twidiarie

[twidiarie]

even though writing has become a coping mechanism for my depression, somewhat ironically, i'll look at how mediocre it is and go "this shit is so ass" and feel even MORE depressed.

[twidiarie]

Such a quiet, sweet thing—

Mysterious and reserved,

Caring and harmonious,

Humble and agreeable,

Petals curled in during spring.

In a garden of roses and peonies,

How plain she feels.

"A weed among beauties," she proclaims,

So she slumbers in morning’s rays.

My lovely moon flower,

How the moonlight wakes you so!

Your petals curl outward,

And your beauty grows tenfold.

So vibrant, so lively!

You dance and sing

In this quiet meadow grove,

Where other flora sleep.

You swish, you twirl, you pirouette—

A beauty you rarely show.

The little moments I perceive,

I hold close to my chest.

I may be a morning flower,

But for you, I'll sacrifice my rest.

Dear friend,

Before winter comes,

And my leaves dry and flit about in December’s snow,

I hope to see you bloom—

To no longer strain my stem

Over the high walls of your clay pot.

I hope you free yourself.

Show me your thorns, your roots.

The earth has never scared me—

After all, I grow in it too.

And perhaps this garden, one day, will have the privilege

Of seeing the moon flower's ethereal glow.

But for now, as long as I breathe,

I'll cherish what I know.

[twidiarie]

My chisel lies on my workbench.

Experienced fingers, dusted in fine white powder, grab the flat edge, gripping

the time to carve once again—

my masterpiece,

to fashion something that the Lord would approve of.

I, the sculptor, whittle away at the marble.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Ah. This piece. I frown.

An unsightly, bulbous, crooked piece of rock where the beautiful, angular, straightened nose should be.

It irks me.

So much of this porous filth.

Surely, the fine, smooth, alluring stone lies underneath these layers of waste.

My chisel becomes a stake in my fist, raining down at furious speeds—

the force of a jackhammer.

Smash. Smash. Smash.

It has cracked.

My jaw clenches.

A crack in my masterpiece!

A mere sacrifice.

Collateral damage.

Unavoidable.

My mentor, her name is Superego, peers over my shoulder.

Her cool breath fans my cheek like spring’s gentle breeze;

notes of lavender swirl into my olfactory senses.

Her voice is soft, harmonious, concerned, motherly.

She advises,

“Dear pupil, work gently.

You are not a brute!

You are an artist!

Carefully carve away, lest you damage your work.”

My master, however, is louder.

He looms over my shoulder,

his breath hot, like summer’s sweltering peak burning my cheek.

The stench of spuming swamps permeates my nostrils.

His voice is shrill, cacophony, rebuking, patriarchal.

His name is Id, Superego’s sworn nemesis.

He commands,

“Keep at it, O slave of mine.

The clock is ticking!

Until I voice my approval, you shall work. And then I'll reward you!”

A reward! How I crave my master’s approval.

And then, I'll finally be done.

I’ll achieve perfection.

He dangles his stamp, a beautiful gold circular object, maroon lettering adorning velvety rubber.

I sigh and raise my chisel once more, blinking at the reflective surface.

I stare back at my unsightly, bulbous, crooked nose.

Back to work I shall.

And I proceed with my whittling.

[twidiarie]

Hii! Im so glad you're willing to write 4 him!! Ok so, Ik a lot of people didnt really like him in the first book(Also, I genuinly think you shoud read the novella "Unite me"-"Destroy me" to be precised since it contains 2 parts:Destroy me(Aarons pov and to be precised ) and Fracture me(Adam's pov).

Anyways, back to the request!! I REALLY loved Aaron in the fisrt 2 books(he was bacically a yandere bfr) and would really love it if you could do some hc for him(if possible ofc) or if you would like a scenario, here is the following one:

He was on a mission and got teleported to another world(like ours-Im gonna use she/her but if ur not doing female reader/darling then please ignore the pronounces I use!) and since he was hurt and all reader/darling helped him out by which I mean hosted him and helped him heal. A few days later they found the portal and he left but couldnt get her out of his mind and so he came back for her and she was like...no? I just randomly meet you while taking a stroll, I aint coming to your world or smth like that.

Anyways, if ur not willing to the headconons or scenario(ur choice) ur free to ignore this request!!

Also, if ur willing to do it, I do not mind waiting! Im honestly just so exited to finally see someone write yandere aaron(he is so underrated). Please, keep up the good work!

Btw, if somebody hasnt said this before to you, Imma say it bc somebody has to. I hope you have no cramps this cycle(I mean the ones who dont even let you get out of bed), you aint deserving them!

Please excuse me for yapping so much and my bad english since it is not my first language. Have a nice day/night/evening/morning/idk cheese and maks sure to drink enough water!

Also, here is another fanart bc yes:

DUDE I AM SO SORRY I mentally replied to this and forgot to... actually reply to this! I actually even brainstormed a whole idea based on what you wrote (I very much dig the whole isekai thing) but never actually got around to writing it ;; I've been super busy with college and work. I will definitely try to work on your request though! I think it'd be a fun challenge :) And thank you thank you your message was so sweet, I'm pretty sure it was evil uterus time when you sent me this and I did not get any cramps :33 And don't apologize! Your English is wonderful 🫶 So is your yapping, I am a yapper and I adore yappers.

[twidiarie]

So far, whats your opinion on the shatter me series?

great question!! I've been procrastinating on reading ignite me haha. I'm going to be super basic here and say "Aaron Warner hot" because I have a thing for yanderes ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯ I kind of like main girl's character development but I do get annoyed by how meek she is?? Sometimes? I get why, but still. I don't know. I don't think it's peak fiction or the best thing I've ever read or anything. I like Kenji, and Adam is...eh. I liked him in the first book kinda. Is it bad that I find him low-key boring 😭 imma be honest I have a goldfish memory so I don't t remember every plot point in detail but I'd say it was entertaining but not my favorite book series ever. And clearly not something I hyper fixate on because I forget to read the books lol I've re borrowed the second books like ten times before I finished it. I've gotten way more picky over what I read over the past few years + I stopped reading for a while since fanfiction is a thing and it is fantastic (pun intended). So ...a 6/10? I might give a review eventually on ignite me once I finish it!

Oh and I think it's weird how Juliette thinks Aaron's dad is hot NGL like girl 😭 be fr

[twidiarie]

aw I got tagged for the first time!! tysm @notlookingforalaska I am truly honored (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

♡ three ships: chilumi, hananene, hakyona (I'm not a huge shipper tbh I read more self insert content HHAHA)

♡ first ship: honestly I have no idea 😭 I wanna say kyoya and hikaru from beyblade but the very first ship I read a fic for was jelsa. The ship I remember first obsessing over was shadow x amy 💀

♡ last song: love. by wave to earth

♡ last movie: despicable me 4

I WENT WITH MY YOUNGER COUSINS THAT'S THE ONLY REASON (nah I'll be fr I unironically like the franchise)

♡ currently watching: my sweet mobster, just started crash landing on you, BNHA season 7, started a few episodes of community and uh gotta finish Brooklyn nine nine. Yes I am all over the place.

♡ currently reading: fracture me by tahereh mafi

♡ currently eating: I went out for dinner :3 I had chicken mandi, a yemeni dish!

♡ currently craving: y'know I could go for some dark chocolate ice cream + freshly sliced strawberries if you haven't had that combo YOU ARE MISSING OUTTT

Now for 9 people I want to know better! (no pressure to reblog ofc ofc)

@lavenderlhymes @magdamateo @ifuckedgoogletranslate @pascalskittycat @echoing-thoughts-blog @illarian-rambling @adreoss @accordingtolauren @auburncore

tagged by @themarydragon 🥰

9 people you want to know better tag

Three Ships: Zelink (Zelda/Link, Legend of Zelda), Shirbert (Anne/Gilbert from Anne of Green Gables or Anne With An E) and Locklyle (Lucy/Lockwood from Lockwood and Co)

First Ship: i joined tumblr in 2017 for BoTW Zelink and all of my fandom experience spiralled from here. i started playing LoZ games before that though, maybe 2008? and there was a fanfic tab (though it wasn't called like that) on the help website i used

Last Song: ......... "Last Night - Official Madison Song" by Chris Anderson and DJ Robbie (it's on my summer playlist bc of childhood nostalgia, i don't go out of my way to listen to it usually 😂)

Last Movie: Maze Runner: The Death Cure (justice for Newt)

Currently Reading: book wise, I just finished The Two Towers (and am not so patiently awaiting Return of the King to, well, return to the library so i can borrow it)

Currently Watching: Once Upon A Time (nearly done with S1)

Currently Eating: waiting for my dinner to cook (ratatouille and semolina and eggs)

Currently Craving: CHEESE. my kingdom riches gratitude for a scrap of french cheese!!!!

tagging: @js589 @ohmyoverland @hailqiqi @unnamednarrator @practicallyasleep @cateringfears @applesjuice @redplaidjacket @beckybubbles would love your thoughts on this if that's something you're up to :)

[twidiarie]

the taste of love is not just extravagant five course feasts and medium rare wagyu beef.

The taste of love is taking out the tomatoes from my omelets because I hate tomatoes.

The taste of love is cracking open walnuts and picking away at the shell gently, nuts rattling in a bowl.

The taste of love is al dente pasta, not too hard, not too soft, just right.

The taste of love is a perfect ratios of spices, my favorite flavors, rubbed onto tenderloin steak.

The taste of love is a bed of fresh, ripe and tart blueberries on cool greek yogurt, on warm, busy Monday mornings.

The taste of love is warm, soothing peppermint tea on chilly, calm Friday evenings.

The taste of love is being spoon fed warm rice with chicken curry, a gentle handkerchief brushing away the tears on my cheeks.

The taste of love is strawberry preserves poured into popsicle molds, crafted for sore throats.

the taste of love is hand tossed, heart shaped pizzas with olives as the eyes and a mushroom slice as the nose and a sliver of bell pepper as the smile.

The taste of love is chiffon cake baked from scratch, iced with the words “I love you”, crumbs melting on your tongue, the taste of triumph, the taste of support and congratulations.

The taste of love is the chef's finest ingredient.

Attention and care.

[twidiarie]

Farewell shy caterpillar!

Hi, little social butterfly!

She climbs out her cocoon.

Time to try again,

but it may have been too soon.

Flitting about, she pranced excitedly.

A garden, teeming with bloomed roses and bathed in dawn's nurturing glow.

She admires the other butterflies.

“Their wings are so pretty”, she thinks.

So she smiles, as bright and warm as the orange hues adorning her back.

She compliments, she comments.

And she senses.

She wonders, she second guesses.

Did she come off too strong? Did the gusts of wind from her excited flaps still their own?

Did she make them uncomfortable with her presence?

Was she vibrant or gaudy? Vivid or garish?

In their eyes, was she a fellow butterfly, or an odd moth?

So she frowns, as dim and dull as the brown hues stained on her back.

Creepy, unlikeable, unsightly.

Not pretty.

Her wings, where she wears her heart.

With one probe, they wither away into dust.

The burden of it all, she staggers as she retreats.

A garden, with wilting weeds and drowning in dusk's unforgiving gloom.

The little butterfly crawls into the haven, her cocoon.

She thinks and she thinks and she flaps no more.

The cocoon snaps shut.

Her wings clipped.

Bye, little social butterfly.

Hello to the awkward, lumpy caterpillar once more.

[twidiarie]

pink lemonade from trader joes

apple tarts from roadside carts

newly bloomed sunset rose

through sunflower fields

we prance and frolic

the sky sports soft yellows, blues, and purples

the youth of the day greets the youth in our souls

you are summer, my darling

squatting, my converse dusty with the earth's soil

fingers picking away, piles of strawberries in woven baskets

it was worth the toil

strawberry pie, fresh vanilla ice cream

the waves gently lap against our feet

sea salt on our tongues

make the dessert taste all the more sweet

the sky beams with pinks, reds, and orange

the matured day bids the two matured souls farewell

you are summer, my darling

[twidiarie]

I stare with disgust at this broken, useless child.

This silly little girl.

Bright eyed and chubby cheeked.

Feral and curious and passionate and loud and full of color. 

Her tongue is vibrant and full of hues.

I have tried to wash that stubborn tongue.

Oh, how I have tried to yank that troublesome, wild thing and tame it.

Bleach drips out of my lips and spills into hers. 

It burns, she wails and whines, but the stain remains.

Her language deafening, pops and stands out in the slew of silent, conforming, and comfortable grays.

So temperamental and naive.

So sensitive and so eager. 

Silly little girl.

Fantasy hungry, fiction loving, day dreamer.

She watches far too much television for a girl her age. 

She poisoned her eyes and called the trash heap the building blocks of her personality.

Fitting.

She drowns herself in the pages of juvenile, otherworldly nonsense.

A world where she is no longer herself

This world wasn't made for her? 

No, she wasn't made for this world.

If children are like sponges, she should be malleable.

She should soak up everything, into the pools of knowledge I've dunked her into.

All she soaks up is foolishness.

I've squeezed out her joy. 

So dry. So empty.

Silly little girl.

Yet she keeps growing. 

She won't eat what I tell her to. She demands for what she craves. Greedy, troublesome creature.

She eats and she eats until her throat closes up, with no room for air.

She eats and she eats, filling her stomach until the seams holding the flesh bag together strain and stretch.

She eats to fill the gaping void in her heart. 

The food can not go in there, silly little girl.

The barriers of time separate us. 

Yet she clings, forcing herself into my past, present and future

The solid film of these photos keeps us apart. 

How I wish for my fingers to pierce through, to strangle that wretched, swollen neck. 

She will breathe once I do. She will.

What was lodged and crammed in will free itself.

I can go back and weld her into what needed to be made.

So the silly little girl could be the wonderful, loveable little girl

The little girl who giggled more than she wept

The little girl with more friends than she could count on her index finger.

I must break what was broken into something resembling what should have been.

What her parents wanted.

What I wanted.

But yet, I also wish to pry my fingers off her little neck and hug her little body close to my own. 

To feel her warmth. For her to feel the little warmth I have to offer.

To stroke her hair and whisper gentle, tender words of affection. Of understanding. 

What she wanted.

What I wanted.

Would that have worked? Would it work? Will it work?

I stare at her. She can't see me. 

Silly little girl.

She doesn't know of my vitriol, my hatred, my pity, my sympathy, my love, my empathy.

Her dreams are locked away into the vaults in my mind.

I palm around in the dark expanse for the keys, grasping desperately. 

I must bring them into light. Into reality.

For her. 

For me.

Silly little girl,

who wears my face.

[twidiarie]

my head hurts from the burden of my miles and miles of locks that hang on

by millions of threads weaved into my skull

a matted and tangled mess

I open the window of my towel, miles and miles above the ground

the grass, the dirt, the comfort of cool breezes and warm rays of sunshine

nature

freedom

the tower that mother built. strong walls, impervious to the elements, I tell myself.

in secretion, they can not find me,

the monsters outside

But sometimes I notice the cracks and the leaks

the harsh biting winds that freeze my veins and the beating sun that melts my insides, nature

freedom

and sometimes I notice that

the monsters are inside, too

mother isn't here. not right now anyway

mother pops in and out whenever she wishes

to scold me for entertaining thoughts of impulse, to fling myself into danger

she coaxes me back into safety

into the dark corners of these four walls

I stare back, away from the world into the world I've created

my bubble of unfulfilled dreams and fantasies

where day and night blend into each other seamlessly, with no perceivable dichotomy

paint splattering my walls that depict the emotions and the feelings and the universe and everything that I have ever known expressed through the hues I understand

and the splotches of ink that cement my existence, immortalize my mind, stain my parchment

lights illuminate the stage of where I prance and I sing and I perform, draped in the world's finest silks woven out of starlight

for imaginary spectators and crowds

all wearing my face

in these moments,

I am an artist! I am a thinker! I am an engineer! I am a maker! I am whatever I want to be! I am so, so human!

worlds within worlds,

a reflection of the inside of my burdened, heavy head

it would be so simple,

to cut my tresses.

the knife is somewhere, in the piles of my creations

to work through the mats, to braid the mangled mess into a rope

the rope I can toss out the window into the world

but there's so much to do, isn't there?

I should wait. I should bide my time

the prince, he's coming

my savior, my love, the one with the true rope.

hope.

surely, he'll be here, someday

when the prince comes, I'll be out into the world with him, and all my desires trapped into bubbles will go pop pop and explode like fireworks

and everything will fall into place

just like magic

just like those fairytales

And like that, happily ever after.

right?

[twidiarie]

Ego. Ego reigns above all. His ego rejects that which he does not understand and he stares down at his spawn and commands them, plucking their eyes out and placing in his own. See the world as I do. Accept the world as I do. This is the path of righteousness. This is what God has intended.

To disrespect one's parents is a major sin, up the ranks with murder. I am a murderer of the pride of my father with my acrid and defiant tongue and I have poisoned the bonds of kin

But when I speak and say that God has not given thee the right to treat me unkindly. That mercy upon one's children earns God’s mercy. That arrogance was the first sin, that created the character of Satan. That even an ounce of pride will bar you from heaven’s gates. That God is the most merciful, the most loving. That God is just, so cruelty will also, be brought about to judgement

However my words fall on deaf ears. For he hears what he wills.

For him, his age, ever growing, is a testament to his wisdom. When he speaks, he is law. When i testify in court and brings the world as my defense the world is but a myth because he is king and the world shalt be bent to his will

By this she, I, my soul, me, myself, have irrevocably, inexplicably, been tortured in ways I only know of, yet I can not explain, for I myself do not know

What is reality, really?

[twidiarie]

I wonder that had I never blossomed into womanhood,

his affections would remain such and such and not rare and surprising. That I would come to expect his gentle affection, not that it would catch me off guard, make me squirm and question the man who I knew.

The man I desperately try to understand

His expression, so pained after raising his fists at what once was his precious bundle of joy.

Now his fists tremble in apology but not really an apology. For I drove him to this sin and I must be careful, for he is a slave to his nature, you see.

The remorse that he too has become his father, softens something in me, taking upon the blame he has accused me of, and I too am a slave to his nature, you see.

So, I empathize and I understand and I burrow myrage deep into the crevices of my being.

But it seeps through the cracks and it spills against my will. For I too, am a slave to his nature, you see.

And despite this, his demeanor, yet again, catches me off guard, makes me squirm and question the man I knew

The man I so desperately try to understand.

[twidiarie]

The feminine in me is detestable, the masculine in me is praisable. But I mustn't stray far from the bounds of my sex. I must be as delicate as a woman but not as frail as one, I must be as strong as a man. I must be as caring as a woman but I must not be as emotional as one, I must be as logical as a man. But my wit mustn't be too sharp, for I am soft, as a woman.

I say I am a soul before I am human before I am woman but my soul is so stained with womanhood that it seems that I can never truly disentangle with such a shameful, inferior thing, he laments.

The woman he could certainly ever understand is his mother, what woman other than her is worthy of his respect, of his empathy?

I could blame the natural, puberty. That I had I never reached adolescence, that I had never transitioned from moldable girl to stubborn woman, all would have been well.

My womb, destined to carry on his bloodline, was what it was instilled for. But the pain of shedding, my blood— not his—sacrificed monthly for the expectancy of life, to prepare itself for such a task?

Shameful. Culture is his ideology, the culture that is familiar yet so alien and I, too, am subject to its suffocation

But had I never been a woman at all, had I been a boy, he promises his bruises would have been plentiful, as I had wished.

However, I know well that they would still be left unseen. For men are destined to endure suffering without the comfort of the release of their tears.

Perhaps I would have suffered more as a man, with my womanly soul.

[twidiarie]

The strict pragmatist who rejects the artist within himself shall reject and mock the artist who displays herself as such, so she too, will become what he is.

The cycle continues

The aggressive, assertive beast who rejects the sensitive tenderness within himself shall reject the empathetic, maternal, soul who displays herself as such as, so she too, will become what he is.

The cycle continues

[twidiarie]

I hold up nothing to show for my pain but myself and I mustn't show myself so therefore my pain is nothing and I am nothing

he despises me so, he loves me so

I defy him so, I obey him so

I embody his rebellious soul, I embody his submissive soul

I am his flesh, his blood, I am his kin, and yet I am so far removed. His genes are my blessings, my faults my own

My virtues his teachings my shortcomings the world's teachings, outside the one he has created

I am him and I am not him and I am not enough of him and he is not enough for me

We are chasing each other, constantly and I am always, always behind

I musnt be on top I mustn't, even with the name he has bestowed me, to be the pinnacle,

I am a woman, he is a man,

it isn't my place he tells me, he commands me, he drills a hole into my skull and bypasses my ears to pour this universal truth in, drowning my mind

His words not mine, his words, never mine

My words must be his, or they do not exist

The day I gained my mind was the day of my undoing

For my mind I bartered my soul

I am his masterpiece, his failure. Piece by piece he took his chisel and etched his truth, ripping out mine, discarding the dissatisfactory, erosion has commenced

Decay has turned it black. He no longer had to sink his claws into me, it began to fall apart all by its lonesome

[twidiarie]

his marks on me, visible were but one or two, far by few

when he lost his temper, unruly, violent

not unlike the wild beasts, the lions, he is so fascinated and enraptured by

The pride he claims to have dominion over, the pride he exudes

when she, his other half, failed to tame him so

holding him back, begging

she could not recognize him. He mustn't hurt the tainted mix of their bloodlines

The creation that is i

now I wish, that there were more bruises

evidence of scars

No one can see the marring of my mind, my soul, can they?