Let the mind be free
Like rustling leaves on a tree
Until, you rest in your dream
Let the mind be free
Like rustling leaves on a tree
Until, you rest in your dream
I get scared of having good things.
I feel like I don’t deserve them.
Because all I’ve ever known was bad things.
… And I got used to that.
It’s 2 a.m and one of my kids is making me French Toast. Life makes me laugh sometimes.
I do not.
To stop writing for you.
- descending into madness over here
In case you’re wondering
Oh you think I take too many photos of my body? That’s too bad for you. I’ve battled with my body insecurities my whole life and I’ve finally got a body I am proud of that I am continuously working hard to maintain. So hell yeah I’m gonna show it off, because I know it looks damn fine.
- my face is another fucking story.
I’m not asking you to fall in love with me but perverted lust and obsessive adoration would be nice
- unknown via MissUnsolicited
@thotexperiment via MissUnsolicited
- if you should ever feel unloved
Why did you leave me? You said you changed. You said you were different from all those years ago. Why did you lie to me? Why did you stop talking to me? What did I do? Did I even do anything? Was I too much for you? Did that day we spent together mean anything to you? Or was I just another girl in your bed? Why do you make me feel like I’m not enough? Why can’t you just message me and say you miss me? Why do I miss you? Why can’t I get you out of my head? Why are you in my dreams? I can’t escape you in my sleep. Please just tell me what went wrong. Tell me if you’re scared or if I did something wrong. I won’t hurt you but all you do is hurt me. I thought you changed. I just want answers but all I get is “read at …” Why can’t you be man enough to tell me what’s in your head? Why cant you tell me what is going on with us? Is there even an us? I don’t know anymore. I really wanted us to be together but you go days without talking to me and that doesn’t bother you at all. How is that possible? I thought we had a connection. I thought we clicked. But maybe that’s my fault. I shouldn’t have went head over heels for you.
“The best thing you can ever be given is loyalty. Unwavering support and understanding makes the heart so full.”
Young & dumb — but things I cannot change.
Callista knew there were bandits on the road she had taken, but she didn’t really expect to see any. They came out of the trees, brandishing axes and knives, but Callista kept on going. Even her pack mule seemed more afraid than she was. All she had to do was pretend she didn’t know those men, or their business.
One of the men caressed his fiery henna-dyed beard. He laid a hand on the pack mule’s neck and smiled at the beast. It was almost as if the man related more with that beast than with her, a flesh-and-blood human being.
“This one isn’t complaining,” the man said. Although he glanced at Callista, he seemed to be talking to his band instead. “You can tell from the eyes. Sometimes, they are so tired, and you know they’re being driven like slaves. Not this one. He has a kind mistress.”
Callista’s pulled her dull purple robes closer, and she ran a hand over the veil that covered the lower part of her face. The pack mule had stopped. Callista did not know how to get it to move again. Everything the mule had done so far had been so natural that Callista had never needed to do a thing beyond lay a hand on it and tell it when it was time to go or stop.
“What could your cargo be, I wonder?” the man asked. His hand ran from the mule’s neck, to the back, and onto the bags sagging down the side. In one hand, he held a sharp, curved knife with a hooked end. With his other hand, he unbuckled the bag.
Callista’s mind offered her the option to beg. She not only rejected the offer, but felt indignant that it had presented to her in the first place. She laid a hand on one of the bags on the pack mule, over on the other side from the man.
“What’s this?” the man pulled out a wooden case, long and thin. Sticking his knife back onto his belt, he unlatched the case and found a scroll inside.
The other men reached into the bags themselves, taking out even more cases, some smaller and some bigger, and each one with its own wood lines.
“Just a bunch of paper,” one of the bandits said. Another spat on the scroll, which made Callista jerk.
“Put it back!” she cried, despite herself. “Why are you touching it? It’s not yours.”
The red-bearded bandit grinned like a little boy and walked around the mule, still holding the scroll in his hands. “So there’s a mouth behind that veil,” he mused. “Will wonders never cease. I wonder what else is in there.”
Callista held her hips. “There’s a mind that can read those scrolls instead of defiling them,” she said.
Her sharp, steady retort quieted the bandits, many of whom looked to their bearded leader for a comeback.
The bandit’s grin faded off like smoke dissipating from a campfire. He handed the scroll to Callista. “Read it,” he said. “Loud, so everyone’s hearing.”
Callista took the scroll and glanced at it calmly. When she raised her eyes to the bandit again, they were smiling.
“It’s music. These are all scrolls of music,” she said. “You’ll need a lyre and a guitar, to play it.”
“Hevar has a guitar, doesn’t he?” one of the men said.
“Then I can teach your Hevar to play this song,” Callista smiled at the lanky soul who’d said that.
The red-bearded man shook his head and gestured his hands at the band, instructing them to return to the trees.
Callista watched them recede into the woods, and she suppressed a laugh.
Once there was a girl who was too sure of herself. Not everyone would call her beautiful, but they admitted that she had a certain grace that intimidated more often than it charmed. She was not, society agreed, someone you wanted to cross. She keeps her heart in a porcelain box, people whispered, and they were right.
She didn’t like to open the box. The sight of her heart was unsettling. It always looked both smaller and bigger than she expected. It thumped against the white porcelain. A fleshy red knot.
Sometimes, though, she’d put her palm on the box’s lid, and then the steady pulse was a welcome music.
One night, someone else heard its melody. A boy, hungry and far from home. He was—if you must know—a thief. He crept up the walls of the girl’s palace. He wriggled strong fingers into a window’s slim opening. He pulled it open wide enough to fit himself and pushed inside.
While the lady slept—yes, he saw her in bed, and looked quickly away—he stole the box without realizing what the box held. He knew only that he wanted it. His nature was full of want, he was always longing after something, and the longings he understood were so painful that he did not care to examine the ones that he didn’t understand.
Any member of the lady’s society could have told him that his theft was a bad idea. They’d seen what happened to her enemies. One way or another, she always gave them their due.
But he wouldn’t have listened to their advice. He took his prize and left.
It was almost like magic, her skill. Her father (a god, people whispered, but his daughter, who loved him, knew him to be wholly mortal) had taught her well. When a gust of wind from the gaping window woke her, she caught the thief’s scent. He’d left it on the casement, on her dressing table, even on one of her bed curtains, drawn ever so slightly aside.
She hunted him.
She saw his path up the palace wall, the broken twigs of fox-ivy he’d used to clamber up, then down. In some places the ivy branches were as thick as her wrist. She saw where it had held his weight, and where it hadn’t and he’d almost fallen. She went outside and tracked his footprints back to his lair.
You could say that the thief knew the moment she crossed his threshold what he held in his tightening fist. You could say that he should have known well before then. The heart shuddered in its cool white box. It hammered inside his hand. It occurred to him that the porcelain—milky, silken, so fine that it made him angry—might very well shatter. He’d end up with a handful of bloody shards. Yet he didn’t relinquish what he held. You could imagine how he felt when she stood in his broken doorway, set her feet on his earthen floor, lit up the room like a terrible flame. You could. But this isn’t his story.
The lady saw the thief.
She saw how little he had.
She saw his iron-colored eyes. Sooty lashes, black brows, darker than his dark hair. A grim mouth.
Now, if the lady had been honest, she would have admitted that earlier that evening as she’d lain in bed, she’d woken for the length of three heartbeats (she had counted them as they rang loud in her quiet room). She’d seen his hand on her white-covered heart. She had closed her eyes again. The sleep that had reclaimed her had been sweet.
But honesty requires courage. As she cornered the thief in his lair, she found that she wasn’t so sure of herself. She was sure of only one thing. It made her fall back a little. She lifted her chin.
Her heart had an unsteady rhythm they both could hear when she told the thief that he might keep what he had stolen.
- The Winner’s Kiss, Marie Rutkoski
I struggle with the words to explain
How you affected me
How you made me feel
I can’t quite make it come out right
The way I felt like I was yours
And when you told me to love you
I couldn’t help myself of course
Perhaps you weren’t expecting
That what we had might be real
I know you don’t want to admit it
You like to hide the way you feel
I was your play thing
And you toyed with my heart
Just knowing how much it hurt
Playing just to see me bleed.
I let you and I let you
Say despicablely tragic things to me
And yet I let you and I let you
Come back again and again
Threaten me and lie to me
Just so you could hear me cry
But I let you and I let you
And I would let you again
Over and over
Until my very end.
Dying is easy. Everything else is work.