yfxjihye

[yfxjihye]

yfxwonpil

years later the two left on separate paths. little did wonpil know his box of art tools would be the scissors that cut his strings with jihye. forbidden to talk or even see her, he grew up with regrets and hopes of one day seeing not only her, but her drawings as well. he was now at sunhwa, a newbie trying to get through school peacefully. his soccer practice had finished and so did his conversation with his coach. “tell your mom i said hi.” he could only smile and nod, hoping this conversation would end so he could go drown himself with only the finest porn school had to offer: food. “ 땅은이죠, 선생님.” and thankfully after he said that, the old man left. b l e s s u p. as wonpil began walking away, his name was called from afar. a ball, kicked too far landed right by him on the bleachers. he threw it back and once he was about to continue his way, his name was called once again except this time, it sounded feminine.

“땅은아지...”

she remembers him now in vignettes. the boy with the monotone voice and a goofy accent; he visited her almost every day, and to hear his voice through the bars of the gate was enough for her to realize that she wasn’t alone anymore--she had him. but just as anything that she ever loved as a child, he, too, was taken away from her.  if only she hadn’t been so careless with his gifts. if only she hadn’t fallen asleep on her bedroom’s rug, her drawings scattered across the floor along with his gifts. if only.

she remembers how she slipped her drawings through the cracks of the gate just so that she’d feel as if her art was appreciated, even in the slightest bit. she drew different rooms of the mansion just to show him what it looked like on the inside, and she would ask him to draw what it looked like outside of those gates (what lied beyond the gates that kept them apart). and so, the two children would exchange drawings depicting isolation and freedom. 

but her father never let her see him again. he made sure that jihye was guarded every second of the day. he beat her much more often after he found her art materials. he made her believe she deserved it. she was supposed to put her energy into something better than “something as pointless as art.”

a few of the phrases that her father mentioned as his daughter lied on cold marble, numb and                                                                           bruised

you’ll never see that boy again.

do you hear me?

you did this to him. 

you did this to yourself.

you’re just as pathetic as your mother. both of you, pathetic, really, wasting your time in arts.

do something useful with your life instead of tormenting me with your ridiculous dreams. 

the entire time, however, she couldn’t stop thinking about what had become of her friend. did her father make him and his family disappear? her father was certainly cruel enough to do so. it terrified her, the thought of never being able to see her dear friend ever again. the thought of not being able to show him any of her drawings anymore. 

she remembered his story of how he was terrified of seeing a man beat his partner up. she wanted to tell him that it was something that happened in the mansion every day. she wanted to tell him that it was normal in their household. he could’ve saved her, but as far as she knew, what her father did was what happened in other homes too. she knew that there was something wrong about it, but she didn’t want to scare her only friend off. she decided that what he had seen was enough for another child to ever experience in their life. she didn’t want to lose him. so, she stayed quiet. 

“wonpil-ah,” she calls out with a quiet tremble in her voice. it’s been so long since she called his name. it was as if they had never parted. it was him. he was the wonpil, her wonpil--she knew it in her bones. she would finally be able to hug him, and not settle with placing her hands against cold metal just to try to hold him. he was right there, no bars separating her from him. 

4. the girl and the dream catcher

[yfxjihye]

Yes, she’s electric and yes, she’s a monster at times.

Mary Jo Bang, from Louise in Love; “In The Quieter Aftermath” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[yfxjihye]

[yfxjihye]

⌛

status: no longer accepting

⌛: the voicemail my muse leaves on your phone when your muse hasn’t been heard from for the fifth night this week

she stares at her phone in contemplation, her head rested upon intertwined fingers. “well, i don’t really know her, and i’ve only met her once–twice, but i don’t think her being drunk counts,” she thinks to herself. she lets out a deep sigh, “but, i mean, if i brought her to safety once–wouldn’t i have wasted my time getting her to safety if she’s dead now? then, i guess i’m calling just to confirm if i’ve wasted my time.”

jihye wouldn’t have been worrying about this if her goddamn teacher didn’t worry so much about her students. 

“jihye, do you know of yeeun’s whereabouts? she hasn’t attended class for about a week now,” her teacher approaches her.

“uhm, no, i don’t think so–is something wrong?” jihye replies politely.

“it’s probably nothing, but could you just try to find out for me and your classmates? we’re quite worried for her safety,” jihye nods in response to this, quietly regretting that she had ever asked if anything was wrong.

why did their teacher ask jihye about it? her and yeeun weren’t exactly friends, so jihye wouldn’t have the slightest idea of where yeeun might be. jihye sure as hell wasn’t her keeper either, but she had always felt this odd sense to protect the other since the day she first saw her.

she quickly grabbed her phone, then took a deep breath before dialing yeeun’s number. she began to get some of her words together in the last few seconds that she had before yeeun picked up, but she pauses when she’s answered by an automated voice telling her leave a message at the beep.  

“hey, this is jihye from art class. i haven’t seen you at all this week, and we had to write down a bunch of notes for the project. everyone in class is worried about you, so they told me to give you a call to make sure you’re alright. hope you’re not lying in a ditch somewhere. give me a call once you get this message, so i can let everyone else know that you’re fine.”

[yfxjihye]

⚰: my muse’s reaction to watching yours die from afar

status: no longer accepting

⚰: my muse’s reaction to watching yours die from afar

in the midst of sirens, flashes of red and blue, and shattered glass, chung jihye lies helpless in an ambulance. she had never meant to take a life that night. she had never meant to damage herself any more than she already was.

everything is hazy, but she tries to remember. they were driving home from a party that night,

“put your seat belt on, idiot,” she drunkenly murmurs to the other, recklessly swerving into the next lane.

“listen, you may be one year older than me, but i think i’m the smarter one here. driving while you’re drunk, how irresponsible,” he reaches over the lightly punch her arm.

“hey, hey! i’m driving, stop that. you can’t hit me, you’re supposed to treat me like royalty, jackass,” she retaliates by playfully poking at his sides.

as the two playfully prodded at each other, she had failed to notice that the traffic light had turned red. the next thing she knows, bright lights flash before her eyes. she feels a sharp pain on her left side. she’s too scared to look, but she couldn’t if she wanted to anyway as she couldn’t even move her neck. 

everything is hazy. “wonpil–” she stares at the seat next to her, glass shards laid on the leather where he was seated just a second ago. she painfully raises herself with her right arm, getting a small glimpse of his body lying a few feet away from her car. for a moment, she tries to believe that she had just passed out, and that this was just some sort of twisted nightmare of hers. but she sees the blood dripping from his head, and she hears him calling her name quietly. everything was just too vivid to be some fucked up nightmare.

everything is hazy. she shouts his name as if he could actually hear her. she begins to blare the car’s horn, trying to let him know that she was awake. there is no response. she squints her eyes to see if he was trying to speak at all–and she swears that she could see that stupid grin of his plastered on his face, underneath the small shards of glass piercing through it.

everything is hazy. “wonpil, i can’t move,” she desperately calls out, hoping that he’d forgive her for not being able to hold his hand and tell him that everything was going to be okay. she begins to shout faintly, ignoring the blunt pain spreading across her entire body, “i can’t move, wonpil! don’t move! you’re going to be fine–just–give me a second to try to get to you, okay?” he doesn’t respond. two men began to surround him, placing him on a stretcher, “why aren’t you trying to revive him? why aren’t they–” she’s frantic. she pushes at whatever is left of the car’s door, and falls on the pavement, screaming in pain. it hits her all at once; every nerve in her body is stabbed, over and over again. “you’re not even fucking trying! make him breathe! do something!” she cries out at the men surrounding his body, but they don’t seem to hear her.

everything is hazy. a few seconds later, she’s placed on a stretcher, but she keeps her eyes on wonpil. she weakly grasps the arm of one of the men pushing her stretcher, “tell those men with my friend that he’s on our school’s soccer and volleyball team–so, he’s healthy… tell them not to give up on him–tell them that he’ll wake up, just keep trying to revive him. please, tell them.” he couldn’t understand her quiet mumbling, and so he nodded anyway.  

everything is hazy. her vision goes dark, and she rests with the false idea of waking up to his terrible accent. she never even got to hold his hand.

[yfxjihye]

            ■ ■ ■ ■  ♚   BAEK HO  ♚   ■ ■ ■ ■

         WHITE TIGER | WEST | AUTUMN           choi eunha / chung jihye / jung soojung / song aegi / yang sowon

[yfxjihye]

i bet u want the janitor's corn broom if you know what i mean ;)

“Someone call the nurse. I’m feeling nauseous.”  

[yfxjihye]

SEND ME A SYMBOL FOR ANGST;

☔: my muses reaction to opening their front door and seeing yours drenched in rain

⚡: how my muse calms yours in a lightening storm while they’re pulled over on the side of the road

☆: my muse comforting yours while they get a tattoo

☏: my muse’s reaction to getting a phone call from the hospital about your muse

☯: what my muse says to yours after they haven’t spoken for five hours since a fight

✏: my muse’s letter to yours that they left after they passed away

⚰: my muse’s reaction to watching yours die from afar

✿: my muse’s reaction to leaving a cut on your muse’s body

♒: my muse’s reaction to finding your muse bruised and beaten on their doorstep

⚈: my muse’s reaction to finding drugs in your muse’s handbag

✺: my muse protecting yours from a sleaze at the club

☠: my muse’s reaction to being told that your muse is missing, and presumed dead

☺: my muse finding yours on the side of the road, hours away from home

✖: the last thing my muse says to yours before leaving for good

⌛: the voicemail my muse leaves on your phone when your muse hasn’t been heard from for the fifth night this week

☕: my muse comforting yours after the death of a loved one

⚱: my muse’s reaction to waking up to yours muse, beaten by mine, but my muse has no recollection of the night before

☉: my muse’s reaction to finding yours in a public bathroom, drugged and almost unconscious

SPECIFY WHICH MUSE ON MINE AND YOUR BEHALF

[yfxjihye]

[yfxjihye]

yfxjihoon

“you’re quite the romantic, but i’m really not too into public declarations of affection. i’ll play your game though – what’s this favor of yours?”

“favor?” she stopped drawing for a brief moment to look up at him. “well, i can’t really think of anything specific at the moment, lee jihoon--but, i’m an art student. so, i can assure you that i can be very creative when i want to,” she smirked at the unfinished sketch, continuing her statement as she began to erase some features she wasn’t satisfied with, “however, when i do come up with this creative favor of mine, i will let you know. the only question here is, how creative of a favor are you willing to help me with?” 

he looked much more different than he did a few minutes before. there was this gleam in his eye that let her know that he lived for challenges, and that he wasn’t one to go down without a fight. she isn’t the type to make bets of any sort, but here she is, faking her way through this bet with an obscurely flirtatious-toned voice and a lot of false confidence. what was she supposed to do now that she proposed such a bold offer? she refused to back down. she’s not a quitter.

but chung jihye isn’t a loser either. now, she doesn’t always aim for honest victories. don’t get her wrong, it’s rewarding when she wins things without deceit--but she loves winning far more than honesty. with her mind completely set on winning, she flips her journal a few pages back.

and there it is, an unfinished sketch fairly similar to the one she’s accomplishing now. the only question now is, how bold is she feeling today? is he observant enough to notice the mischievous grin on her face?

but something’s different. she feels bold enough to actually do it, but she just can’t bring herself to use this advantage of hers. she scans the unfinished sketch from a few days ago, weighing her options. goddamn it, it’s something about him that just makes her want to actually win. so, she turns back to the sketch that she was previously working on. she muffles a “what have you done to me?” under the pencil pressed softly against her lips as she studied the sketch.

as long as she stays focused on her work, she should finish before her time is up. she catches him in the corner of her eye, moving a bit more than usual, “no funny business though, lee jihoon. if you follow some sort of moral code or whatever, tilt your head a bit more to the left and stay still.”

can i be close to you?

[yfxjihye]

chung jihye is not the first person you go to for help, not unless you’re absolutely insane. however, if you find yourself black-out drunk outside of a club, you won’t even have to ask her for help at all. she is not all apathy; she has a mother who did her best to love her mistake daughter. she did not raise her to be a completely apathetic being. that is not what she would want.

there, on a busy gangnam sidewalk, a drunk girl lies completely unconscious--and chung jihye knows this mess of a drunk. a few glances at each other during school was enough to push jihye to do the right thing--but, of course, life just always seems to disagree with her whenever she tries to do something kind. she comes home that night with sore limbs, as well as puke-stained clothes and shoes. 

the sunday after the horrific event, she comes to notice that her handkerchief isn’t in her laundry. she soon realizes that she never asked for it back when she lent it to the puking drunk. just when she loses all hope of ever finding the drunk, vomiting idiot--she walks into her classroom. only she’s more decent now that her hair is out of her face and not covered in chunks of slightly digested food.

“ugh,” she finds herself staring at her watch as she stands in a line at a coffee shop a few minutes away from the campus. she only agreed to partnering up with this girl because of a beige handkerchief with the initials ‘p.c.’ embroidered in maroon cursive. it was one of her mother’s few goodbye gifts to her. her mother couldn’t really offer much, so she gave her daughter the things that she used during her years in university. so, next to a ring, a sapphire pendant, a copy of the little prince, a pair of vintage mary jane heels, and a crumpled 5x7 image of a young park chunhwa standing in front of seoul national university with a genuine smile (of which jihye has only seen when she was four and crying over some icing that she got on her nose)--this handkerchief was very important to her. 

she feels her phone vibrating almost every minute in her pocket, and she knows it’s her partner. so, she decides to finally stop ignoring her. 

[ ✉ ↬ handkerchief: sorry running a bit late ]

[ ✉ ↬ handkerchief: i’m getting some urgent errands done ]

[ ✉ ↬ handkerchief: i will be there asap ]

‘asap’ meant twenty minutes if she skipped her morning coffee and ran back to the campus. she needed her dry cappuccino, and she just didn’t have it in her to run so early in the morning. so, in this case, ‘asap’ meant close to half an hour. 

` ☆ a for effort

she sits in her room patiently waiting with a phone that won’t shut up, study things all set out in front of her, and a newly-washed, neatly-folded handkerchief sitting on one of her notebooks all ready to be returned.

is her partner running late? did her partner totally bail on her? yeeun licks the tip of her manicured thumb and tries to keep a level head. a positive outlook. she keeps her attention diverted–keeps texting, keeps scrolling, keeps waiting.

[yfxjihye]

yfxten

He tugs her into the room, handing her his flashlight “hold this” he says in such a serious tone, before walking carefully towards his seat “shit, it’s not here” he whines “hold the flashlight higher” 

“ten, you know damn well that you just ruined such an amazing line,” she rolled her eyes, following behind him.

she stands on top of a desk to hold the flashlight over him, and to get a better glimpse of what he was looking for. “what’s not here? you have to give me some sort of hint here, if you expect me to help you at all,” she raises her arm above her head in response to the other’s order. she begins to become impatient. she’s been standing behind him, watching him grope around in the darkness for something that was obviously precious enough to push him to do something as drastic as waking jihye up in the middle of the night, and dragging her out of bed to get into some type of mischief.

“listen, you haven’t really given me much information about this ‘search and rescue’ mission of yours--so, if this turns out to be some sort of felony, that i am now an accomplice of, you better pray to god that i am nowhere near a blunt weapon if we get caught,” she warns him. 

there’s really not much to do on missions where you’re supposed to take on the role of ten’s sidekick. you shut up, and you try to do the least amount of work so that they don’t have much dirt on you if you two get caught.  

her gaze wanders around the classroom. every object in the classroom is where it’s supposed to be; the chairs are all pushed in, the board is all cleared up, and hell, even the teacher’s desk is all tidied up (no doubt by some student trying to get impress their teacher. pathetic, really.). something in the corner of the room, however, catches her attention. 

a book is sprawled across the floor, and jihye couldn’t stand the unkempt view. she steps off of the desk, holding on to ten’s shoulder for stability. she leaves the flashlight on the desk, making sure that the light is focused as much as possible on ten. she walks over to the book, picking it up and placing it back in the empty space in the tiny bookshelf where it supposedly belongs. 

as she was about to return to ten to resume her position on top of the desk, she notices a dark rectangular figure where the sprawled book was. as dark as it was in the room, she managed to open the cartridge, but found no cd inside. she figures that it’s probably a dvd that the class borrowed from the library, and places it on top of the other cases. she counts six cases in total, including the one that she had just found.  

she returns to ten, and steps back up on the desk, “tell me how you guys managed to borrow six dvds from the library when the limit is five. did you slip the librarian some extra cash? i always thought that the librarian only accepted bribes from parents.”

the princess and the pauper

[yfxjihye]

surrender

she was back. and despite all of the whispers and the rumors, she was back. she was in baek ho, but at what cost? she knew how the school would react to her return; she wasn't expecting a goddamn crown and a huge pity card signed with empty we-missed-yous and fake we're-glad- you're-backs upon her return--but fuck, they couldn't even keep their whispers in class at a minimum. they didn’t even try to be remotely discreet. she couldn't bring herself to force a smile, or even a nonchalant shrug. she just couldn't face them. 

this was her fall of grace; it consists of anxious gazes at her desk, tapping fingers awaiting the end of each class, the scent of absinthe burned into her uniform (which was, of course, overlooked by staff because of the few hundreds wired to their accounts.), and a lot of waiting. waiting for the day that the whispers would end. waiting for the day that she could return to how she once was. (she's still waiting.) 

she had found sanctuary at the bleachers. she didn’t mind the ruckus beneath her because she knew that any conversation held by the athletes weren’t about her. the bleachers were the only place were she wouldn’t be the focus of any conversation--and for this, she was glad that some of the sport-obsessed athletes paid their way into this school. 

she was fine for the most part, but for weeks on end, there was a soccer player that she caught many times staring at her. and here it comes again; the anxious gazes at her notes, the tapping of fingers on her books--it was exhausting. but she was tired. she was tired of people staring. it was enough. she's had enough. she had decided that she wasn’t going to let them take the bleachers away from her too. 

"hey, you. why don't you take a picture? it'll last longer," she's answered by his confused expression. "yes, you. what are you? deaf?" she yells at his lack of response. he didn’t response--at least, not with words. “oh, fuck me,” she thought to herself, panic made obvious by her expression. 

she wastes no time, and apologizes almost immediately after. their first conversation ends in ripped pages (a communication system that jihye had come up with after observing how reading her lips got more difficult for him as an hour passed.) and promises of never telling anyone else about their conversations after school. she learns how to sign thank you with her hands, and he learns how to draw an oak tree. this continues for the next two weeks or so. she learns how to sign a few other phrases such as “i hate this school,” “i don’t understand soccer at all,” and “calculus is a pain in the ass.” he learns how to draw almost every feature of a person’s face. 

one day, she waited at the bleachers to tell him about the 92 she got on the calculus test he helped her study for. she never got to tell him that day. so, she waits for him for the next couple of weeks. he never shows up. 

exams are fast approaching. the bleachers are empty, and she’s on her own. oak trees haven’t been drawn in months, she had forgotten how to sign most of the phrases he had taught her, and she had begun to solve calculus problems on her own. a half-empty bottle of whiskey is held loosely in her right hand, her blouse drenched in her tears. this was a result of a call to her mother; of whom she hasn't talked to since she arrived at sunhwa.  

a small fragment of a sad conversation between a failure of a daughter and her mother: 

how are you?

i’m fine, jihye. how have you been? 

is he still drinking? (this is all that she wanted to know. three years, and this is all that she could think of.)

yes, but he's getting better. 

yeah, like hell he is.

(she knows that ‘better’ means less visits, but worse injuries. she thinks about her mother--the broken bones, purple marks along her limbs, blood dripping from the corner of her lips. she knows that her mother is too tired to defend herself because there’s nothing left to save in that godforsaken mansion. this means that she has to get out of school much sooner than she had expected.)

and here stands the deaf boy who dug his own grave by signing, “how are you?” her eyes are red and her fists are clenched. she needs something, anything, to get her mind off of the image of her mother lying still on the floor. “fuck you. you do not get to come back here after all this time. fuck you, leo.” 

for a moment, she feels the knot in her throat, she chokes on her words. she fails to notice that she’s talking to leo; a boy who hasn’t done her much wrong. he was nothing but ever kind to her. but chung jihye is a storm; fickle and violent. she smashes the bottle, ignoring the gash in her hand. she wants him to be angry. she needs a concrete reason to be angry at him. 

but she couldn’t control her temper. not this time. she finds herself punching him moments after, blood staining his shirt and her blazer. 

[yfxjihye]

revelations

time is slow. time is unforgiving. time ruthlessly brings upon revelations one way or another. 

jihye watches the clock tick, second after unforgiving second. a second turns into an minute; a minute into an hour; and hours into almost an entire day. her time today is spent on a biology project with the girl who always kept to herself since first year. she didn’t know much about her partner, quite frankly because jihye never quite found her significant (meaning, she had nothing to offer jihye.) in any way. she was a sponsored kid, and that’s all that there was to it. 

how was she supposed to start off a presentation built upon lies? 

(today, we will be discussing the effects of healthy and safe home environments on the human psyche. can you explain the effects of alcohol, anger, and unhealthy relationships? perhaps the scars on jihye and her mother are enough of an answer.)

“i’ll start, i suppose,” jihye prompts, stretching her arms after hours of putting together the slides’ basic information alongside her partner.  her story hasn’t changed since first year. if anyone tried to look into it, they’d come across a website her father had his employees set up for her alibi (because god forbid his bastard child tarnishes his image with the truth.). it goes like this: a young jihye was born into a middle class family. the father is a man named chung jisook and the mother is a woman named chung jiyoung. the father simply wanted to do better for his family; and so, with the proper connections, he managed to build a corporation that manufactures technological bits and pieces. in this story, jihye had a happy childhood, and is grateful to have been brought up in such a loving family. 

as she rather dully delivers her rehearsed lines, she notices a picture frame near her partner’s bedside lamp.  she stares at the picture, a man (yes, she remembers him all too well.) smiles warmly alongside a woman and a younger hanbyul. it was the kind man who waited for her father at the doorstep; the man who slipped red ginseng candies in her tiny palms when no one was looking, and described nearby parks to her--she always believed that he was somehow her father. she had to hope that the wretched man who lived in the house was nothing but a cover-up--that he was nothing but some sick joke that some twisted god placed in her life to test her. she had to believe that all of it was just a sick joke. that was all she had to look forward to in life as a seven-year-old: two pieces of red ginseng candy, stories about children playing on this huge, red slide (something that she looked for as soon as she got out, of course; it was not as magical as she hoped it would be--but important, nonetheless.), warm brown eyes, and his rather amusing jokes. she remembers him talking about his daughter who was just as old as her. she also remembers how hope burned within her--only to be smothered by a suffocating thing called reality. 

“so--your turn,” jihye questions the other, “what kind of family did you have?” straight and blunt. she doesn’t even bother easing into this type of conversation anymore. having met a few sponsored kids, she knows how proud most of them are of their families (and she has always listened to them, consumed by jealousy.). she was expecting some sort of pitiful story for some reason; the kind where one of their parents die, or where the parents have fucked up so bad in life that their kid had to carry the burden--but this was different. jihye needed hanbyul’s story to be different. the man in the picture was the closest jihye ever had to an actual father. hell, he was her father. the man who beat jihye’s mother till she was nothing but a bloody, bruised almost-too-close-to-a-corpse shield lying on top of jihye--he was not her father. this is what she knew at the age of seven. 

“uhm, is your family somewhat wealthy? even just a little? the man in the picture, he’s your driver, correct?” jihye questioned the other. he couldn’t have been her father. he just couldn’t be. the man still living in that horrid house every weekend--he just can’t be jihye’s real father. this is something she still has to believe in to get on with her life. “oh, but then you wouldn’t have been sponsored... how did your family get someone influential enough to get you into sunhwa?” jihye does not realize the harshness of her words--and no, she does not apologize for them. 

she remembered that she had made the mistake of telling her father about the candies and the magical red slide. she had hoped for him to begin giving her candies, or even bringing her out just once to see this wonderful slide. one day, the man with kind eyes never came back. his very last words to jihye were, “your father said he’s going to give me a better job. i might be switched out in a day or two. he can be kind at times too... i really hope that you’ll be able to see that one day.” she also remembers how she couldn’t even look him in the eye after telling her such lies. and so, she remembered her etiquette teacher who never came back after a tiny secret had slipped her lips a few years back. a sudden fear crept over her, “are both of your parents still alive?”

[yfxjihye]

♕ -- hey! so, i don’t really have an excuse as to why these drafts have remained unfinished for about a century--and i’d like to apologize for that. i will have all of these starters and replies that are hidden in my drafts perfected and posted sometime tomorrow. if for some reason you still don’t see the starter or reply that i owe you, this is me granting you the right to fight me. literally, just come up to my inbox and fight me into giving you the amazing response that you deserve because i know that you’ve been waiting for years. the tracker that i’ve updated, as well as some plots, can be found here. i tend to get a bit unorganized at times; so, if i forgot about you, please let me know (and feel free to lightly hit me on the head with an object of your choice!). if you want to plot with me, please don’t hesitate to shoot me a message because i can guarantee that i really want to write with you as well. i want to write with as many people as possible before my summer is up! okay, that is pretty much it. oh, also, i love you guys. now i’m done, and off to bed as it’s four in the morning. 

                                                                                                                                                                 -ℛ

[yfxjihye]

a girl is told she is nothing. she hums into the soft dark - just wait,till i come back & eat you bare.till your heart cries blue. till your bones are fear

Scherezade Siobhan, log #1 (Published in The Undertow Review)

[yfxjihye]

I am trying to learn how to give and foster forgiveness in a body that wants none of it.

Sierra DeMulder, from “For My Niece Livia, Age 8,”Today Means Amen (via lifeinpoetry)