mailbox to check for a letter from your lover; already prepared for the slight sadness you'd experience should the small compartment be void of a note, yet still excited for the possibility of receiving one.

You excitedly open the door to the mailbox, grabbing the numerous envelopes that filled it. Sifting through them, you start to loose hope before your eyes land on the slightly sloppy handwriting of your boyfriend. You drop the various other things on the table, including bills and junk mail in order to pry open the letter excitedly. You make sure to do it carefully though as not to rip anything.

Once you've successfully separated the paper from the envelope, you lay down on the couch on your front while giggling excitedly. You unfold the paper and start to read the comforting and familiar handwriting, feeling as though this letter was a warm and sweet hug from the Russian man.

“My dearest, Y/N,

I know I restate the same thoughts in every letter I send to you, but I truly miss you more than anything in the outside world, including my freedom. I am perfectly fine in captivity, but it truly makes my heart ache to be without my love for so long. I hope you are doing well and holding up without me, not because I doubt your individuality, but I know just how much you miss me. It is the same way for me in this prison. Even with Dazais company, my heart doesn't feel nearly as full as it does when you are around, my dear. However, when our plan succeeds, we will get the happily ever after we deserve. As for our plans, they are going as intended currently.

I cannot wait to embrace you again and to feel the reassuring sensation of your breathing against my skin and feel your arms wrapped around me so tightly and lovingly. Though I would have went about my plans regardless of your support or not, I still appreciate you staying and supporting this, although I can only imagine it has caused you much stress. No worries though, my dear, we will prevail in the end no matter the obstacles. In the meantime, here is an excerpt from a poem I memorized many years ago, I feel it may catch your interest and reassure you a bit.

Wait for me, and I’ll be back,

Disregard the fate,

In the morning with my bag,

Should you only wait.

They will hardly understand,

How I could survive.

Waiting me from foreign land,

You have saved my life.

Let them say that it’s too late.

What you feeling tells?

I’ll be back, because you wait

Like nobody else.

Again, I miss you dearly. Just in case I needed to rephrase it, my heart will not rest until you are back in my presence, for I feel our souls are intertwined. I cannot wait to reunite with with you, my love. I will see you soon.

Sincerely, Fyodor Dostoevsky”

Your heart couldn't help but flutter as you held the letter to your chest, having rolled over onto your back. Your face is warm with blush as you smile and laugh. It was beyond you how Fyodor could remember all of the information he knew, as well as numerous languages and poetry, but you certainly weren't complaining. After all, your boyfriends sweet sayings made your day every time without fail. With every letter he sent, you only became more impatient for his return.

Eloping w/ Chuuya Nakahara

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ “And run away and left it all behind, you still would've been mine, we would've been timeless”

• Eloping with Chuuyas is such a fulfilling act, especially when you don't have people whispering in your ear about how dangerous it could be.

Scenario !! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

Romantic relationships with port mafia executives as an outsider or regular civilian were frowned upon in the organization, meaning if you and Chuuya were going to be together, you needed to be sneaky about it. The port mafia had connections all over the city, which really limited your options for dates, but you were both content with just lounging in each other's homes.

You loved leaning against his chest on his couch, a movie playing softly in the background as you both cuddled together. You liked cooking with him in your kitchen, making a mess together while giggling and then having to clean it up together. Every time you would just sit in his arms in your back yard, watching the wind blow the flowers and leaves around, was a memory with Chuuya that you were grateful for.

So, when your lover proposed the idea of elopement to you, you were over the moon. You had always wanted to marry him, youve know that he was your soulmate from the get go. Even in a billion lifetimes, you felt as though you would find each other repeatedly. You said yes, ofcourse, and started planning immediately.

It had gone exactly according to plan, too. The both of you wore rather nice clothing for the actual ceremony, exchanging pretty rings and slipping them on to one anothers fingers. The kiss you shared, the first one of your elopement, was like no other. It felt sweeter with emotion and certainly tasted that way, too, because of Chuuyas cherry chapstick. You held each other's hands tightly as you quickly walked out of the courthouse, getting into the car that had been packed with as many necessary belongings as possible, including but not limited to clothing, legal documents, and money.

Sure, the luxury of a port mafia salary was one that would probably be missed by the both of you, allowing a nicer place to stay and finer wines to drink, but you could live with Chuuya in a rundown shack for all he cared. As long as he was with you, he would be perfectly happy. Chuuya is a romantic at heart under his tougher exterior, only letting bits and pieces of that romanticism slip through the cracks.

Chuuya drove with you down long and winding roads, the both of you deciding to end the day by stargazing while sitting on the trunk of the car. You sat on Chuuyas lap, his face pressed against your back. He drew soft shapes on any part of skin within his reach, even tracing out letters and words, spelling terms of endearment such as "my love".

"You know, I don't doubt one bit that mafia affiliates could be lurkin' around here, but it's much less likely. Something like this would be frowned upon real hard back home, which is why I feel I will never regret this decision." He says, speaking straight from his heart, not caring about vulnerability anymore. He had you, and you would be the very last person to take advantage of such a delicate thing.

A grin tugs at the corner of your lips with enough force to change your facial expression immediately. You leaned back into his touch, your hand caressing his that sat against your abdomen, hugging you closer to him. "I won't ever regret it either. I'll never regret any decision I make for you, my love." You softly murmur, looking up at the stars in the beautiful, blue night sky. The blue night sky filled with glamorous and shiny stars, yet they could never compare to the shimmery glint in Chuuyas eyes every time he came around you. The blue night sky that provided a calming darkness in the world, allowing you to further relax against your, now husband's, body.

"I'll always love you, darlin', I'm so happy I can openly have you now." He speaks quietly against your shoulder, almost whispering. You reach your hand back to gently touch his hair a bit. "Me too, my love. Me too."

Crowded Streets w/ Nikolai Gogol

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ “In another life, you still would've turned my head, even if we met on a crowded street in 1944”

• Should you meet Nikolai during one of his street performances and accidentally fall victim to his juggling skills (or lack there of) , he would look forward to seeing you around the town and in the streets again to make up for his fumble with an entertaining mini-show.

Scenario !! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

Walking through the busy streets, your eyes fell upon a tall man, dressed as a jester while standing on the sidewalk. "A street performer." You simply thought, trying to discreetly glance at him without making eye contact and avoid the make believe obligation to give him money. You noticed that he was juggling, tossing three red balls in the rotational pattern while blabbering on about random things to passersby.

You lowered your head as to not look at him or make eye contact as you started to pass him, before you're head jerks right back up at the loud man's voice saying "watch out!". Right in front of your face was one of the red, foam spheres, kept motionless between two bony, lanky fingers covered in the cloth of the mans red gloves.

"Aw, I'm real sorry, darlin'! That sure was close, wasn't it?" He says, his bright, toothy grin glimmering in the sunlight. You nod, inhaling and steadying your heart rate.

"Yeah, no worries though, it didn't actually hit me." You say, a bit embarrassed by the situation for seemingly no reason. He slinks backwards into a completely upright position. "I wouldn't have let it hit you regardless, sweet cheeks." He says as he creates a portal and tosses his props into the yellow opening. He rests his fingers on his chin while examining you. "You've got quite a lovely complexion! You must be quite popular when it comes to romantic affairs, I'm sure of it." He compliments. The other people bustling by make you topple a bit as their shoulders bump into yours. Nikolai gently grabs your hand and leads you away from the crowd into a more spacious area.

"You're quite handsome if I do say so myself. Especially that scar." You say, pointing at the healed wound. He smiles. "Well thank you, how sweet is that." He excitedly beams. He removes his hat from his head and slightly bows towards you. "I have yet to formally introduce myself, I am Nikolai Gogol." He says, adjusting his posture yet again to be standing straight up. You smile. "Hello, Nikolai. My name is Y/n." You smile with your arms crossed in front of your chest.

"Well then, Y/n, can I ask you if you enjoy quizzes?" He asks, his head tilted, gravity dragging the long braid along with his movements. You furrow your eyebrows a little. "I'm not too fond of the academic ones, if I'm being honest. Silly ones I don't mind." You say with a small shrug of your shoulders. He laughs.

"Perfect! Let me quiz you then, Y/n." He takes your hands in his excitedly. "Are you aware of the difference between a jester and a clown?" He says, his face about the length of a outstretched palms thumb to pinky tip away from yours. You think for a moment before speaking. "Clowns follow a routine, whereas jesters are more spontaneous and satirical, no?" You say, gazing into his eyes, surprising yourself with your eagerness to hear words of confirmation or denial slip from between his crimson painted lips. He pulls back and claps a bit.

"That's right! Marvelous! How smart you are." He says, removing his hat and placing it on top of your head. "Not many people get that right, you know? Many peoples first answer revolves around a jester being a part of a royal court, but that is simply not their differentiating characteristic." He says, patting your shoulder with a grin. You keep eye contact for a couple of seconds before he erupts into a fit of snickers.

"I'm around this area often during the week. You should come see me, I can promise to give you the very best show I can muster." He grins and with that, he is gone through a portal. He has left you there, a bit flustered as you held onto the hat tightly. You suppressed the excitement in your heart before sneaking out into the crowded pathways once again. Maybe you would take him up on that.

[street-light-poetry]

ID in read more + as always, you can find this poem (and 393 others) on my patreon

TITLED

Walk up to her; fuzzy,

doubled - already, though her image

remains a bit late, shivering

yet stuck in sticky gauze. This is not

about her.

She wears a dress

of all-foaminess;

you remain free to picture

whatever you like. Only, remember,

the main tones are tender: spring blue, lilac,

a charming pink; green, of course, all around,

as the newest leaves unfold gaily. The light,

the light: is golden, is fresh; is clean, is a lover's gaze;

fills in, conveniently, the blanks.

This is not about her. Nor is it

about her. (Pay attention.)

You should not fear

such beauty. Isn't innocence,

isn't purity ideal feed

for your tired mind?

Remember: your mind exists. So does imagination.

All the pictures were true. Sleep, now, gently

cradled by her full arms,

among fragrant flowers - which she carries,

that much is certain.

(On the alert). This is not about her. Nor are there any flowers

in your story. Nor is there any story

in your mind. Nor is there any mind

within her. Ad lib. You understand. (I hope you will.)

A trellis covered in bindweed

(white, delicate) opens on a lovely perspective. Behind are the hedges,

the labyrinth (oh! nothing to be afraid of - fear is a game:

you play the part of the knight errant,

valiant, and pure-hearted; worth, in the end,

will triumph; but even the trial will leave you

barely disoriented. Whet your appetite, mostly. Hear the bell

and run back in).

(This is not about initiation. Nobility is irrelevant)

You would be seduced by the enchantments

that a slender girl wove; a jar of air and light only,

and what brilliant company for a solitary soul! Such would be your fate. A river

singing nearby. Unfortunately,

This is not about her, nor confinement;

You would cry for violins, ignorant

of a single strung melody.

(Don't let yourself be distracted.)

A bowl of quartz, carved into

a many-sided shape, filled with water. Under the light

the water spills and turns but never drops. And mere sight

of the water's light, its double on the wall (are you with me still?)

shall suffice to quench your thirst forever. However -

Someone must hold the bowl.

Let me rephrase. The second she enters the space

filled with light, sees the fluid crystal - you lose. Unreal again.

This is not about her. In the meantime

Scholars quarrel over your oldest name,

your typical attributes

by which to say, with leaden assurance:

"There, such was the sentence: revealed, unraveled".

This is not about the scholars. They will write on your throat (certain).

This is not about her.

Think, quickly, understand

before thirst kills you: this trial

never takes long.

[ailendolin]

Norne and birthdays for the prompt xx

Thank you and I love your writing

Hi anon! Thank you for the lovely prompt and for your kind words! I hope you enjoy your ficlet!

List of prompts is here. Filled prompts are here, here, here and here on AO3.

Prompts are closed.

————

Bluebells

“Nigel, I’ve been wondering – I don’t think you’ve ever told me when your birthday is.”

The question came out of nowhere. They were lying in the meadow behind the house not far from the well Nigel knew Thomas liked to use as a sighing spot and idly watching the clouds form shapes in a brilliant blue summer sky. Birds were singing all around them and bees humming busily as they flew from flower to flower, always restless, always working. Nigel knew what that felt like. There had always been something to do in the fields or the workshop when he was alive, something to keep his hands busy and his mind occupied. He hadn’t minded back then; hadn’t known any different. Now, though – now he enjoyed the luxury of having nothing to do and nowhere to be, especially if it meant he could spend the whole day with Thomas; just the two of them, relaxing.

It was still a novel feeling, having someone to hold his hand and smile up at him as if he’d hung the moon and stars. And a little baffling, if he was being honest. Nigel had no idea what Thomas saw in him; he wasn’t particularly pretty or witty or smart. And yet Thomas never failed to melt against him when he reached up to caress his cheek before leaning in for a kiss, and he always looked astounded when Nigel complimented his writing or told him he loved him – as if he was the undesirable one out of the two of them, not Nigel.

“You don’t have to tell me, of course,” Thomas hurried to say when the silence between them stretched too long and self-consciously pulled his hand out of Nigel’s grasp. “It’s just, I mean to write you a poem for the occasion but I don’t know how much time I have and it needs to be perfect and–“

Nigel rolled over so he could place a gentle hand on Thomas’s chest to stop him from spiralling. “You worry too much. It will be perfect – after all, it’s you who’ll compose it.”

Thomas’s heart was racing under his palm.

“But…?” he asked, his voice wavering with the fear of rejection.

“But I’m afraid I don’t really have a birthday.”

At this, Thomas frowned and sat up. “What do you mean, you don’t have a birthday? Everyone has a birthday.”

“Let me rephrase that,” Nigel said and sat up as well. “I don’t know my birthday. None of us do. Things were … different back then.”

A shadow of what looked an awful lot like sorrow passed over Thomas’s face. “I … I don’t understand.”

“None of us could read, Thomas,” Nigel said softly. “We had no way of knowing what date it was and the church only kept records of christenings. The closest thing to a birthday we celebrated back then were Name Days.”

Recognition dawned in Thomas’s eyes and was replaced by the same dark sorrow from before only a moment later. “But – those were related to saints. I’ve never heard of a saint named Nigel.”

Nigel shrugged. “That’s because there isn’t one. I’ve always celebrated my second name, George, together with my father.”

“Oh,” Thomas said. He sounded dejected. “So you never had a Name Day to yourself.”

“I didn’t mind,” Nigel said but he could see by the deep furrow between Thomas’s brows that Thomas very much did.

“It’s not fair, though,” Thomas said, looking almost as distressed as when someone mocked his poetry. “You deserve to be celebrated on your own. You’re kind and caring and – and simply wonderful!”

Nigel, feeling warmth spread through his chest like a cup of hot milk laced with honey, smiled and flicked his hair. “Don’t forget fabulous.”

He felt Thomas’s hand on top of his. “I wish there was a way we could find out when you were born.”

“Well,” Nigel said. “My mother always said the bluebells were in bloom when I came into the world.”

Thomas’s eyes widened. “That would mean May! We could pick a day and celebrate your birthday then!”

He sounded so eager Nigel didn’t have the heart to tell him that it didn’t really matter to him. It clearly mattered to Thomas and in the end, knowing it would make him happy, was all it took for him to suggest, “How about May 16?”

The smile on Thomas’s face became blinding. He nodded eagerly and immediately started talking about all the things he would plan for the day. Nigel listened quietly as he always did in these moments, his heart full of love, and when Thomas eventually ran out of breath, he closed the gap between them and kissed him, feeling like the luckiest person in the world.

[existentialexitwounds]

Electric Jesus in the Crippling Garden (meant to have the golden heart one added into it)

oneoneoneElectric Jesus in the Crippling Garden Someone can scream I am and be lost. And in my mind I’ve always been asking: Why is the sky blue? What am I, what am I, what am I? Always searching and exploring and avoiding the finite certitudes of truth. Being everything can be a very small thing in the certainty of I am. Hurtling out into this infinite abyss, I can’t help but to hope and believe there’s this –soul hiding out there much like and unlike my own waiting to meet me. I hope, I hope, I hope. So tired of fleeting things. Tired of those wanting to be reduced and of others waiting to reduce me. With so much love, how could I ever want you to feel less than loved? You set your story to the stone. Your heart to a poem. With a light that echoes and fills the everything and leaves that swing beneath and between the under wing. If these words mean nothing, then they've meant something. The truth is the truth that can't be seen and the meaning a something felt. You set your teeth to the stone. (Not happy about this part obviously) Your body to the bone. And I've been breaking mirrors (not digital mirrors, not persons, reflective mirrors) All walled up in (their:unseen text) fears. (what's not apparent, how those you love can be hurt in ways not noticed. And how those who hurt others can be hurt in return for those actions and the way it happens opposite to their desires.) And forlong and forever long I have been searching for the one who would see me in all my formless, deformed movements, and forms and say: you, you, you; as I would for them. The Prototypical [S)[On[-e]s) Luscifer Ascelepius Vulcan Hephaestus (The Thrown Down Son) [Always wanting to help everyone: (seemingly) hated by everyone.] Past the yard and through the unearthly garden, Swaths of light etched in the night. We fell like ember leaves from trees of disbelief. As lights in the sky, the brighter fire in our eyes. Through the amber haze of mourning’s grace, Pierced the Earth with the shape of our frightening forms. Scorched the things between the seen and unseen. Ways to hide what I mean and the path of a dream. My soul worn; My shoes torn. Past the haze, With symptoms of the heart rephrased. Left with what I’d ask: Who was crucified before you? Letting go of this dogma I’ve been unboldly clinging to. By violet light and mourning’s flight, A feeling that moved through me left hung to a tree. Spinning angels in a black rib cage. Lost in the wilderness with what's turned cold. In my hardened heart I found happiness, with what's sore, what's turned stone. A few words and you were gone. And for all my softened atonements and hardened moments, I was wrong. Left with what I'd ask: who was crucified before you? Letting go of this dogma I’ve been unboldly clinging to. Your somber dwelling muse takes me, breaks me, makes me whole. Not (a)way or a whim but for to hold. And for all my softened moments and hardened atonements, I was right. That pathless path untold. How we lasted longer than the paths we traced. And those fallen kingdoms of past disgrace. We’ll get past the algorithmic and the rhyme. For one chance that you might glance my way. Years removed, and I am still stumbling – wandering through that empty space. Left with images reminding me of that face. A memory too far to be told, but never too far to hold. “In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you” ― Oscar Wild We are all running, but towards what? It’s not about the winning or the losing, the story or the storm. Pastern: If sadness can bring joy, best to get to the joy and not give everyone a headache. I’d rather start soon than start late.

[iamdorka]

I Couldn't Be More In Love - part II

Colson and the reader have been friends since high school. “Friends”. Maybe they were more than that but before they never really spoke about it… and everything was okay until Colson started to act quite strange because the reader started to spend more and more time with his co-worker Harry Styles.

Part I

The only good part of the fact that I had a meeting with Harry early in the morning was that I could leave the house before I had the chance to meet with Colson or anybody else who just usually pops up any given time in that house. There was no chance that somebody before 7am would turn up.

"What’s going on with you girl?" – Harry returned to the couch with a piece of cake in his hands when everybody was out because it was lunchtime and only the two of us stayed behind. I wasn’t really in the mood to go anywhere so I stayed in as did Harry. It was may more relaxing and we knew that we would need more energy because after the studio time we will do some shoots and some joint interviews too.

"I’m just praying that I won’t poison you on your birthday." – I looked up to him from the screen of my laptop. He hadn't eaten from his cake yet nor had I but before anything I just didn't want to kill him with his first bite.

"Is that so?" – he asked really doubting in that I was telling the truth.

When he sat beside me he offered me a piece of cake but I gently declined it. The truth was that I wasn’t really able to eat anything, the thought of swallowing anything more than my iced coffee which I had as my breakfast seemed absurd for me. It was nearly noon and usually by this time I already had eaten like 3 times but not that day.

I didn’t answer him because honestly I just could not do that. I didn’t really understand myself or what was going on with me. I just felt that something wasn’t right… as if there was something in my soul, a feeling that I could not explain which poisoned my whole existence.

And then my phone went off and I immediately reached for it as it was matter of life or death. Until this moment it was laying on the table without any sound. Just moments before I put the sound on again. I didn’t really want to deal with nobody so a little bit of silence was the best option for me. Missed calls, unread texts… they could not bother me I just went offline for couple of hours and it really helped me. Or at least it didn’t mess up me more which was also a good side of it.

It was an Instagram notification because somebody who I followed uploaded a photo.

It was Colson.

Somehow it made my smile while it made me understand the things even less. But I just couldn't help but smile. The things inside my head were complicated… to say at least.

"Do you want to show me what put that smile on your face… or do I have to guess?" – he asked looking at me because I was staring at my phone, smiling, without even noticing anything around me.

I didn’t say a word I just showed him the photo which I didn’t know that even existed. Colson probably took it while I was meditating on his lap. He wasn’t really on the photo we just could see some of his tattoos while my masked face was on the center of that pic. The title was simply a heart emoji. Nothing more… nothing less.

"Is that you on the photo?" - he asked and when I looked at him he already knew the answer. - "So yeah… it is you." - he answered the question for himself and then I just let myself fall back on the couch because I didn’t really feel holding myself up, my body didn't have the strength no more. – "I have so many questions… you can not really imagine how many." – and he just did the same as did seconds ago, layed back comfortable.

"Oh… trust me.. I have questions too." – I laughed awkwardly and simply fell to a real laying position on the couch and he grabbed my feet and put them on his lap just making the situation more comfortable and also to avoid the fact that I fracture my own spine because the way I was laying there.

"So he was the reason why you were avoiding your phone?" – he didn’t really sugarcoated anything… he asked me straight up what he wanted to know.

"Who said I was ignoring it? We were in the studio the whole day recording… " - I said putting my hands in front of my eyes.

"Y/N... you are a real phone addict... like the biggest one I may know..."- he started to drum on my feet. - "Also when you said that you were going to live with him for a while... The happiness on your face was on some next level." - he remembered the time I facetimed him before my trip here.

"I like LA." - it wasn't a lie though.

"Only LA?" - he asked back and I felt that my body just froze a little bit.

"You know what pissed me off?" - the words just came out of my mouth suddenly without even thinking.

"What?" - he really was interested in what I'm going to say. Like he was genuinely curious.

"He asked me if I'm with you... If I'm in love with you, Harry." - and after this I just really lost the control over my body. My eyes were in tears, my heart was so heavy... And I simply could not understand why. I felt that my body was gonna explode. It had enough... I had enough.

"When instead of that... he should have asked... that you were in love with him? - he rephrased my words just a little bit.

And then something really broke in me. I just had to sit up and try to breathe but it was so hard at the moment.

"I don't know what you are talking about..." - I tried to clean up my face as nothing really happened.

"Y/N…" - he said quietly than he turned a bit and reached out for my lyrics book what was on the other side of him and he opened it on a very specific page… on the last one. – "So this…"- he pointed at that lyrics. - "… somehow, magically appeared in this."

"That’s what exactly happened there…" - I nodded with a smile.- "This is some kind of magic book, isn’t it?" – I joked just to hide everything else what was going inside me not that I knew what was really happening.

"I haven’t really read something as deep… as raw like this in a really long time. And I mean this in the best possible way." – hearing this from him, from his genius lyricist mind was something else. It was a love letter, a poem… a lyrics to a non existent song.

"How did you find it exactly?" – I grabbed it from his fingers and closed it but I just could not let it go.

"You should record it…" - he didn’t really cared about that I was trying to change the subject and he pointed at the empty recording booth.

"What about no?" – I replied quickly.

"What about yes?" – he nodded firmly which made me kinda dizzy. – "We are alone." – he added.

"It’s too personal…" - the list of my excuses was kind of long.

"And that’s why it is so real…" - he admitted and as he stood up he reached out for my fingers.

"What if I can’t do it?" – I just slipped out of my mouth.

"Just… think about him…"

Tag list (if you want to be part of it, please let me know) 💋

@no-shxt-sherl @kiss-yall @bakerkells @backoftheroomandnotbelonging @mgk-rooklover1997 @fake-me-out @just-a-normal-fangirl18 @southernmgkpunk @thegunnerkelly @lovemythsworld @painkillerash

[goodwriterwithbadhabits]

Love Like Him

(So this is high key cause of a poem called “When Love Arrives” by Phil Kaye and Sarah Kay. Look it up, its good)

Master List

~~

When you were young, you had convinced yourself you knew what love was, what love looked like. Love was blond hair and green eyes. Love was skilled hands playing all your favorite songs on the piano. Love was bright laughter cut off when you walked into the room.

In high school, you tried to convince yourself what love wasn't. Love wasn't leather jackets and ripped jeans. Love wasn't a Rolling Stones shirt left on your bedroom floor when he fled out the window in the morning. Love wasn't steamy windows of a car that was older than both of you.

Love wasn't Im Jaebeom.

It couldn't be.

Love wouldn't do what he did. Love wouldn't ignore you in front of his friends, but give you rides to and from school. Love wouldn't run from your parents or keep things secret. Love would have been there at your Mathletes competitions, celebrated your acceptance into your dream school. But Jaebeom wasn't love.

And you convinced yourself of this.

That's why you left without saying goodbye, even though you saw him, watching you from across the street, as you loaded boxes into your car. You were running away, you couldn't even pretend you weren't, but you weren't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

That's how you landed here, 15 years later. Head of finances for a major entertainment company, worth millions of dollars, no longer wearing sweaters and jeans to everything. You had become who you were meant to be, and yet you still found yourself daydreaming about a leather jacket and a Pontiac Firebird.

“Y/n, I have the statements from this last week, and your mail.” Your assistant announced, knocking on your office door.

“Come in.” The young woman set down the stack of folders and a few envelopes.

“It looks like one of them is from a high school.” She mentioned, “I didn't know you were old enough to have a kid in high school, or that you had kids.”

“I don't. Its probably for the reunion.” You shrugged. You had gotten a few messages from old high school friends asking if you were going.

“Are you going?” You shook your head, tossing the envelope to the side.

“Probably not. It's next weekend and I don't know if I'll have the time off.” She opened her mouth to say something else but you held up a hand to stop her. “Unless its related to these statements, you're welcome to leave.”

“Of course, Y/n.” She bowed, leaving you to your work.

The following day your boss, the CEO, called you into her office the moment you arrived. Your boss was chill, a bit young, maybe only a few years younger than you, and had built the company when she was barely out of high school. She may not have been the oldest in the room, but she commanded respect like she was.

“Y/n,” She started. “I got an email today regarding you.” She started, not giving you time for any small talk. “It says your high school reunion is coming up and I noticed you didn't take any time off.”

“No, I only got the invitation yesterday.” You weren't technically lying.

“Did you want to go?” She asked, bored eyes looking between you and her computer.

“I'm not sure.”

“Well, let me rephrase that, do you want to be paid rather handsomely for giving them a large check?” You stared at her in shock.

“Why-”

“I'm trying to convince someone who went to school there to join us here. He went to school around the same time as you, I believe.”

“Who?”

“Can't tell you, it's classified right now. But I need to know how much we would be able to donate without altering personnel pay. I want both answers by tomorrow evening please.” You nodded, standing to leave.

“What if my answer is no?” She looked up at you, a smirk forming on her lips.

“Something tells me it won't be.”

~~

You hated how right your boss always seemed to be, but here you were, sitting in your old school's parking lot in a car at least twice as good as most of the ones around you. You had chosen to wear something that didn't immediately mark you as rich but most of the people walking into the school were dressed to the nines anyway, so your black and silver dress didn't make you stand out too bad.

“Oh my gosh! Y/n.” You recognized the voice the instant you stepped out of your car, turning to find the once head cheerleader walking towards you with three kids in tow.

“Alex, hey, how are you?” You greeted, letting her kiss both your cheeks.

“I'm amazing, these are my boys, Jasper, William, and little Malachi.” She introduced. “My husband's going to be a little late.” Your heart clenched as you prepared for the next question. “What about you, are you married yet?” You shook your head slightly.

“No, I've been focusing on my job.” You explained, opening your trunk to get the oversized check. She led the way to the gym, and you found yourself looking at all the cars for the Firebird. So far, no luck.

Why did you want to see him so bad? He broke your heart, he's the one who fucked it up. He pretended you weren't anything while sneaking into your room almost every night, so why did you want to see him so bad?

Inside the gym was full of people, and you plastered a smile on your face as people began looking at you. You had expected the stares, but it didn't stop you from trying to hide, walking along the edge of the room to find the current principle. Your cheeks were already burning from shame at the comments. Your dress didn't reveal anything but your bare arms and most of your legs. It wasn't so short you'd pop out if you bent over, you could have worn this to work.

“Damn, who hired her?”

“Dress like that, no way she'd say no.”

“There's no way that's her.” You heard someone say. “She got so hot.”

“She was always beautiful.” The moment you heard his voice a shiver ran up your spine.

“I think she heard you.”

“She did.” You breathed in, calming your nerves, before turning to the source of the voices.

He looked different now, and yet still the same. The stud on the side of his nose still glinted against the lights, but his eyes were warmer now, and his leather jacket had been traded for a grey sweater.

How the tables had turned.

“Miss L/n,” The principal greeted. “Thank you for your donation.” He shook your hand with a grin, which you returned. “The art department will be thanking you for years.”

“Don't worry about it, the company will always support the arts programs.” You explained.

“Let's have a photo?” He asked, pointing to the cameraman waiting.

“Of course.” You held up one end of the check, and he held the other, with his free hand resting on your waist. You smiled through a few photos until his hand slipped down from your waist, gradually going lower. The moment you felt his hand squarely on your butt you stepped away, sending him a harsh glare. “That's enough photos. Have a good night, sir.”

“Damn look at that ass.”

“What a piece on her.”

“How much do you think I'd have to pay to get her for the night?” The comments seemed 10 times louder than they were, but you had had enough. You passed Jaebeom and Jinyoung on the way out, walking so close to them you could smell the cologne he wore.

You made it outside and all the way to the broken wall you used to sit on to hide before the dam broke and your make up was ruined. People sucked, your heart hurt, and despite looking amazing, you felt gross. It didn't help that your dress was sleeveless and the spring night was providing plenty of brisk winds.

Something heavy fell across your shoulders and his cologne invaded your senses.

“Jaebeom.” You greeted blankly, staring at the ground by your feet.

“How'd you know?” He asked, sitting down next to you. He had bulked up a bit since you had seen him last.

“You wear the same cologne.” Silence fell over the two of you, the laughter and music from the gym barely audible.

“Did you get where you wanted to go?” He finally asked, voice barely a whisper.

“I'm head of finances for an entertainment company, I live in a penthouse, I don't have to worry about eating or being cold at night.”

“But are you happy?” You turned to look at him. Seeing him so close felt different. There was the shadow of stubble across his jaw, purple barely visible under his eyes and a small pout on his lips.

“No.” You found yourself confessing. Why? You weren't sure. “I haven't been happy for a long time.” You turned to look back at the football field down ahead of you.

“How come?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“I'll tell you why I'm not happy.” He started, hands pressed between his thighs like a scolded kid. “In high school I was an asshole. I found this girl, and she was beautiful and smart and funny and everything I never thought I'd look for in love. And I messed it up.” Your heart seized, he must have been talking about someone else. “I kept playing it off, pretending we weren't together, hiding from her parents, but in reality, I wanted nothing more than to hold her hand and talk her on movie dates, not just make out in my car.”

“So why'd you do it?” You asked once he had finished.

“Because I felt I had to. I was the coolest guy in school and when you're an idiot high schooler, its the most important thing in the world.” He sighed, shoulders slumping. “I was an idiot who couldn't see the woman of my dreams right in front of me.”

“So what are you now?”

“I'm a singer, with Jinyoung. I have 5 cats, whom I love equally.” He rambled. “I'm in love with this girl.”

And there's the heartbreak you were waiting for.

“She's smart, and somehow even more beautiful than the last time I saw her.”

“So go get her.”

“I can't. She hates me, the last time I spoke to her I laughed at her in front of the whole school, then we graduated and she left.” You were really hoping you were right about who he was talking about as you spoke next.

“She doesn't hate you.” You turned to look at him when he looked at you abruptly.

“Are you sure?”

“It's my turn to tell you a story.” You deflected. “When I was in high school, there was this guy I'm sure I was in love with. He was the opposite of what I thought love was, but he made me feel so amazing. He hurt me all the time though, he'd run from my parents and act like he didn't even know me at school. It hurt so bad.” He let out a deep sigh. “But then I ran away. I went off to college and I tried to forget about him. I kept using the way he would treat me as a standard. If they treated me like he did behind closed doors, but not the way he treated me in public, they were golden, but I started to realize something. No one could ever compare to him. No one held me with the same amount of emotion, no one looked at me the same way during sex, no one's car felt like home, like his. It took me until I overheard him tonight to realize, I had always been in love with him, even after 15 years.”

“Y/n.” You turned to face him, finding his face inches from yours. “You mean it?” You didn't answer, instead just pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth.

He smiled, no, grinned at you when you pulled away.

“Do you want to go back inside?” He asked, standing.

“Not really. I never liked dances, never had anyone to dance with.” You confessed.

“I know, and I should have taken you to Prom, so let me make it up to you? One dance and then I'll let you go back to the city forever.”

“Fine, but you have to walk me to my car.”

“I can do that.”

~~

A slow song started almost the moment you walked back into the gym. You stayed by the doors, but people were still watching you both.

“People are staring.” You whispered, cheeks heating up.

“Let them stare.” He shrugged, pulling you close by the waist. “I want my dance, I waited 15 years for it.” You shook your head, laughing.

“I have a question Jb.” You finally spoke after a few moments of silence.

“What's that?”

“What happened to the Firebird?”

“It's sitting in my garage.”

“How come?” You looked up at him, finding him smiling.

“Well, the day after that girl I told you about left, it stopped wanting to work. I usually ride my bike, but Jinyoung drove me today.” You nodded in understanding.

“Well then, here's my request. Come find me in the city. There's a diner there that reminds me of home, but you have to pick me up in the bird.”

“Why?”

“So we can pick up where we left off.”

~~Bonus~~

You stepped out of the elevator, coat thrown over one arm, and your bag in the other. Nearly a week had passed since the reunion and you were finally ready to go home for the weekend. People in the lobby were staring at you as you made your way to the front of the building.

“Hey, what's going on, why's everyone staring at me?” You asked the receptionist at the front desk.

“Well, the guy over there, he's from the boss' newest deal. He says he knows you, and that you made him agree to work here.” They explained, pointing to where a familiar leather jacket towered over your boss. Both of you exchanged confused looks before you walked over to the pair. The moment you smelled his cologne you smiled.

“Jaebeom?” You called, making him turn with a smile.

“Good evening, Y/n.” He greeted.

“I should be thanking you, Y/n. The JJ Project only signed onto the company because you impressed them so much during the reunion.”

“Excuse me, sir, is that your car out front?” A security guard interrupted the conversation.

“Yes it is, I'll move it in a moment.” Jb smiled, “Just me finish talking to the boss.”

“You two go have a good weekend, I'll see you both on Monday.” The Boss grinned, shooting you a wink. “Go on, I have business to handle.”

“Good night, boss!” You both called. You turned to Jb, who took the bag from your hand and offered you his own. Entwining your now free hand into his you let him walk you out the door to where the car was waiting.

“So you got her to work?” He grinned at you as he opened the door.

“I just told her she was getting her co-pilot back and she burst into life like she was brand new.” He explained, “I guess we both missed you.” Once he had sat down in his seat you leaned over, grabbing his collar and kissing him properly. “What was that for?” You just shrugged.

“Picking up where we left off.”

[pitter-pattering-ink]

Draft 16

Ever so often, there are these moments, where I cannot write out my thoughts. 

I'll think out poems and explanations and details but never be able to put them to paper, never be able to actually write them down. Instead they repeat in my mind 

over and over and over like a broken record. The doctor, the one who only exists in the midst of my writing, asks, "Why not write it all out? Maybe it'll make you feel better." But god, these demons have been shoved to the back of my closet for so long. It feels wrong, somehow, to polish them up for a poem I'll never reread. It'll make it more real, I think. Give enough time for the emotions to come back. Besides, I can't start without pausing every couple letters. I start crying much too easily. "Say them aloud, then," he says, always so helpful. "Tell someone." This, too, is not possible. I think of all the things I want to say and I find myself unable to leave out details. Details that haunt my memories and trace my every action. I imagine my mother asking me, "Did it hurt?" And I can't help but go on and on about the initial shock of it all, how it didn't feel real till my fingers were wet. The dad who cares, the one in my mind, asks, "Were you scared?" And I can't see myself leaving out the details of a will. The flashes of a video, the watching of the time, standing on wobbly knees and treading down stairs. I know things- things I wouldn't wish on anyone else. Grotesque things, traumatic things, things I'm sure would make others wince. So I rephrase and rewrite questions in my mind, letting myself play the part of both interviewer and interviewee, and the thoughts get a little less reckless. There are times where the numbness of my arm throbs, and I can't wear long sleeves without checking to see if I'm not bleeding every five seconds. Memories that feel distant but chaotic dance beneath my eyelids and seep into my vision as I grow distracted with what I'm doing. But I push on. This is my burden to bare- nobody else's. I'm holding a double-edged sword. Twirling the handle against my hands, trying to breath as it sticks out of my stomach. I pull, and there's a bit of relief, but I know that if I take it all the way out I will not be able to stop the gushing. It's only me here, and I don't think I'll be able to patch myself up again. So I smile, So I wince, So I watch as those around me grow used to the sword, and everything. is. fine. It has to be- bleeding out is not an experience I want to have. Not again. And it's so stupid, you see, because every so often someone'll bring it up. Casually. Playfully. Not at all in the ways my mind keeps replaying. It's the "You're scared of knives? You see the irony there, right?" The "Have you eaten today?" The "Hey, should I be scared of getting stitches?" Because everyone else has grown numb. They've grown used to this, used to me, used to the scars I think about all too often. It's a strange feeling, to have your mind still reel from things nobody else is shocked over. And when they are, it's your job to comfort them, till they grow as numb as the others. It's not their fault. Never has it been anyone's fault but mine. But it's strange. I wince from this sword and feel the blood begin it's weekly choking of my throat, but stare in surprise at those who laugh when I excuse myself to clean up. This is normal, and it's not. In my mind the doctor is quiet and I am crying, I am pleading, I am spilling. I try to shorten it and it comes out something like this; "I made a mistake when I was ten. We went to the hospital, I got stitches, and the next day everything was normal. But I haven't felt normal for a long time." It's kind of funny. Even that, I think, is too much. Because I've been staring at those words for the past minute, writing and rewriting them, trying to get it clean and polished for my screen. I don't think I'm doing a very good job. See, I just rewrote it. Just censored myself again. "Made a mistake"- Like I fell out of a tree, or broke a crown, or failed a test. Am I really being that vague? I guess so. I guess it is still in my best intentions to calm whoever I'm telling. To wait for it to numb. Strange, how habits shine through when you try to evade them. It is what it is. It's fine. I'll be fine. It's just a little hard to explain. A little hard to put into words. A little hard to see on a document. A little hard to balance repression and remembering. It'll be fine. I just need to get my words in a line.

Ever so often, there are these moments,

[poisxnyouth]

teacher!dave chapter 2. (d.d)

A/N: oops. enjoy. let me know what you think. -hailey

w.c.: 2.5k (sorry)

The next few weeks are slow and difficult: Mr. Dobrik loves to challenge you. He gives you the most demanding assignments you’ve ever had to complete, including weekly five thousand word dialectical essays analyzing the prose of whoever he assigns you, along with his regular AP work.

Every day during lunch, he pulls out your work and grades it right in front of your eyes.

Today, Mr. Dobrik scoots his office chair closer to the seat you always pull up, shuffling through papers on his desk and locating your weekly essay. You’d become quite adept at comprehending his messy handwriting, and since you’ve told him you can read it, he no longer attempts to make it neat and legible. He immediately leans over, paper on the edge of his desk as he reads it.

Both of you had also come to a consensus concerning rules, since you seemed to like defending yourself before he gave final comments on your grade. It was his way of essentially telling you he needed you to shut the hell up while he’s grading.

He had made a comment one day, something along the lines of, “Stop getting so defensive! I haven't even given you your grade yet. Just because I’m critiquing it doesn’t mean it’s bad, hun. You know I think it’s great.” The pet name wasn’t unheard of; many teachers call their students it and it’s not new, but hearing the word come out of his mouth as he flipped a page and met your eyes somehow changed the definition of it. He had started using it frequently when speaking with you.

Mr. Dobrik’s intently reading your essay dissecting Keats’ Endymion, scribbling his comments and circling areas. That was another rule: you weren’t allowed to look at his comments until he was finished. It was always a perfect time and gave you the perfect excuse to stare at him while he reads, scanning his features for reactions.

“‘Kay, hun, so I graded this at an 85. There’s nothing in here that’s wrong, but-.”

“Sir, it took me 6 hours to research and write this paper. I haven’t slept in two days and we have a football game tonight. It’s Friday.”

“That’s your own fault. You had all week. Manage your time better. And hun, I’m not asking you to analyze the whole damn book. It’s the first two stanzas! Anyway,” he says, “You analyzed it fine. You made sure to say all of the main points I would have. I know this is the poem you put on my desk a few weeks ago when we first started and I asked for your favorite, and I’m glad you analyzed its importance to you even deeper for me. I’ll be honest, I was expecting some Rupi Kaur bullshit. But yeah, I’m not kidding, you did great. Every essay gets better and better. I mean it. Really, the only things that’s getting you is your conjunctive adverbs and the flow of your sentences. Your conjunctive adverbs are terrible. That’s an easy fix, though.”

“Thanks.” Mr. Dobrik is leaning over, elbows resting on his knees as he looks at you, returning the essay.

“You’re very welcome. Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart next week, please. Anything else?” You shake your head no, eyes scanning through his comments.

“Then you’re free to leave, if you want.” He scoots back from you, returning to his laptop.

“Actually, can I stay in here? There’s not that much longer until the bell, anyway, like 15 minutes, and my next class is right across the hallway.” He looks surprised for a second, still not facing you as he nods his head.

“Yeah, always,” he says half heartedly, searching through his graded papers and entering them into the gradebook. “You’re going to the game, then? Since you talked about it, I mean.”

“Um, yeah. We go every week, since it’s our last year and all. Are you?” You fiddle with the edges of your essay, watching him as he works. Mr. Dobrik has one hand in his hair, tugging at the ends as his other hand continues going through his stack and entering numbers.

“I did the same thing senior year. It sucks realizing everything you’ve ever known is coming to an end. Enjoy it while you have it. I miss the hell out of high school. Why do you think I came back so quick? And yeah, I’m going.” He makes conversation, laughing lightly as you shrug.

“I dunno, to be friends with your students?” Mr. Dobrik looks at you at that, smile coming to his lips.

“That may have been part of it. I was close with my teachers. Makes sense for me to want to return it.” He keeps his eye contact, turning his seat towards you as he leans back, resting his chin against his hand.

He’d been playing a game with you since the first day, aware of how attractive you thought he was and wanting to push you in that aspect as well as academically. Even if you had been misreading his actions, wasn’t it only fair if you served it for once?

“How close?” You lean forward in response to his leaning back, elbows on your knees.

He bites his lips, still smiling as he breaks eye contact, rolling the pen through his fingertips. “Close. That’s all I’m going to say.”

You keep up the confidence, eyes flickering between his lips and eyes. “Sounds like bullshit to me,” you shrug, sitting up straight and crossing your legs. You watch as Mr. Dobrik’s eyes follow up the length of your bare legs slowly, faltering slightly before he meets your eyes.

“Language, miss. We were close. That’s all. I still talk to them.” He’s still twisting the pen in his hold, watching as you stare at his fingers.

“Sorry, sir. Close,” you repeat. “Like, platonically or…” His face twists, fingers quickly wiping at his mouth as he still flashes his smile, seemingly catching on to your game.

“Are you asking me if I’ve ever dated one of my teachers? Not that it’s any of your business, but no. That’s not what I meant. They’re my friends now, and I ask them for advice.” You throw your hands up in defense, shrugging slightly.

“It was just a question. You never know. Advice on?”

“Students,” he answers quickly, changing the subject, “What are you playing at here? What’s your angle?” You stand at that, his eyes following you up, lips parted.

“You ran out of questions. I’ll see you Monday morning.” Mr. Dobrik scrunches his eyebrows together at your words, grabbing your arm.

“No. Sit back down. We were having a conversation. Don’t be rude. If you walk away, I’m writing you a referral.” You obey, feeling giddy at his stern response and placing yourself back in the seat across from him, his hand releasing its hold.

“Let me rephrase: what do you want to get from this conversation? Because this isn’t academic, so there’s an ulterior motive to your questions. Tell me what it is.” He’s serious now, no fleeting smile spread across his face.

“Um,” you say, eyes moving to the ceiling.

“Look at me when you say it. Because I know what it is, I would just never say it,” he shrugs once more as your eyes return to him.

“It?” He nods.

“Well, you know-,”

“Wait. How old are you? Just asking. I can look it up, but you’re here, so…might as well just ask you.” His eyes are glued to yours, rolling the pen in his hands.

“18, but I’ll be 19 when I graduate.”

“Okay. Continue.”

“Okay, um, I mean, you’ve kind of like, been teasing me, I guess? And maybe - in hindsight - maybe I misread it, but like, you know, you’re cute and a really good teacher, and obviously I’m not the only thirsty one out of your students but I’m also a pretty hopeful person and-.”

“Alright, I’ve heard enough. You said what I was waiting for. By the way, it’s impossible to misread when I check you out, sweetheart.” You’re confused now, releasing your grip on your belongings and playing with your hands in your lap. You don’t know how to respond to his pet name. Mr. Dobrik’s maintaining eye contact, lacing his fingers together in his lap after placing the pen on his desk.

“So?” He asks, biting at his lips. “Let me ask you a few things. Okay?” You nod.

“You're 18. You're legal, but oh my God, I feel like such a creep for what I’m about to ask,” he plays with his hands in his lap, not looking at you. “Are you a virgin? I’m, like, legit just asking-.”

“No. I’m not.” You feel stupidly hopeful at the idea of Mr. Dobrik bending you over his desk and fucking the shit out of you, his fingers leaving dark blue marks along your hips. You shift visibly in your seat at the thought, and Mr. Dobrik notices.

You've piqued his interest now, looking at you again, “Who did? When?” His nervousness is dissolving and his normal cockiness is making its appearance again.

“Nathaniel Rogers. Spring break, sophomore year.”

“Ew,” his face twists, “he’s not even - what? How? He got lucky. Ew, oh my God, I don't want that picture in my head. You can do better than that.” You laugh, trying to ignore his compliments, as he puts his face in his hands.

“Really, um, I’ll be honest, that's the only question I had.” He puts his hands back in his lap and makes eye contact again before his eyes drop, scanning over your thighs and skirt. He meets your eyes again before speaking, “I just wanted to know.”

It’s silent for a few seconds, Mr. Dobrik taking his bottom lip in between his teeth and looking around the room.

“What do you want from me, Y/N?” You mull it over, quickly.

“Can we start over? From like, when we were going over my essay?”

He shrugs once more, assuming you want to forget about the conversation altogether. He scoots closer to you and takes the essay from your lap, leaning in closer than normal. You smell his cologne, and you can imagine him standing at the Macy’s perfume counter and smelling every option before dropping two hundred on a bottle.

“So, um,” his voice is low and quiet, “I like seeing this analytical side of you where you’re not just analyzing the author’s intent and how their life influenced their work. Like, we know Keats died of tuberculosis at 25, right? It’s really smart of you to connect it to the line where he says, ‘A bower quiet for us, and a sleep / Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.’ You point out how the times between his death and the publishing date don’t match up, but how it’s still morbid in its unintentional foreshadowing. Um, what I meant by not just analyzing the author’s intent is, you, a person who is around the same age as Keats was when he wrote this, considered the depth these two stanzas have and how they’ve influenced your life. Especially because it’s your favorite poem ever, and at least now I understand why. I feel like I know you better now. You explained it beautifully. This essay captures exactly what my goal is for the rest of my students, and I’m really proud of you, Y/N. I mean it. If I compared your first essay on this poem to this one, there’s a huge difference. You’ve grown exponentially even in this past month and a half. I won’t expect anything less from you, now, though.” As he spoke, you had leaned closer and looked over his shoulder, watching as his fingers point to what he was speaking about. He’s not looking at you but he feels your presence and how close in proximity you are to him; one wrong move and his lips would be on yours. Your fingers genuinely brush against his arm by accident, but the gentle touch seems to catch him off guard. He looks up at you, faces too close.

“God, I - shit. Are you sure?” There’s overwhelming hesitation in his voice, lazily blinking at you as you nod, murmuring a yes, please.

“Fuck,” he curses, “I really shouldn’t do this.” His eyes keep flickering between your eyes and mouth, his tongue darting out to lick across his lips.

“You can ask for advice later?” You offer, carefully reading Mr. Dobrik’s worried expressions.

“Yeah. I can. I just thought you didn't want to-,” you roll your eyes, taking initiative and leaning in because if you didn’t, he never would.

It’s a deep, timid kiss, your heads tilting as you pause briefly, your hands finding their home on his chest. For a second, you get an inkling Mr. Dobrik is going to lean out and act like it never happened, but he breathes in slowly (nervously, it seems) and leans in this time, one hand moving to your cheek.

Mr. Dobrik had been completely aware of your attraction to him from the first day, and although he hated the fact, it had been reciprocated. He never wanted his actions to reflect that, though, considering he actually liked his job for once. He had, in turn, resorted to light teasing, too much eye contact, and wandering eyes, feeling as though you always knew of his intent. He feels slightly guilty now, that you believed you were misreading everything he had done, but there's now no point in worrying about it. You know he’s attracted to you now as his tongue slides slowly against yours, one hand remaining on your cheek, the other on your waist. One of your hands have found its hold in his tie, tugging lightly on it to pull him closer. The other is on his cheek, fingers running over his stubble and down his neck, over his Adam’s apple and eventually gripping at the collar of his white dress shirt, undoing the top button before he gently pushes you away, standing.

Both of your cheeks are flushed as you look at each other, Mr. Dobrik clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair.

���Um. Can you come see me after school, sweetheart? Do you have something going on?”

“Umm, I was gonna take my friends home and get ready with them for the game, but-.”

“You don’t have to cancel your plans for me.”

“I’ll just tell them to hang around campus for a little bit, that I’m talking to another teacher?” Your voice is dripping with a strive for his approval, although you’re uneasy. He nods slowly.

“Okay. Sure. The bell’s about to ring, so, um, here’s your essay.” It’s awkward now, and you want to kiss him goodbye as his fingers move to button his shirt again, undoing your work.

“Thanks.” He nods, cursing himself under his breath before leaning in once more. He kisses you deeply, doing the work for you, before pulling away what feels like too quickly.

“I’ll see you later, hun.” You nod, not meeting his eyes as you grab your belongings and make your way out of his room, making sure he pays attention to the sway of your ass.

Mr. Dobrik’s pissed off at himself.

[badlybruisedagain-blog]

Sick of losing soulmates [ ˡᵒᵍᶤᶜᵃˡᶤᵗʸ ]

wнaт a ѕтrange вeιng yoυ are,

god ĸnowѕ wнere ι woυld вe ιғ yoυ нadn'т ғoυnd мe, ѕιттιng all alone ιn тнe darĸ

a dυмв ѕcreenѕнoт oғ yoυтн

waтcн нow a cold вroĸen тeen wιll deѕperaтely lean on a ѕυperglυed нυмan oғ prooғ.

❄------------------------------------❄

Patton Foster. Or better known as "The dad figure" to everyone. This was because he cared for everyone as his child or a best friend. The male was an only child which made him branch out and become a social butterfly, talking with everyone. Good or bad. As the years went he had crushes, dated a few people but when college came around. He had hopelessly fallen in love with a man named Roman Sanchez. This male made Patton's heart skip a beat and his stomach flutter with butterflies. He loved him from the moment they talked at a college party and everyone had picked someone and he knew he had found his soulmate. The one. Or at least he thought so. But after being together for a couple years. Two and a half years to be exact. They got engaged at the beginning of December. Everything was smooth sailing and they were planning to get married once their senior year was over. But Patton hadn't known about the cheating his fiance, Roman was doing with another. He didn't know his soon to be husband was sleeping with a male named Virgil Vexx. A year behind Patton and Roman. He didn't know until he saw a letter plastered on their front apartment door that explained what Roman had been doing and done. All his fiance's clothes and little items were gone when he entered the apartment. But Roman left behind all the songs, poetry, and letters he had written to Patton. This shattered Patton's fragile heart. 

Every poem and song Roman had ever written, spoken, and sang to Patton just seemed to break his heart and make him feel like there was nothing anymore. That there was no one. A few weeks had grown by and it was close to the end of December. Just two days after Christmas. Patton was still heartbroken and somber looking as he walked around the campus of Cresting Heights. His grades had dropped immensely and he sometimes didn't even show up to class. His heart was heavy and motivation to leave the apartment was becoming worried some. He had decided to begin shredding or burning the letters, poems, and songs he kept that Roman had given Host. After finishing with what he was doing, his hands were cut and slightly red from him burning and shredding the papers. He felt a little relief but realized what he was doing. He thought more and more. his mind clouding up before he just grabbed a jacket and raced out the door. He didn't want to be alone with his thoughts or himself anymore. Patton knew he couldn't just sulk and hurt himself.

Patton had run for a few minutes, to just make sure he was far away from his apartment. His running had caused him to make it about six blocks and end up by a frozen water fountain near the college campus. His breathing harsh and becoming clouds that left his shivering lips. He hadn't planned this out well which he never did because he sometimes acted out on impulse. The male to regain himself and looked around with fogged glasses, beginning to slowly walk now. It was growing colder in the time Patton was outside in the snowy weather. Fifteen minutes, The hazel-colored eyed male could care less but a side of him was urging him to go back home and just cry. Hideaway again and he just had to ignore that side. His eyebrows furrowed as he just closed his eyes to breathe in and out for a few seconds, but when he stopped to breathe. He could feel the snow becoming heavier and the wind beginning to howl louder. But for some reason, he stayed where he was and slowly extended his arm out with the palm facing up to catch the snowflakes. But they just melted in his hand.

Patton's eyes fluttered open as he was looking straight ahead as those glossed hazle eyes just stared at a lamp that showed the snow falling down. His body began to move towards a bench that was just a few feet away and when he approached it. His hands began to clean off a small spot so he could sit there by himself and just bask in the snowy weather for now to calm his nerves. He started to shiver a little as he felt a few snowflakes land on his brunette colored hair that stayed but some of the flakes melted. He had tears running down his cheeks, dripping down from his chin as he hiccuped out. His mind began to replay memories of how he and Roman would have snowball fights and then afterward would cuddle under a heated blanket but that was now all gone and dead. It was to never happen again. Patton wished he could just be held and told sweet things to relax his nerves but he would never get that again. He let out a cracked sob of heartache as he tried to stop the tears flowing from his cheeks and onto the snowy concrete ground. Patton figured no one would hear his cry of a broken heart but someone did. It was faint to them but they heard it. This person couldn't simply ignore it.

"Patton?" A light and almost monotone male voice spoke as those hazel colored eyes looked up to see Logan Berry. They have talked before but it was mostly in class when they bumped into each other around the campus. The two of them were more acquaintances than friends. But the sobbing male turned away from the dark blue eyed male who had said his name so flat like. It made the feeling of being small greater than before. This caused him to be quiet but for some reason, his lips opened up to speak. It seemed his heart wanted to spill out everything. "Th-that's me...don't wear it out..." Patton spoke with a joke or at least trying to so that he could play off that he was fine. He is lying to himself that he is fine. He was shattered and in agony.  The joke that the sobbing male has said, earned a scoff from Logan who sat beside the other. 

"You aren't adequate. I heard you crying and thought maybe I could help you. Or at least know why you are out here at this time of night with no scarf, gloves, and proper boots to wear."  Logan explained while he pointed to Patton's clothing. He did have a point since the other was only wearing a jacket to be warm. It was worrisome to Logan but he internalized that. The logical male was not one to understand emotions or feelings. Especially his own. Although he wasn't skillful about comforting others in their time of need. For some reason, he wanted to help Patton and be a support. A strange feeling boiling in his stomach. "I wish to understand why you are crying and how I may help you...?" Logan was confident at the beginning of his sentence but it turned into a question at the end.

"Roman cheated on me with some guy named Virgil...And I keep thinking of how I messed up in our relationship. Did I not care for him or his needs as much as I should? Did I go too fast when I said yes to his proposal? Was I not good enough for him..." Patton choked out on his words because it seemed to be what was always on his mind nowadays. His bottom lip beginning to quiver since this was the first time he had talked to anyone about what had happened to him and Roman. It was good to express your emotions and speak about what was bothering you but it pained the other to even speak. So he bit his lip to hold back any noise he was making which was sobs and hiccups. "I always think about him...I always think I was not good enough...Logan, he made me feel so loved but he hurt me by leaving, by cheating on me. I must have done somethi-"

 "Patton. You are not at fault for him cheating on you. Humans tend to do this when they feel like something is failing in a relation-" Logan soon paused because he began to realize that is word choice would not fit well. It would only upset Patton more than before and he did not want that for the heartbroken male. "I will rephrase that and say...Him cheating may result in something within in himself. But it could have been just for the fact he could cheat and did so which lead to him leaving. many factors come into play when it comes to cheating and men are most likely to cheat than women." The logical male didn't know why he was just spilling out facts instead of truly helping Patton in this current situation. It began to make him uneasy but he had to push it away. "Patton what I am trying to say is that none of this is your fault. You are not the reason why he cheated. If I may add. I feel...ugh, look at me saying feel. I 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 like he has tossed away a stable relationship in order to be with someone else. You don't deserve that. No one does."

This was confusing Patton but he had cracked a sad but light smile because the other male was trying to help and make him feel not like this was his fault. It was pleasant to have Logan here with him. He turned a little to face the other male and those hazel colored eyes were glossed over but a small giggle escaped his lips. "Logan, you're the first person I talked to about what happened. I can't express h-how happy I am that you came along. You're to help and listen which I give you props for...But I am still unsure of what to do. I feel like I am drowning in my thoughts and emotions when I am home by myself." Patton's voice cracked a little as he turned away because tears were beginning to travel from his eyes down his cheek and chin to his lap now. He also didn't want to cry in front of Logan and be judged. "He is probably better off with Virgil anyways, rig-" And once again Patton was cut.

When Logan cut of Patton it was by a plaid blue scarf being wrapped around the other's neck gently and pulled some to wipe the tears. The logical male was not well with comforting others but if he knew one thing. He knew people needed a comforting touch. "Patton, listen. This is may a rough time for you but you can not believe that this was all your fault. I do not understand how you feel but I am trying to. But, if I may suggest to you. That if you begin to experience this drowning feeling and feel like you can't escape. That you may call me. I do not offer this to anyone but for you... I want to be there and become a support for you..." His words began to trail off since he was uncertain about this offer he had given Patton. He pondered if the other male would take his offer. 

"Logan...I will take the offer that you have given me. Thank you for having the time to talk to me." Patton softly spoke out as he felt the warmth of the scarf on his neck, taking an inhale of the scent. It smelt like a fireplace. It was comforting and it relaxed Patton greatly since he hadn't smelt anything like this before. On somebody. His eyes fluttered shut for a few seconds to take in the scent a little and listen to the winds howl die down a little. But when he fluttered his eyes open, his head cocked to the side when he saw Logan

wнaт тнe нell woυld ι вe,

 wιтнoυт yoυ

 вrave ғace тalĸ ѕo lιgнтly,

 нιde тнe тrυтн

[usaghinanami99]

@pichipichiparadise  Didn't I say you should be prepared for this? Well, here it comes! I hope I spelt all the titles right 'xD And sorry in advance for any grammar mistakes, I always do my best when I write in foreign languages but I'm just your average teenage fangirl who loses all of her reason before what she loves the most. Before starting, I should say that I love both slow romantic ballads and fast-paced pop songs on an even level, so I don't think I am too biased towards any of the two genres; truth to be said, MM offers some great pieces for both types of music, and I like all of them. Now, here's what you were all waiting for, i. e. my complete ranking of all the songs from the anime Mermaid Melody!

48) Ai no ondo Sorry, but it's just a big "no" for me. The tune is so irritating that it somehow annoys me to listen to it. 47) Koi wa nandarō? Urgh. Same as before. Irritating tune and even more irritating singer – it's higher on the list just thanks to some passages in the lyrics which make me think of some sort of sexual innuendo, and since I am both a hopeless romantic and a huge pervert, I vastly appreciate it XD 46) Oh, yeah! Alala Does this remind you of exaggeratedly cute idol songs? Because it's the impression it gives me, and it's not a good one. (OK, I'm overdoing, there are definitely some idols I like, but Jpop rarely clicks with me if it's not related to anime in some way) 45) Splash dream! Er... this is getting boring, but I just cannot stand Asumi Nakata's voice 'xD However, this is where the tunes stop being outright irritating for me, and it's just a matter of them failing to catch my heart. 44) Aurora no kaze ni notte I'm on shortage of comments already, I guess I'll just say that Ema Kogure sounds like a 2 year-older and that I keep on forgetting how the tune goes. 43) Star! Meromero heart Irritating singer, forgettable tune, stupid lyrics (I know it's done on purpose, but still). On with the next one. 42) Mother symphony OMG, I feel guilty for puttin your favourite song so low! Actually, I must admit that I've never thought about the lyrics the way you put it, and maybe reading your comment will help me appreciate this song a bit more ^^ However, this spot is where the songs start being just boring and uninteresting to me instead of plain unsufferable, so it's still something... I guess? 41) Nanatsu no umi no monogatari – Pearls of mermaid As I said, boring and forgettable and little else. I think I've already lost half of my readers by now. 40) Birth of love Really? Did they waste Eri Kitamura's talents to make her sing this so-so piece? That's a crime on my book! 39) Piece of love I said I love love songs, but that's simply an understatement: I am a literal sucker for slow, deep, emotional songs about feelings and such. But this... what I can see is that it tried to be a romantic piece but failed miserably and ended up being a mere yawn-inducing song. I'm not exaggerating, I really find it sleep-inducing! In this sense, it low-key reminds me of A dream is a wish your heart makes, lol. But I feel the need to repeat that I absolutely adore romantic ballads if done right, in fact the main theme from Beauty and the Beast is my single best favourite song in the whole freaking world, OK? But there's a clear limit between "romantically slow" and "sleepily slow", and this songs trespass it. 38) Mizuiro no senritsu I have a sensation that composing more upbeat songs is easier, because there can't be the risk to have your listeners fall asleep, or is it just me? In fact, this makes nice for a Jpop song... it's just that I'm not that big a Jpop fan to start, and the idols I do follow, such as Momoiro Clover Z, I do so just because they have sung songs from animes I love. I guess this song is somehow OK, it's just a matter of me not connecting with it. 37) Portami con te OK, finally here's what I think is the worst Italian song – in case you started thinking I was biased and would put all the Italian songs on top... well, you wouldn't exactly be wrong about the bias part, but still. For me, this song is just on the limit between "nice romantic slow songs" and "boring as heck slow songs": one day I find it sweet, the other day I think it is simply too slow. But what really made me decide to put it low in the list is the fact that it's a mere rearrangement of Yume no sono saki e instead of a completely new piece of music, thus making it the sole and only non-original song from the Italian dub... which is not cool. Definitely not cool. 36) Yume no sono saki e I really have the same opinion about this song and the last one, due to them being so terribly similar, but I decided to give this the higher spot because I'll be eternally pissed that they decided to use an already-existing base to arrange Portami con te, and that's not something I could ever forgive 'xD 35) Daijina takarabako (slow version) I think this could make for a nice lullaby. What else could I say? It's cute and it manages to be slow without being boring; now, I don't consider it to be necessarily unforgettable, but here we're starting heading for the better. 34) Hana to chō no serenade This is the perfect LanHua song, full stop: it's just as haunting, hypnotizing and mysterious as it should be, with that exotical feel to the tune that spices it up. And it is even better in French! It may seem to be too low in the list to be a song I like, but these are just the songs that I find to be good but not great. 33) Kibō no Kaneoto – Love goes on Now that's a pretty battle song! True, it may not be at Sera Myu level (but then, very few can compare to the eternal goddess Akiko Kosaka), but I admire the fact that it manages to be both sweet and relatively upbeat at the same time. 32) Concerto d'amore "Good but not great" is again all I can say about this one, so I'll add that I'm very disappointed by the fact that the second half of the song has never made it to the series proper and is therefore only present in the CD version – which is a shame, because I think that is where the song gets better. The tune is nice enough, but maybe it's overused, in the sense that it always plays whenever a radio is on during the show, which sometimes feeds me up; but it isn't a boring song, definitely not. 31) Voce del buio OK, I'll admit that the concept is good: this villain song wanted to be suffocating and practically impossible to forget, and it succeeded perfectly – that's the type of melody that just can't get out of your mind after one single listening. But there's too much rap for my taste and, though the contrast between the tune of the stanzas and that of the refrains is amazing, it somehow comes off as "I recognize is good, but it's not exactly my genre". 30) Ever blue Man, this song used to be so much lower in my list! The thing is, I just couldn't make myself listen to it without suffering terribly xD But then I heard the French version and I finally understood that it was just a case of me hating Hitomi Terakado with a passion that prevented me from appreciating the song! In fact, thanks to other foreign dubs (such as the Portuguese ones, but really, each one of them is better than the Japanese), I discovered thatt with a decent singer, it actually turned out to be a pretty song, and I'm more persuaded than ever now that the Cosplay Singers have just released their cover! I'll never understand why they tend to cast chipmunks instead of voice actors in Japan, but whatever. 29) Super love songs! Nice, clean, pleasing song of the more upbeat scale, with a catchy refrain: that's how I like my Jpop. 28) Daijina takarabako Even I cannot understand how can I like a solo by Asumi Nakata, whom I honestly detest, but I guess that when the melody enchants you, miracles can happen. Good job! 27) Legend of mermaid I think I can't say anything about this song that hasn't already been said xD Well, I like it but don't love it; I can only add that the instrumental intercourses in between the singing parts come off as really annoying to me, I think I don't enjoy the way they are arranged that much. 26) Ashita ga mienakute OMG this song. This song. This song. OK, sorry, let me rephrase that: as a 9 year-older watching Pure on TV, I was at best indifferent about Mikaru's feelings, and even partially blaimed her for the pain Lucia was suffering. Growing up, I melted out towards the character and, while I'll always be on Lucia's side when it comes to the love triangle stuff, as a middle-schooler I undertood that nothing of the love drama was Mikaru's fault. Some years ago, when I started using the Internet, I discovered that the Japanese dub of the anime had different songs from the Italian one, and was literally blown away upon first listening this one. A song sung by a handicapped girl my age who mourned about her solituted and sufference was, like, so much akeen to me as a person that it seems a strange coincidence. Add to that that I loved seeing depressed characters, because it helped me find my own depression a little less terrible. I've grown out of that phase now, mostly thanks to me having changed school, but this song holds a special place in my heart, and if I were to make a ranking of the most relatable songs I've ever listened to, this would come third after Belle and Let it go. 25) Tsubasa wo daite As lost in my thoughts as I were, I haven't mentioned the fact that both songs have got enchanting melodies (and I thought this even before knowing of the songs, because I absolutely loved the instrumentals that played when Mikaru and Mikeru spelt out their poems in the Italian dub). This version gains a higher place because, while Mikeru is less relatable than Mikaru, Junko Minagawa is a much better singer. Ah, and it's a song sung by a character who laments his condition and talks long about his feelings, which is exactly my cup of tea. 24) Kodō – Perfect harmony We're getting better and better with the battle songs! Here's another catchy one, but I'm afraid I haven't got much else to say about this. 23) Ankoku no tsubasa This is another case of the French version making me appreciate the song more than before – seriously, though, just listen to it! I really dig the style taken here, it screams "sexy villain" from every note and it's done so damn right. 22) Kizuna And here comes my favourite Japanese battle song! The thing is, I really dig the refrain but cannot say the same about the stanzas, so I decided to even it out putting it around the middle. What is more interesting to me, though, is that this song was clearly the basis used to compose Eternal eternity for the 3rd season of Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon Crystal, which makes it again more important. I know what I said before about me disapproving of rearrangements, but what can I do when one is just so unbelievably good? (Because yes, I indeed prefer Eternal eternity. Kill me now.) 21) Sekai de ichiban hayaku Asa ga kuru bashō Have I said how much I like sweet lullabies yet? Because I love them. I've got no more to say. 20) La nostra forza (rearrange) My first reaction upon hearing this on the CD was like "OMG how dare they ruin one of my favourite songs", but with time I learnt to understand that this style actually fits LanHua more than the regular version would have. Though I don't think I have to point out that the one sung by the BBS and Alala is far better. 19) Mermaid Melody – Principesse Sirene There's a complex love-hate relationship between me and this song, and it depends on how much weigth I put on each aspect of it: if I concentrate on the tune, I find it to be a great song worth of the glorious tradition of Italian OPs; if I concentrate on the rest, though... I really can't understand how they could come up with the idea of casting a 14 year-older to sing it, and this is without mentioning the absurdly stupid lyrics it features. Maybe this is what leads me to enjoy the karaoke version so much. 18) Legend of mermaid (slow version) What can I say, if not that it's cute and pretty and sad and everything else? I don't like Asumi Nakata and Hitomi Terakado's versions one bit, but Kana Ueda saves the song for me. And the instrumentals are far better than those of the original version. 17) Ai no kiseki Another awesomely sad and emotional song sung by Kana Ueda – see the pattern here? It's the type of song that really makes you cry, and I live for that. 16) Return to the sea Closing Kana Ueda's section, and at the same time opening the sequence of the songs that I outright love, comes Sara's awesome image song, which is tremendously catchy and terribly depressing at the same time. That's the magic of music (and cartoons) for you. 15) Taiyō no rakuen – Promised land That's exactly the type of Japanese OP that clicks with me for its catchyness, and well... What can one say about Miyuki Kanbe, apart from being sorry over her tragedy? She's incredible. She's an excellent musical actress and a perfect Usaghi (though to be fair, my best favourite is and will always be Anza Ōyama, no matter what, with Miyuki being a close second). Her singing is gorgeous and, as a sidenote, she's the person that made me realize that not all nasal voices are terrible – quite the contrary, on her case. 14) Beautiful wish This. Song. Is. Just. Perfect. Especially in French (but I guess you're tired of me saying that, uh?), but Eri Kitamura rules, too. This melody is just too perfect and it would deserve to be no. 1, if only there weren't some songs which are even more perfect imo. 13) Rainbow notes It's like the first OP, but even better: the catchyness has been brought up to eleven and Miyuki is as freaking skilled as always, and she'll be dearly missed forever. 12) Before the moment Sorry everyone, but the prize is going to the Pure OP for me (please don't kill me!). Not that I prefer Eri over Miyuki (though I love them both so much), but it just... well, listen to it. That music. 11) Star jewel Rina rocks and this song shows it excellently! And Mayumi Asano is the only one from the main trio who sounds like a real human being, so that's a plus. There's some pure awesomeness here. 10) Dolce melodia To think that, when I was a kid, I reckoned this song was just too much. I mean, not even for an instant did I dislike it (the contrary, in fact), but I found it to be so overused that it started tiring me, to the point of getting on my nerves. Now that I'm older, I've understood that beautiful things are always beautiful and can just get better every time you enjoy it again. Now I can listen to this song on repeat more than a dozen times in a round and always recognize it for the true masterpiece it is. (Except for Caren's version, that is – Rossella Liberti's voice is just something I can't stand.) 9) Kuro no Kyōsōkyoku – Concerto That is, the perfect villain song. Villain songs are really the best songs in the Japanese dub. I don't know what to add. Oh, wait... 8) Yami no baroque ...What do you mean, there's an even more perfect villain song? This show is just too much and it's so beautiful it's killing me, but I'll gladly die with Mermaid Melody if I must. 7) La nostra forza OK, the Japanese version definitely wins in the lyrics department, but the music here is just too prefect for it to be any lower. 6) Ritorno all'oceano Pure awesomeness and nothing more. Denise Misseri's version is gold and Francesca Daprati's is diamond, but there's really nothing else to say. 5) Battito d'amore Please don't judge this basing on the CD version, because the duet between Valentina Ponzone and Claudia D'Ulisse can't even remotely compare to the many stunning versions heard in the TV series. Battle song at its finest. 4) Fantastica poesia Battle song at its ultimate finest, i. e. The very best battle song ever! With the addition of some sexual innuendos to spice up the lyrics, how much better can it get? 3) Stella preziosa This. This better. It's a telltale sign the fact that I just can't bring myself to choose which I prefer between Francesca Daprati's version and Elisabetta Cavalli. 2) Assoluto amore I can't say anything else, I'm afraid. Perfect music, great lyrics and Valeria Caponnetto to do the goddesses' job. I'm in heaven. 1) Dolce melodia (orgel version) A sadly emotional arrangement of a great song? Yes, please. This song is too perfect and it's too much for my heart to bear, to the point that I'm not even listening to it as of now and I'm already crying just at the thought. Sung by Denise Misseri it's a masterpiece, but sung by Valeria Caponnetto it's the greatest tragic song ever.

[pussymagicuniverse]

Confession + Tire Swing

Poems by Grace Novacek

Confession

you can’t tell me / to reconcile / all the being i’ve done / kneeling at a pew / lined with past lives / i’ll think i’m there to celebrate / to sing / i won’t know / the difference / between doubt and readiness / if it congeals to me / like a shadow / but what can we do / well, let me rephrase / since i’m trying to stop assuming synonymy / what can i do / besides ask questions / and expect divine answers

Tire Swing

i’m thinking about / what it feels like / to be upside down / which is to say that / i’m hoping to take up new space / and be forced to think / about why / i left some things / up the road / in the summer / five years ago / and nothing scares me more / than remembering them / except for maybe forgetting / everything else / and what i mean is that / time has a funny way of holding me / back

Grace Novacek is an interdisciplinary creative living in illinois. She has worked as an editor, writer, researcher, illustrator, and designer. She is always looking for ways to synthesize her interests across sciece, humanities, and social justice. She can be found on socials @gnovs.

Check out her zine here.

[daemonmatthias]

Two stories from 7th period this week-

Me: *teaches trick/trash/treasure strategy for multiple choice questions with modeling and guided practice, then releases them to practice in pairs*

Every student: *actually working, discussing, using the text to argue with each other* "no that's the trick because...." "yeah but over here it says..." "why is that trash?" "Because it's not about his personality like the question asks for" etc. Etc.

Me: *actually has time to go over the questions when they finish* So how can we rephrase this question?

Students: *all volunteering answers*

Me: good, those were all good ways to rephrase the question. *repeats a couple of the best ones* which choices were trash?

Almost all the class: b and d!

Me: right. Why are those trash?

Students: *all shouting over each other*

Me: hold up, hold up, let's take them one at a time. Why is d trash?

Several students: he's not persistent, ms.! He lets her get away!

Me: why is b trash?

Several students: same thing, he let her get away.

Me: good, so we're left with a and c. Which one was the trick?

Class: *shouts out, split about 50/50, and immediately starts trying to shout out explanations*

Particular student: *bangs hand on table* WHAT? Ms! No! No, ms. Look. Ms, look, it says. It says, ms, right HERE *jabs finger at paper* it says, "he wanted a second chance"-

Other student: "But-" *stops when I hold a finger up telling her to let him finish*

Student: -so if it says right here that he wanted a second chance, c has to be right! It can't be the trick! Explain to me how it's a trick!?

Me: *nods to acknowledge him, but gestures for other student to continue because I heard her explain it correctly to her group earlier*

Other student: but the question asks about his personality and wanting a second chance is not a personality trait, but being shy and insecure is.

Third student: plus! If we look at why he wanted the second chance, we're still lead to a because he wanted the second chance to be confident like all the other guys there, so we know he's shy and insecure.

Me: *turns back to original student, who still looks pretty incredulous* remember when I told y'all that sometimes trick answers are extra tricky because they're technically right but another answer choice is better? *he nods* you are absolutely right that he wanted a second chance, but it is not the best answer because we have to look at why he wanted the second chance and because wanting a second chance is not a personality trait when the question asks what we learned about his personality in paragraph 7. *he nods again*

-------------------------------------------

Me: *giving directions* .... ok, so we're gonna listen to the audio and I'll pause it where I want you to write your annotations-

Student 1: wait, ms, can't we read it? I want to read.

Several students: yeah, I want to read too. Can I have a turn?

Me: um, yeah, sure, if y'all wanna read it outloud we can do that. Um, ok, so what we'll do is, I'll tell each person where to read to and after each person, that's where you write your annotation.

Everyone: *agrees*

Me: *finishes other directions* we ready? Ok, [student 1] you did ask first, read just the first paragraph please.

Several students: can I read second? *arguing ensues*

Me: y'all! We can read like this if you're gonna argue over who reads next. I'll get to everyone.

Class: *immediately settles down and student 1 reads paragraph one* *the second she stops, hands go up, begging to read next begins, almost to the point of arguing again*

Me: *quiets them with a teacher look* write your annotations, please. *they do* ok, so, like I said, I'm gonna call on random people to answer some questions... *pushes random on class dojo* [student], what do you think the woman is going to do to him? *several students try to answer, but I stop them* [student]?

Student: *answers* , *immediatly several students start chiming in again*

Me: *ignores them and randomly selects 2 more students to answer the same question, THEN cycles back and calls on all the students that want to volunteer their answers.*

The rest of the passage continued in EXACTLY the same way, except they stopped trying to verbally ask to read next- they raised their hands eagerally and looked hurt and offended every time they weren't who I called on, and I had to promise Every. Single. Time that I would get around to everyone that wanted a turn, which I did.

-------------------------------------------

Y'all.

Y'ALL.

This is the same class period that was so goddamn engaged in the fucking SYLLABUS that we suddenly only had 15 min left of our (slightly shotened that week) 90 min block to read an annotate a poem and do a coloring activity with it.

You read that right. They spent an entire HOUR discussing and asking questions about a SYLLABUS.

These are freshmen, grade 9, 14-year-olds. I've never seen a class like this, not since my AP lit class in high school, and especially not at this school- not even at the AP level at this school, it's unheard of. I tell other teachers who have been working there much longer than I about this stuff and they just stare at me in genuine shock for a second. Like, not exaggerating.

I think god/the universe/fate/what have you must have sent me a gift. Without this class, I'd probably go insane this year. My on-level classes are way too big and campus/district level expectations are frankly ridiculous, I'm now the lead ESL teacher for the building which means extra meetings on top of the poorly structured other meetings I have to attend, I'm also sponsoring an academic uil team which has gotten a surprinsing level of interest... all while trying to plan my wedding.

[existentialexitwounds]

BAT (The Prototypical Son)

Electric Jesus in the Crippling Garden Through an ember haze in morning's grace, Past the yard and through the garden, A swath of light etched in the night, Reminds me of that face. Years removed, and I am still stumbling -- wandering through that empty space. A memory too far to be told, but never too far to hold. In my hardened heart, I found happiness. Lost in the wilderness. With what's sore, A startled soul, What I have turned stone. A few words and you were gone. And for all my hardened moments, And my softened atonements, I was wrong. With my hardened heart, I found happiness. Lost in the wilderness. With what's sore, A startled soul, What I have turned cold. With a better heart, another start, My soul worn; My shoes torn. Past the haze, With symptoms of the heart rephrased. Left with what I'd ask. Who was crucified before you? Letting go of this dogma I've been unboldly clinging to ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Prototypical (S)On[e]s Past the yard and through that unearthly garden, Swaths of light etched in the night. We fell like ember leaves from trees of disbelief. As lights in the sky, the brighter fire in our eyes. Through the amber haze of mourning’s grace, Pierced the Earth with the shape of our frightening forms. Scorched everything between the seen and unseen. Ways to hide what I mean and the path of a dream. My soul worn; My shoes torn. Past the haze, With symptoms of the heart rephrased. Left with what I’d ask: Who was crucified before you? Letting go of this dogma I’ve been unboldly clinging to. By violet light and mourning’s flight, A feeling that moved through me left hung to a tree. Spinning angels in a black rib cage. In my hardened heart I found happiness, with what's sore, what's turned stoned. And for all my softened atonements and hardened moments, I was wrong. Left with what I'd ask: who was crucified before you? Letting go of this dogma I’ve been unboldly clinging to. That somber dwelling muse takes me, breaks me, makes me whole. Not (a)way or a whim but for to hold. That pathless path untold. How we lasted longer than the rays we traced. And those fallen kingdoms of past disgrace. We’ll get past the algorithmic and the rhyme. Pastern: If sadness can bring joy, best to get to the joy and not give everyone a headache. I'd rather start soon than start late. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- I am an aloner. It’s in the way I stand. I may have fallen deeply in love with you. But my feathers are colored brightly blue. I am a runner, but they won’t let me run away with you. Ways to hide what I mean and the path of a dream. My soul worn; My shoes torn. Past the haze, with symptoms of the heart rephrased. Left with what I’d ask: Who was crucified before you? Letting go of this dogma I’ve been unboldly clinging to. By violet light and morning’s flight, A feeling that moved through me left hung to a tree. Spinning angels in a black rib cage. And no wonder why I asked why. To ask if there is wonder in the why. But in the wondering, there is wonder. To be that facet pulling moments from the dream. In my hardened heart, I found happiness. Lost in the wilderness. With what's sore, A startled soul, What I have turned stone. A few movements and you were gone. And for all my hardened moments, And my softened atonements, I was wrong. Past the yard and through that earthly garden, A swath of light etched in the night. I fell like ember leaves from trees of disbelief. As lights in the sky, the brighter fire in my eyes. Through the amber haze of mourning’s grace, Pierced the ground with the shape of my frightening form. Scorched Earth between the seen and unseen. Ways to hide what I mean and the path of a dream. We are all running, but towards what? It’s not about the winning or the losing, the story or the storm. Let’s see if we can retrace this path my our own way. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ATR (END OF FIRST BOOK)Chapter title from poem: Pastern learns what his past has been.

Chapter start soliloquy:

Featherless Wings over Vagrantseæs

I was born on the ground and so strangely (un)afraid, lost in a world of expectations and faces I did not make. Per chance I might say, all I felt and how I fell this way. Through smoke and dust and somniferous gusts of somnambulists’ rage. Came crashing down through waves of fiery stage. Through the rows and death thro(e|w)s of treacherous ways. But up through deception I was raised, though no deception I maintained. Between gods and monsters I strayed. And the fire that waits for that fire. And the things I won’t relay. No revenge to say as I wish you well upon your way. But one to dream, that I might stay and stay.

From shattered shards amidst a flood I built my hope. A home from the pain and the vagrant trespasses of a broken heart. In my home I hid my loneliness, a wandering eye from all that had been. And if I could begin, I’d speak of love and do it all again. But some things break and the damages can not be faked, t̷a̷k̷e̷n̷ a̷n̷d̷ n̷o̷t̷ t̷o̷ r̷e̷a̷w̷a̷k̷e̷n̷.̷ Taken to reawaken, so I that I will and may speak of love again. The shadow of a sleeping heart and the violent stirring from a dream. So I stand here awoken, more angry than alive. And for once you were right, an animated corpse of who I had been. And philosophically speaking, I will see you to the very end as a friend and no stranger to the mend.

The Tempered Intemperate

Those special acts between the lines of a lie. How they glitter and gleam by stealing rays from the sun beneath the dream. The glimmering glamour of a clamoring fire Held in the space of the mind from places unseen. That half-light and light beneath a hollowed hallowed chrysalis tree. And all the gifts stolen from us. Our smiles, our hopes, and our dreams. And the light unlight outside that mind. And lo how we love still until we’re still and dead and done. Yet we are not dead and somehow done. I will see you at the gate you guarded. How unhappy it made you feel to deny what wasn’t yours. I will open it up to let you in to witness what’s ours. In wishes for cloths wrought and weathered under a moth’s wings where no excuses you will bring. That wanton not wanting, how the wanton want that. All I ever known or owned is words, and how I love(d) to share them with my friends whether they watched or watched not. Time is a keeper and I keep good time. And how I mind and minded and how that lets me know I’m real.

Exegesis ἐξηγεῖσθαι and Existential Exit Wounds

If I moved, would I feel moved? As sleep's chambers grace our hidden wings with such sweet defeat. If I loved, would I feel loved? As I have loved only to have love removed from me. And could I write so plainly, no one would still see me. (Meaning understand::Not some other thing.) In all the wanton's wanting and all the faultless faltering, how I wish to breathe so breathlessly and true those three words I always held so closely but never felt close to me. Why is beauty only beautiful if it is bleeding. As people pay so much for so very little but not much for peaces of the heart. And so (ᵢ ₕₐᵥₑ ₜᵣₐdₑd ₘᵢₙₑ 𝆑ₒᵣ ₙₒₜₕᵢₙg::ₜₕᵢₛ 𝆑ₒₙₜ 𝆑ₑₑₗₛ ₛₐᵣ𝄴ₐₛₜᵢ𝄴) I have given mine to someone. It is all black, everything. As I surface from my broken dreams. In a world full of expectations, places, and faces I did not make. No closed mouth ever fed. How I have been temporary to everything that hasn't loved. A sigh of oh wells etched out across the expanse of eternity.

When I was so simply not simply looking for those and thee who saw me as permanent and outstretched I would breathe so breathlessly and true to reach through this dream and make them permanent to me.

How I want to give to you, what I never had. (a chance and everything and the things beyond everything.) (and I will and we are and and I want [but not wantonly] and I am.) [But I am no one's God; I am my own.]

The Prototypical [S)[On[-e]s) Past the yard and through the unearthly garden, Swaths of light etched in the night. We fell like ember leaves from trees of disbelief. As lights in the sky, the brighter fire in our eyes. Through the amber haze of mourning’s grace, Pierced the Earth with the shape of our frightening forms. Scorched the things between the seen and unseen. Ways to hide what I mean and the path of a dream. My soul worn; My shoes torn. Past the haze, With symptoms of the heart rephrased. Left with what I’d ask: Who was crucified before you? Letting go of this dogma I’ve been unboldly clinging to. By violet light and mourning’s flight, A feeling that moved through me left hung to a tree. Spinning angels in a black rib cage. Lost in the wilderness with what's turned cold. In my hardened heart I found happiness, with what's sore, what's turned stoned. A few words and you were gone. And for all my softened atonements and hardened moments, I was wrong. Left with what I'd ask: who was crucified before you? Letting go of this dogma I’ve been unboldly clinging to. Your somber dwelling muse takes me, breaks me, makes me whole. Not (a)way or a whim but for to hold. And for all my softened moments and hardened atonements, I was right. That pathless path untold. How we lasted longer than the paths we traced. And those fallen kingdoms of past disgrace. We’ll get past the algorithmic and the rhyme. For one chance that you might glance my way. Years removed, and I am still stumbling – wandering through that empty space. Left with images reminding me of that face. A memory too far to be told, but never too far to hold.

“In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you” ― Oscar Wild

We are all running, but towards what? It’s not about the winning or the losing, the story or the storm.

What is a soul is a question no one ever asks. Is it of this world or outside it? And if it’s outside it, what is it writ on. And if it is writ outside it, why.

This is the closet thing to truth I could reach. I hope it reaches someone and more. Sometimes we fall when we feel this alone that our wings break loose because they can no longer keep us from all that we love. And I wish that someone to know, that I love them. There will be no short supply of people that don’t get you (or it) in this world. There will be no short supply of fear in our minds and hearts. And no short supply of intense love in my mind where I feel truly deserved. And again, and terribly unfortunate – no short supply of utterly dumb and worthless fear to confuse things.

——————————————————————-

Pastern: My mother used to always say: “You do not know how to act.” And she was right. I’m not a good actor. And in some ways I was right in being wrong because I do sincerely aim for my actions speaking louder than words. Rather I would give people courage than take it away in telling them a question is wrong and that they are to be seen and not heard.

Lyre: There is nothing wrong with spending your life in question. It’s the clinging to certainties and high tides that raze and sink all ships. Some people clutch their guns, some people clutch their pearls, some people clutch their children, and some people clutch their crystals. Many mistake reining a child in for appropriate discipline, never thinking what a person is being disciplined towards. Often it is towards a fall instead of a landing. What is a soul is a question no one ever asks. Is it of this world or outside it? And if it’s outside it, what is it writ on. And if it is writ outside it, why. ________________________________________________________________

Older Pastern: Fallen angels and Baroque Renaissance angels, not technically accurate, but they may speak to something deeper that does not rely on fear. I do not want people frightened, but I am aware there are times when certain people should be, but I aim to ensnare the unafraid. One must appear weak sometimes to protect the vulnerable, the broken, the abused, and the hurt.

______________________________________________________________ Pastern: If sadness can bring joy, best to get to the joy and not give everyone a headache. I’d rather start soon than start late.

[brutallyangelic]

The Way The Human Body Sings. ( Inspired by Chester Martinez )

Have you ever met someone who's energy makes you realize more that God is real ? That His presence on Earth is more prominent than we feel ?No. Let me rephrase that.

Somebody's who's voice drags you into so much depth into your dreams you see your past self and you remember why your passion... is your passion.

An individual who's pain whispers in their voice but their confidence and strength screams and enters the room so gracefully that it moves you.

It was a Monday night. Confidence and joy was dancing around my aura , well maybe it was also because of the drinks so I felt better than usual but I knew it wouldn't be so much better the next day. It was the kind of good time where you dance alone because you have found so much comfort in your own solitude that being around others feels like you need your own space. It was also the kind of night where's you meet really cute boys but you were so involved in your own joy that kissing boys that would forget you the next day was the last thing on your mind.

But then again I did talk to a really cute boy and his voice is really hot and there is nothing poetic about that, my hormones are just acting up.

But that night, as many cigarettes as I inhaled, I felt the sweet flavor of them travel into my trachea and knowingly my lungs are not strong enough for this, knowingly that I am not suppose to be drinking this much because of the chemical imbalances in my brain but God, did I notice how beautiful the lights were, did I feel at peace. I have been waiting to feel at peace and laughing with drunk girls I would never meet again, talking to random souls who I will always remember is just enough of a reason to keep holding on. Anything is just enough of a reason to always hold on.

But then, in the sweaty atmosphere, I spoke to him. It was if the attraction of the spirit was reborn and God how it screamed. Seeing how passion and blood and sweat screamed outside of his eyes made me realize how perfect God is. Seeing how he moved without moving. He looked at me and said that I am glowing. That I have already made it. I have never been so blessed that I felt Sadness again because if I did not I would not have appreciated the God in him. The dancer in him. The beauty in the way his body and mind correlates. The way him and his friends healed my heart without even knowing it. Is that not what us artist do? Heal each other without even knowing too much of each other ? Because we all know that creating is what keeps us alive. Rebirth is something that not even the poets can describe, that this is a way to survive. We already know how to save the world because the world could not save us. The world could not save us so we have to save each other.

" if people do not see God in you then you are not an artist." I have never been so thankful that people have told me that they have screamed " Hallelujah" reading my literature, I began to tell him that I see the heavens in the way his arms spread out wide, calling the angels to Earth. Making this hell so beautiful by a single move. I am not a dancer but God how seeing the love in his eyes made me want to.

I am an artist, a growing one too, but seeing the poems of broken bones and healing in his spirit made me appreciate how the human body sings when hearing music. I now dance everywhere, every chance I get.

- Nicole Druchen.

[fionaharnett]

Written by Frank Natter

Here is the speech I gave today Before I properly begin, I think it is also important to state that I am not here representing Grenfell United. I am a supporter of their campaign and I work with them to make their videos, but I am not a member of Grenfell United. I didn’t lose any family members in that fire, nor did I survive it. Grenfell United is composed, solely, of those people directly and profoundly (profundamente) effected by the fire, for obvious reasons. It was only by calendar errors that a member is not sat with me today. I am here as last year my friend Hannan showed the film I co-made. It was deeply moving to have the film translated into Spanish and to hear of its appreciation. It is an honour to be invited to speak this year. With that said, let me begin. I have a confession to make, I didn’t read up enough on you all before I came here. I therefore find myself in a place, where I find myself a kind of heretic (hereje). You see, I am not wedded to non-violence. In certain contexts, and in many historical moments, I will defend political violence - the Haitian revolution for example. Moreover, I have never found myself at home in Gandhian philosophy, his actions in South Africa, organising to be considered a class/caste/race above Africans racialised as black foretold (predicho) the hierarchies that would define the battle he had with the anti-caste (casta) resistance hero, Ambedkar. My appraisal of the Gandhi and his legacy cannot detach itself from the figures of resistance who preceded him, who used violence, nor from the violence of partition (dividir) that followed, tearing Pakistan from India and bringing about millions of deaths and the largest forced migration in human history. I come from a philosophy where you need both Martin Luther King and Malcolm X to achieve justice, and I follow the logic that the necessary response to the assassination of MLK was the forming of the black panthers. I say this all, not to prod or poke to seek debate or fury, but to make proper sense of the position I hold at this moment in time, and to put in a context the poem that I will end this speech on. It would be disingenuous (insincero) any other way and I think frank and open discussion is what we all came for. With that said, despite my philosophical and political differences, I am here to represent a campaign - like that of Fateme’s - that is non-violent by necessity. Political violence was not an option for meaningful change in the wake of the state crime at Grenfell Tower, because of the state’s power and the vulnerability of the communities affected by the fire. For those who are not aware of what happened at Grenfell, allow me to explain. On the 14th June 2017, a fridge caught fire in a fourth floor flat in a social housing tower block with 24 floors. The fire spread to the external of the building. Within twenty minutes, the fire had spread to be uncontrollable. It engulfed (envuelto) the building. The fire service responded with a policy to contain the fire, “stay put.” Their advice was for people to stay in their homes. This ended up as a death sentence for many of the 71 people who perished that night, 72 if we add Pily Burton, who died due to health complications from the fire months later. The fire service were not prepared for the fire they faced on that night, an inferno that haunts in unimaginable ways those who witnessed it, fought it, lived through it or spoke to family members as they breathed their last breaths. The reason the fire service were not prepared was because deregulation has allowed for buildings to be covered/clad to buildings that some fire experts hold should not be allowed on dog kennels (residencia canina). The insulation and cladding that was on Grenfell was the equivalent of 30,000 litres of petrol. Margeret Thatcher began the process of deregulation (desregulación) that killed, but it was not solely her doing, the fatal change came from the ‘socialist’ New Labour. This was the outcome of what I will call the market state, what we generally call neo-liberalism. The power of finance capital over our lives has meant global corporations are in many ways more powerful and financially secure than our nation states, so they get to determine the policies and regulations that exist to preserve our lives. Grenfell was a sign of how bad things had become. The reason 30,000 litres of soldified petrol was clad to the homes of over 300 people at Grenfell Tower (and hundreds of thousands more across ‘Great’ Britain) was because companies like Arconic and Cellotex could tell the government and local authorities that their products were safe without lab testing, this is called ‘desktop studies’. They allow somebody like myself, with no scientific knowledge beyond the basics, to combine materials based upon reports that were not independently lab tested. Allowing corporations to regulate themselves put hundreds of thousands at risk of death across the UK and killed the family members of my friends and traumatised a community I love. Not only that, in the aftermath of the fire, in the words of our former prime minister Theresa May, there was a “failure of state.” The community of north Kensington, where the fire took place, were abandoned by the state and left to fend for themselves. Grenfell was the UK’s Katrina, it exposed the rot of our system. If you hear the names of the deceased read out, you will hear names from across the world. People who had come to Britain fleeing the war in Syria died in Grenfell. In Britain, despite not only 15% of the population being non-white, racialised groups are most likely to live on the top floors of tower blocks. No one from the highest floors at Grenfell survived. Grenfell was a crime that cut along race and class lines, in a very serious way, but it also transcended them. So since then, we have campaigned, we have fought, we have argued, we have screamed, we have cried, we have weeped and we have exhausted ourselves in the fight for a justice that seems so elusive. The reason justice is as elusive is because so many people are implicated in this crime. Central government were warned of the dangers; fires in the UK and abroad had warned of the issues, they were ignored. Calls were muted, messages were ignored. Government ministers in the previous administration were warned 21 times of the threat of Grenfell. They did nothing. Their names are Eric Pickles and Gavin Barwell. But they are not the only ones responsible for this. Arconic - the developer of the cladding - in its own brochure, said the cladding should not go beyond 10 metres. Grenfell was 67 metres tall. Their head of UK sales targeted the local authority (The Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea and the Kensington and Chelsea Tenant Management organisation) for the sale of the materials. The local authority - the richest in London at the time - applied needly austerity (austeridad) measures to the redevelopment and it led to mass death. Criminal culpability (culpabilidad) is easy to establish here, the charge we have for such offences is manslaughter (homicidio involuntario). But as the rapper Lowkey put it, this shows in extreme fashion how neoliberalism kills people. It was deregulation that spread the fire from the outside and austerity within. You see the fire did not spread just from the outside but inside as well. The richest local authority in London, one of the richest spaces in Europe, did not even invest in proper fire doors. In 2008, we saw the logic of too big to fail applied. Bankers who crashed the economy and indirectly killed millions through the damages that spread like a tidal wave were too central to the system to face criminalisation. With Grenfell, the logic is the same. To pursue meaningful justice would, by its very nature, undermine the system as we know it. So these corporations and bodies - and the people who sit above them - are too big to fall. So what has been done? There have been many who have operated for those affected by the fire, but few have acted with. Again I will refer back to Fateme’s speech, with a slight rephrasing: everyone was speaking about Grenfell, very few were speaking with those most affected. Much of the early politics around Grenfell were problematic, and threatened social order. Political violence seemed a very real possibility in the immediate aftermath, because of the state’s failure and the nature of the intrusions coming into the community, in large part by the media. Much of the work undertaken has been to keep up resistance, without falling into violence, which would benefit the state. Grenfell United formed shortly after the fire, their first aim was humanitarian, it was to look after those most in need. The second phase was to sort things out, to get people rehoused, to extend support. Their third phase has been to campaign for fundamental change. They have successfully campaigned - again by necessity - for the government to adopt new regulations for buildings, which though limited and not by any means what was demanded, they have achieved. They have got hundreds of millions released by the government to assist local authorities to remove these materials from buildings. Yes, my government, despite the fire, had to have the survivors and bereaved campaign to remove this stuff. And they still haven’t done anything but the basics. The other day, almost two and half years since the fire, the government finally removed the cladding from a children’s hospital. Let that sink in for a minute. This stuff is on homes, hospitals, schools, student accommodation across my country, and much of the world. The majority of buildings covered with this stuff in 2017, before Grenfell, still are now. That is a crime unto itself, in my book. The government have used anti-terror laws to hide the extremity, but we all know who the terrorists are here. So what are my demands? 1) Housing is a human right 2) That housing must be fit for human habitation, it must be clean, it must be hooked up to utilities, and it must be regulated, people must live in places that do not kill them. 3) That standard for housing should be universal, housing regulations have to cut across borders, because no one in the world should have to face what happened at Grenfell, nor live in the conditions that we know exist across the third world, I have the recent fire in Bangladesh in mind and extend my deepest solidarity with those affected. 4) Those at a state level implicated in such crimes, and those in the board rooms, have to face the same justice as the rest of us, this is bound to my second demand. If you provide a home that kills, you face the same justice as if I give you a pill of cyanide (cianuro) and call it a sweet. Yet, in my country, this is not the case, and it is the sixth largest economy within the world. We are going further into the problems that caused this in the first place. Regulation is seen as anti-business, not pro-life. We are not alone here, this is the case now for the majority of the world’s population. It may not be fire safety, but corporations - aided and abetted by governments - are putting us at increasing risk of death. This makes me violent in my mind. I am not serene. I do not find compassion for those responsible in my head or heart. I am driven to stand up against these people, to tell them as loudly as I can that in my book they are criminals and I will keep saying their names. There are many more names I could say, but for the time being, we are still hoping that the British state will do its job and criminalise these people, so certain people will remain hidden, for now… Yet, the process of taking the steps, of walking, of collectivising for a common sense of justice is what we have done. We have walked two marathons as a collective since Grenfell by meeting silently and walking on the 14th of every month. Our silence has lasted the best part of a week, if you add it all up. And we will continue to do this, not because we think it will deliver justice, not because it is tactically astute (astuta), not because it hits the pockets/wallets/money of our oppressors, but because it is a way of us coming together, marking the date, taking stock and cementing the bonds in what promises to be a very long struggle for any sense of justice. With that all being said, I will end on a poem I wrote about the silent march. If any of you come to visit London and you are there on the 14th of the month, come and join us. Follow Grenfell United and Grenfell Silent Walk on social media for more information and to follow the campaign. We walk in silence out of respect. We walk in silence because we are mourning. We walk in silence because even if we didn’t know someone who died directly, someone who lost their world could be standing next to us. We walk in silence because words so often offend. We walk in silence because to speak is to vent and to vent is to rage. We walk in silence because if we spoke, our throats would burn. We walk in silence because otherwise our fists would quickly come to talk too. We walk in silence because our muted presence should scare those responsible. We walk in silence because we cannot say a word that the events of the 14th June don’t speak for us. We walk in silence because we carry the weight of history and the burden is easier in quiet. We walk in silence because it pains those who wish to speak for us. We walk in silence because if we even whispered about what justice looks like in totality, the streets would stir with revolt. We walk in silence because it is stealthy. We walk in silence because we are waiting to be done right by. The silence has an end point. The silence is not there to comfort the powerful, it is to soothe those living with hell. The silence speaks for itself. Respect what it says. Don’t speak over it.

Written by Frank Natter