ateitriestowrite
Forget The Dragon
Atei - 20 - she/herI'll just kind of throw everything I write here
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And who said happiness was easy? I've worked for this shit. I've bled and talked and meds and therapy and cried and changed and tried and tried and tried. I've broken my back for this smile. I've hurt and raged and dissected and aired and worked and worked and worked. Years of sweating and shaking and shrinking and forcing my shoulders back, my hair neat, my clothes on, my homework done, my hands on markers instead of knives. I've earned this. Every good day, every moment of wonder and contentment, didn't just happen. It wasn't the clouds clearing after the storm and letting the sun shine. I fucking blew those shits away with every breath i took and it was fucking hard. But i did it. I did it.
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Take a deep breath and watch it written midair in your deoxygenated exhale. Watch the letters crumble and let it go. It's not easy, i know. You might have to wait it out a few days, scrape it away in the shower, scream it out into a pillow. Take a deep breath and think: now at least you know the enemy. Now you know how and why they think what they think and believe what they believe. Now you're better armed to fight them. Take a deep breath and remember: there're thousands on this side, too. They too carry these words like smog in their lungs. They too are willing to fight. Many of them have already been at it for decades. Take a deep breath and know they are still out there, and so are their words and their hatred, but so are you. So are you. So are you.
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I say I'm fine and the birds redouble their singing, I'm fine and the universe gives birth to a new constellation, each star brighter than the others, I'm fine and a standing ovation, a waterfall, a thousand butterflies taking flight, a baby smiling for the first time, a hand reaching out and holding on tight. I say I'm fine and my ancestors smile at me across time, I'm fine and every character I've ever loved pats themselves on the back, buds blossom on the mountainsides, the moon guides lost souls home, someone listens to their favorite song for the first time, I say I'm fine and it feels like the truth.
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Some days it feels like I've won some kind of secret lottery, like the stars have aligned or something. Today I almost spilled my glass of water on my computer. Today I dropped my phone three times, heard it crash against the ground only to pick it up and see not a scratch on the screen. Today I lost my balance in the shower and as I fell on my butt I tried to hold on to a towel, dragged it down with me, and managed to fall right on top of it. Today I didn't fail the exam I was completely unprepared for, I caught my bus right on time, I found the perfect dress on discount, my doctor said my blood test is fine, I found a book I thought I'd lost, my favorite film was starting when I turned the tv on. I think sometimes when I'm not okay I hold on for perfect days, for incredibly happy days, for big trips and special holidays, life-changing news and epiphanies. But maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should just hold on for days like this. Nothing-bad-happened, I-felt-grateful-about-little-things kind of days. Days that seem surrounded by a faint halo of peace, of things that didn't happen, glasses I caught just in time, bullets that missed me.
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It's coiled in my stomach
always alert
waiting to jump
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The fear
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The helplessness
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It wraps around my organs and constricts
like a boa
Makes bile rise in my throat
but i can never spit it out
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It's the curse
of being a girl
of being a woman
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It's stories
and advice
and warnings
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Pass it on
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I get it now
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That's the way we've attempted
to protect each other
for centuries
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Pass it on
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It's happened before
It will happen again
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Stay safe
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Text me when you get home
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Call me if you're walking alone at night
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There are no guarantees
But it's all we have
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Pass it on
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The girl feels the air escaping her lungs, the blood leaving her body, the life abandoning her. She dies.
I don't want to die. You always kill me.
I don't. It's just the way the story goes.
But you're writing the story.
True. What do you want me to do with you, then?
Give me an adventure. Write me a happy, fulfilling life.
Life ends with death.
Skip the ending, then.
I'm not sure I know how to write a happy story.
Pretend you do. Imagine what your life would be like if you were happy and write about it.
I am happy.
Are you sure? Then why do you keep hurting me?
It makes your story interesting.
Does your pain make your life interesting?
No. But you're a character. Your story has to be interesting. My life doesn't.
Why?
What do you mean "why"? Because there're no readers, no audience watching my life.
Imagine there is. An audience, I mean. Imagine you're a character just like me. How would you feel about your writer?
I'd hate them.
Okay.
Do you hate me?
I'm not real.
Then why do you mind dying?
I don't. I just wish you had nicer things in your head to write about.
I can't change that.
I know. I'm not judging.
I try, you know. I write you a loving family, great friends, cool talents... and then I get stuck. I don't know what a happy life looks like. I'm sorry.
It's alright. I hope you do, some day.
Thanks. Sometimes I feel like I won't. Like there's something rotten in me. Like I'll fuck up whatever happiness I get because I'm so comfortable in my own misery.
You're not. You want to be happy.
Yeah, but maybe not in a way I can achieve in this life. Or in any life. I've tried giving it to you, that world were happiness is possible. I never could.
Because happiness is dull?
Because happiness feels like a trial I keep losing.
What's the closest you can get to imagining it? What would happiness look like?
A forest. A small lake. True friends. A cat. My own house where I can feel safe. A job I enjoy. Learning new things.
You don't ask for much. These are all things you've given me before. What else?
Not feeling this gaping hole in my chest ever again.
That's it, isn't it? That's where you get stuck. You write me all the things that should make me happy but you can't get rid of the hole you write into my chest.
I don't mean to do it.
Of course you don't. But you just don't know what it would feel like, to not have it. And because you don't know it yourself, you can't write it for me.
I can't even imagine pure happiness.
It doesn't have to be pure. It just has to be good enough.
I've never been.
Happy? Or good enough?
Neither. Both.
There's time. For both.
Sometimes I believe that.
Sometimes?
Other times it feels foolish to even hope for it.
Hoping for happiness is never foolish.
Maybe. I'll write you a better story, some day.
I know you will. You have time. And I have all the time in the world.
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OCs tag
I was tagged by @lilsieblue, thanks!
rules: list three/four things that make your oc(s) happy!
Emily: walking in the woods with friends at night, hanging out with her brothers, picnics, reading books aloud to her friends
Ian: napping near the fireplace during cold winter days, sleepovers, cooking, painting with his fingers
Hannah: surprise parties, boxing, babysitting her niece, gardening
Tagging: @macarmua @whalesarefromspace @nashbranson if any of you feel like it
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I wish I could reach across time, find you amongst the crowd, or hiding somewhere. I would give you a collection of books, poems, quotes, videos, and even things I've written myself. Everything good I know about this life poured into a box full of things that would help you feel understood, loved, less lonely. It's such a big Universe and you feel so alone, so small and trapped in your own body and mind. I wish I could tell you that you are a part of that Universe, too. That you belong here. That everyone is kind of lost and confused and doing their best. That there are people who feel just like you and one day they'll be your role models. I know it's hard, but things will get better. You'll make good friends, you'll make choices that will make your life better, you'll meet interesting people and learn interesting things. You'll hike, read, laugh, talk about things you never thought you'd be able to dislodge from your chest. You'll grow older and you'll grow stronger. You'll cry and get angry and hurt and you won't break. You will find things worth getting out of bed every morning for. So just breathe, you're doing great. Just because you're lonely doesn't mean you're unlovable. You are worthy of love. You deserve good things. Just because you're scared doesn't mean you're weak. I can't promise it will always be easy, but I can promise you are strong enough to handle even the worst days. I know going to school sucks, that it's so big and full of people that you feel almost like a ghost, always invisible, always drowning. It's not your fault. It's just not the right place for you. You'll find it eventually. I believe in you. I'm proud of you. Don't panic. Everything will work out just fine.
-Your almost-nineteen-year-old self.
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You spot the shooting star first and whisper into the night silence make a wish and i think please let her stay with me. I'm sitting there feeling awkward while they sing me happy birthday and you lean in make a wish you say in my ear and i close my eyes and think please let her love me more than i love myself and blow out the candles. Our backs to the fountain, coins in our hands, you turn to me and say ready? and we throw them over our shoulders at the same time and i think please let us be happy together. I want to sleep but you want to talk if a genie granted you three wishes, what would you ask for? i shrug looking up at the ceiling i don't know, world peace and stuff i guess i don't need to look at you to know you're rolling your eyes that's boring, forget about the rest of the world, what would you ask for yourself? a sigh alright then, to have enough money that my parents don't ever have to worry, to be a better writer, to be happy but all the while i'm thinking you, you, you. You brush an eyelash off my cheek and hold it on your thumb make a wish you take my hand and press my thumb against yours the one who has it when we draw apart gets their wish i smile that's not a thing you smile right back sure it is, come on, make a wish and i think please let her never grow tired of me. Lately i've been looking for wish-granting magic in passing trains, new years' toasts, ladybugs, dandelions, wishbones, the first star in the night sky, four-leaf clovers. But i'm scared i might have used up all my wishes on my selfish love for you and i would take them all back if i could and instead ask, over and over again,
please take her pain away
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Emily is the shade under a tree, she's the clinking of a porcelain cup lowered onto its plate. Emily is shadows in the night and muffled laughter, she's winter clothes, the pleasant chill of the lake water in the summer, the sound of footsteps on dead leaves. Emily is feet on the table, sleepless restless nights, the flapping of a hummingbird's wings, yellow daisies in tall vases, she is soft fur rugs and cold hands, knowing looks and good grades. She is the misty grey moment right before dawn, she's armchairs and colorful socks, she's bare feet on cold tiles and the smell of toast for breakfast. She is starry nights and even breaths, fantasy books, warm tears, a raised eyebrow, thick scarves, too many thoughts and dark memories best left alone. She's clean sheets, shivering with cold, concentrated frowns, the feeble rays of sun on a winter morning. Emily is smooth pebbles, the last day of school before the holidays, chocolate-chip cookies, orange juice, kept secrets, she's warm showers with bad singing, secret smiles, the patter of rain on the window pane, sitting by the fireplace with an old book, she's pressed flowers and cozy pijamas, startled screams and accidental naps, she is the smell of rain before a thunderstorm, hot chocolate and burnt tongues.
Pansy is cutting remarks, a lipstick stain on a napkin, tiny diamonds, she's the unforgiving sun on the hottest day of the summer. She's manicured nails and shrill laughter, disapproving looks and sharp smirks. She's brunch-time gossip and tight dresses, the sound of champagne being uncorked and the bubbles simmering in the glasses. Pansy is brushing tears away, fixing makeup and going out with head held high, sleeping masks and the sound of heels on marble stairs, she's the echo of a single voice in the drifty entrance hall of a manor. She is a fake taste for classical music, she is eyerolls, shiny counters and ornate mirrors, unlit cigars and parisian streets, silent family dinners, letters in fancy handwriting, dainty cats and red roses. Pansy is smiles and excuses for not doing her homework, tightly pressed lips, a heady scent of floral perfume, fashion magazines and detective stories. She is challenges, the deep purple of antique sofas, going a bit too far, a bit too fast. She is sarcastic pet names and iced-over ponds in the winter. She is big sunglasses, family secrets inherited like heirlooms, tarot cards and yellowing postals, burning glares and chilly silences. She is white butterflies and fluffy clouds, the feeling of doning on a winter coat just retrieved from an old trunk. She is venomous snakes, licking cream off your fingers, weaponized seduction, pearl necklaces and the smell of morning coffee. She is lace panties and no bra, sushi at a wedding, perfect eyeliner, will kill a man if provoked and her hands will only shake slightly afterwards, she is the feeling of sharing an invented secret language with your best friend. Pansy is the clear water of a lake in spring, she is a pretty pink book kept hidden in plain sight containing poison recipes, she is manipulation and creating one's own luck, she is protecting younger girls from assholes at parties, she is the unfortunate knowledge that comes from first-hand experiences, she is cute picnics on a hill and strawberries, she is sharing rape-escape techniques and sharp hexes with younger girls, she is spoilers and broken hearts, dangerous smiles and fierce friendship.
Draco is blue sweaters, red noses, perfectly brewed tea and the first snowfall of the winter. He is the smell of mint and sweets, he is lying on the floor and dramatic storytelling, icy stares and childish tantrums, new quills and unconditional love for parents. He is the woosh of an arrow piercing through the air, clawfoot bathtubs, snowy owls, silver rings and tailored suits. He is hunger for knowledge and perfection, big leather-bound books, hidden things at the bottom of suitcases. He is the feeling of being at the wedding of people you don't care about, he is the sound of footsteps on gravel driveways and coughs in the silent dormroom at night. He is waltz dancing and shiny shoes, top grades and the crippling need to please, he is raised chins and soft hair, unsure words and the need for reassurance. He is mixed signals and self-esteem issues, he is the sound of the frogs singing by the pond during summer evenings. Draco is string music and fog on windows, he is bubble baths and slippery floors. He is the texture of old oak furniture and clean feathers. He is the taste of chocolate, the taste of an ice cube, he is long trainrides and sidelong glances. Draco is christmas carols and premeditated decisions, he is petty arguments and dark circles under the eyes. He is the sea the day after a stormy night, relaying secrets and resting heads on laps.
Blaise is easy grins, slow strolls with light chatter, he is the smell of freshly-cut grass, he is washing ink from fingers, the texture of the foam floating on the sea waves. He is passing without studying and flirting without trying, he is searching eyes and understanding the unspoken. Blaise is the soft candlelight at night, careless beauty, practiced confidence. He is crimson red silk and the feeling of standing on the cusp of a mountain, of sitting on dry parched earth, he is the cutting winter wind, he is a vague fear of the dark, polished pianos, taking advantage of rumors. Blaise is secrets better left unknown, he is guarded heart and free laughs in the safety of the girls' dorm during sleepovers. He is layered sentences and poorly disguised distaste. He is interior-design magazines and bold choices, he is the feeling of watching fish swimming at the aquarium, hummed songs and Byron poems.
Daphne is scattered white flowers in the soft spring grass, she is pretty dresses, she is always knowing the latest gossip and lots of friends. She is multitasking and giving good advice, the soft smell of shampoo, cute hairstyles, big dogs, protective-older-sister spirit. She is softness mistaken for naivety, kindness mistaken for foolishness, embraced beauty mistaken for vanity. She is icecream and the refusal to feel ashamed for having good sex, she is ten ongoing conversations with ten different people about ten very different topics at the same time. She is summer holidays and family nights, she is a strange and unwarranted loneliness that creeps into the chest around midnight, she is the texture of flower petals, of new parchment, she is braiding friends' hair and talking about boys and keeping the conversation going. She is insecurities whispered only to the closest of friends while curled up in bed together, she is the sound of shouted guesses during charades, the sound of bare feet on wooden floors, dancing with her sister in their nightgowns. Daphne is bedtime stories and lullabies, romance novels and horror movies. She is soft cheek kisses, sun-freckled noses, loyalty, the feeling of waking up in a good mood. She is stargazing on a clear night. She is small details and fitting in effortlessly, she is laughing until your stomach hurts and crying at emotional scenes.
Millie is sturdy trees during a storm, the reliable sound of the clock ticking, she is hard-earned thick skin and learnt self-love. She is the sound of pebbles sinking into a calm lake, a curious lioness prowling around her domains. Millie is unapologetic truths and suffering no fools, she is peaceful autumn nights and warm breeze. She is listening with an open heart and saying harsh truths, she is adventure books and reading in bed, a good head on broad shoulders to cry upon, quiet laughter and hard-to-earn trust. Millie is solid arguments and paint-stained hands, shrewd looks and resilience. She is fresh snow and fulfilled bucket-lists. She is all the colors of autumn, white roses, drawing on fogged mirrors and the smell of freshly sharpened pencils.
Tracey is restless fingers and smudged glasses, she is rainy days and cuddling under a pile of blankets in the winter. She is deep green and bright blue, adhd, dog-eared books and spooning with her boyfriend. She is swirls in the water, soap bubbles, borrowed too-big sweaters and motivational quotes, ink-stained essays, anxiety, permanently cold feet and lip gloss. Tracey is watching condensation drops race each other on the car window, close circle of friends, whispered i love yous, forgetting to have breakfast, cult films, fried eggs and coffee. She is the sound of pacing on the carpet, soft drizzle, quiet huffs of laughter and a flock taking flight.
#poetic nonsense#harry potter#writing#slytherins#feat. my oc#pansy parkinson#draco malfoy#blaise zabini#daphne greengrass#millicent bulstrode#tracey davis#i create as i speak
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Just because you don't like a word doesn't mean you should avoid using it for the rest of your life, and just because you don't like a person doesn't mean you should avoid looking them in the eye until the day her mom dies (and when you do, you wonder whether the ice you see has always been there. Maybe it's just grief solidifying in her pupils. Anyway, it's too late. It was already too late when you first met her. Maybe it isn't about you at all. Stop making it all about you). It's just that you spent so long waiting for someone to save you and now she's right there and clearly could use some saving but that's never been you role, you're not the hero of this story or of any story at all, you are the forsaken damsel in distress that grows to be the evil witch. Whatever, in any case, she doesn't want to be saved and especially not by you, so pretend you don't see her reddened nose and dropping grades and the way she's pushed all her friends away and the day she doesn't show up at school anymore pretend you don't care cause you didn't even know her anyway.
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Maybe if you stopped singing that sad song you like so much you would actually hear the wind rushing. Just stop staring at your shoes and look up. Maybe they'd like you more if you looked up once in a while. I know you haven't been sleeping well but lately you always seem not-quite-awake. Are you tired? Does your neck ache? Do you wish you had kept your mouth shut? Does the light really heal or just hide? Do you know what to wish for? Hurry up, the candles are melting and no one likes a cake with wax on it. I know you've always hated the smoke. Does your dad still smoke in your living-room? I bet he does. How can you be sure whether you're remembering it right or making stuff up? Stop worrying so much about the horoscope, yours is usually wrong anyway. Stop worrying so much about other people. Why does the sand make you feel so lonely? Do you wish you could delete the past year or two? What would you change? Why are you so sure you're no one's favorite person? You look like shit, did you get any sleep at all last night? Were your parents arguing again? Were you too wound up again? Did you pull an all-nighter to study again? You shouldn't have bothered, your grades are fine. Sometimes i wonder why you can't seem to accept an apology. Do you worry about the future? Do you try not to think about it? Are you done with the book i lent you yet? Or do your eyes droop too much to get through the chapter? Why are you always changing your mind? Why are you always so uncertain? Maybe if you were nicer to people you wouldn't feel so out of place everywhere. Maybe if we stopped having these circular conversations we would be able to get our stories straight. Don't call them alibis, we're not criminals. Just storytellers, kind of. Do you regret getting that tatoo? Should i have told you not to get it when you asked? Is your head spinning too much to follow the conversation? Maybe if you actually lay down you'd be able to fall asleep.
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You could be a better person you say and i mean you have a point but you could have chosen a better moment, not while i'm choking on the stale popcorn you bought for me at the park Sometimes i wish you were different and trust me i understand but don't wake me up in the middle of the night just to tell me that. I try, but i've always liked looking at the flame of the candle a little too much, you know, should i be worried? You were supposed to be more than this i know you're right but what's the point anyway, i spent so long screaming at the top of my lungs that when i woke up i didn't recognize my own voice. You could have had everything. You should have left while you could yes, but that's always been the problem, the static nature of things, which is to say of me, which is to say the stone i've become, these long nails and sharp knives and i can't erase the scars They make you who you are but what if i don't want to be who i am, what if i want to rub my body clean until there's no proof of the memories and i can pretend the memories don't make me who i am, i can pretend the memories are not even mine, just a sad dark story you read once and never again. I've never really liked popcorn, or the park, or the way i shake when i walk past your house. I wish i could exorcise you out of me but my therapist said i'm not my thoughts so what the fuck am i.
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Just remember I walked through Hell by your side, hand in hand, when both demons and angels had turned their back on you
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You once told me self-destruction was your greatest talent and i consider myself to be a pretty sensible person but oh, my love, i was entirely a fool for you and instead of listening to your words i focused on your glistening eyes and didn't, back then, understand that when a forest burns up, it takes every tree down with it and so instead of running the other way i smiled up at you unknowingly signing up to be burnt to ashes.
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I'm tired of lying for you. It started out as half-truths. I'm meeting with a friend. I'm going to the cinema/to the coffee shop/for a walk. I'm going to the gym for almost three hours (only we hang out for the first two). I'm tired of hiding you. I've met your family. I know what you look like when you're tired and grumpy. On your period. Grieving. Excited. Drunk. High. I had my first real panic attack in your living room, in the first five minutes of the movie we were watching. I dug my nails into my arm so deep i still have the faint scars. Your little sister asked what was wrong with me. I had my first kiss in your kitchen, short and laughing because you are ridiculous. You know me far better than I know you. I like the way you talk, you know. Not just your voice, but the way you use it to soothe people even when you're spiraling yourself. I know your friends by name only. You know I don't really have any anymore. "Your parents wouldn't like me," you say. I laugh. "Please. I didn't like you at first." You swat me in the arm and mutter "Liar." But i'm not, really. And that's the problem. I'm tired of lying for you.
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