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***Disclaimer: Any photos that do not have a"/drabbledreams" are not mine.
Anonymous said: going through a divorce au arthur/eames

fadedhues:

nooooooooo

okay

It’s a Friday night and Arthur’s at home. 

Well, his new apartment that doesn’t really feel like home yet, you know? But this is it. Home. 

Years ago, Arthur would’ve been out with friends on a Friday night. Actually, if things had been different, he probably would be out right now—except he’s used to the married life, where Friday nights morphed into nice dinner, into wine and dim lights, into really, really good sex.

Okay, so married Friday nights eventually evolved into mostly silent dinners marked by “How was work?”s and hums and lights out at 11 PM. But hey. Marriage. 

His brain momentarily wanders to Eames, wonders if he’s having sex, if he’s eating alone, if he’s having sex while eating? (What the actual fuck, his brain supplies.) 

No, no. Eames is living his life, and Arthur is living his. (Okay, so he’s not really living, but he so will. Live. Soon.)

Arthur sighs and heads to the bedroom, knowing his Friday night is over. He clambers underneath the dark brown covers, hoping that Eames is having just as hard of a time being alone—not because he wants to be vindictive, but because it would be even more painful if he was the only one hurting in this.

Notes
Anonymous said: I'm so glad you've started posting again! I missed seeing your poetry on my dash! xx

thank yooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuu :*********

Notes

drabbledreams:

I thought that maybe I’d be sorry

when everything was said and done.

But after blood filled your mouth

and my tears killed out

even the prettiest lights in the city,

I’d have to say that the only thing I regret

is letting your lips touch mine.

Notes
"i keep my knife in the front pocket of my purse," drabbledreams
“She is young and reminds me of a sister,
tells me that she had almost gotten raped in the hallway at school last week,
but had kicked him and gotten away.
I can tell that she sees, now, in the same bruising hues that I do.
I know that where my hands gently hold hers, she sees
purpling near the edges,
know that every time she sees a boy who looks like him,
she will see red in his eyes. I’m tired of the dreams where my fists are futile,
where my limbs are heavy and all I see are shadows.
The hands that touch me feel like cement and they grind me into the ground.
All of me is tired.
I’m tired of being a constant “radical force”
in an area where “feminism” is the real f-word.
I’m tired of being scared when the sun starts to set,
keys clutched tightly between my fingers and
fear setting my jaw like a modern-day Boudica, Celtic Warrior Queen, clutching her sword and fury tightening her hold.
I’m tired of the statistics,
of the exploited assaults retweeted with approval,
of the constant planning in case of an attack.
All of me is tired.
But I will continue this way;
I will continue being a fucking feminist, spewing bloody words.
Taste it. It tastes like fear. It tastes like fury.”
Notes

I changed my theeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeme maybe I should change my icon

"hi, and welcome to the Self-Deprecation is My Coping Method group—don’t worry, we won’t leave you like my dad left us when I was a kid—BA DUM TISS,” drabbledreams
“I’ve always struggled with feeling guilty over my past,
or rather,
feeling bad about feeling bad about my past
I’ve had a personal relationship with emotional abuse—
she’s pretty, sure, but her lips are painted red with poison
(my mother and her were pretty tight)
I wonder if there’s a group for kids who’ve lost parents to addictions
because wouldn’t it be nice to be able to flash a card at someone
instead of having to explain to them that your father got drunk, as his habit was, and fell down some stairs and
broke his neck
“Hi, I belong to the ‘DPDA’ (Dead Parent Due to Addiction) group”
flash a smile
move on
Or maybe the “I Had an Absentee Parent and Make Self-Deprecating Jokes About My Life” group

The problem with people is that even long after they’ve
lost the ability to leave marks on your skin, they still manage to leave marks
through headaches
and torn fingernails
and shitty poetry
written hunched over a computer at hours of the night you should be avoiding”
Notes

I wish I could love
as Orpheus,
as Cupid,
as Alcyone,
but I’m rather afraid that
I’m the serpent,
the hot oil,
the violent sea;
your pretty hands
cannot tame me.

Notes

he smiles at you and
you can’t tell if the fire in his
eyes is for you or from
the sunset

you hope it’s for you—
even though he doesn’t
get your heart racing
like the stories say,
even though
he’s all wrong
and his hair is too short
and his hands are smaller
than you’d like—
the feeling of being wanted
is enough for now

Notes

sooooooo it’s been a while huh

but I’ve got some stuff heading this way so be on the lookout for some shitty poetry :))))))))))))))

Notes

Your touch is gentle but
when I look at the
knife on your desk,
strapped in its holster,
I remember when you
hesitantly told me that you
black out when angered.
(“You okay?” you ask.
"Yeah," I say, my eyes
straying from the knife
to your large hands.)
And I hope that you would 
never hurt me,
but the flash of fear
is enough to make me want
to run—
the same fear that
makes me wrap my fingers
around my pocketknife when I
walk in parking lots,
the fear that makes me
run to the door in darkness.
(“Why are you breathing so hard?”
you ask.
"Heavy groceries," I reply.)

Notes
S