My headspace.


16 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.)

Filed under ????????????? original poetry lit spilled ink tw: abuse ?? or rather fear of abuse

1 note

oh gosh hi guys so I haven’t really been able to touch a laptop lately because of rehearsal bUT my final show in high school EVER is Easter weekend so!! almost there!!!!!


11 notes

There are hills and valleys
that you would like to explore,
dips in my skin where your
fingers cradle homes,
slipping under hems.
But my valleys will remain uninhabited,
my hills unoccupied,
for if my body is to be 
your monopoly board,
then the world won’t ever be mine.
Keep your windows off my
hips and door frames off
my neck;
you can breathe in my vagabond air
and kiss a path down me
all you want,
but this body was made for

Filed under original poetry spilled ink lit idk idk it's been a while

12 notes

for ihsan


when you pick up your shield

and wrap it around your head,

remember that you are my hero.

when they give you

large shoulders and

dark scruff and tousled hair and

bright smiles on a silver platter,

remember that you have a choice

and that it is always the right one,

simply because

it is yours.

when men make you angry

at night,

clenching blankets in fists,

remember that you are

just as powerful,

just as important,

and just as valid.

paint your anger on your eyes,

your love on your lips—

your eyes will show the fire

of your vengeance and your

mouth will spill


whatever you want it to be,

because you have the right to be angry,

you have the right to be loud,

and you have the right to be heard.

you have the right to teach love;

you have the right to be gentle.

you have the right to

sit down and take a break

from the days you spend fighting through.

but you are a fighter and always will be,

fight society fight racism fight sexism fight temptation

fight fight fight.

bat your eyelashes of wisdom and

tell the world Mashalla;

stick your middle finger to them

and blind them with your goodness.

you are awesome

(adj: extremely good; causing feelings of wonder).

Mashalla, big sister.

you are awesome. 

Filed under it's ihsan's birthday and i wrote her this so i'm putting in on here mine obvs

2 notes

hey guys!!!

I hope you all had an awesome New Years, whether you sat at home or partied it up

I, by no means, can promise that I’ll write more in 2014, but I will definitely be able to tell you that I will do a shit ton in the summer because like did you see all the poetry I did last summer goddamn


here’s to a great 2014!!!!!!!!! thanks for sticking out 2013 with me!!!! 

Filed under :* psa i guess

0 notes

Anonymous asked: holy shit can I get some of your poetry like tattooed on my face your words understand my soul if I can say that without being too cheesy

HAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA omfg no that’s not cheesy at all hahahahhaha I’m glad it’s relatable!!! That’s the best kind of poetry, isn’t it??

Filed under Anonymous

46 notes

Hope I’m In Your Thoughts Next Time You Log In

my secret santa gift for smugrobotics!! College AU where Eames hosts a segment on the uni radio show and Arthur is drunk on his voice. also on ao3

“That’s it for tonight; thanks for listening. Don’t forget to follow my journey to self-discovery as documented in my blog—links are listed in the official website. Have a lovely night, all.” The voice is warm and low; Arthur can just imagine the speaker smiling, even if he’s never seen Eames, whoever he is. Eames just has a really nice voice with a really nice accent, no, Ariadne, he is not infatuated with this guy.

Arthur just happens to like Eames’ radio show, that’s all. The segment, part of the university’s radio program, starts at seven in the evening every night. Eames’ program is an advice show, but it often turns into something of a missed connections program—callers complaining about being too shy to talk to the guy from the library or the girl who dropped her books in the quad, if you’re listening to this, can you please call me at this number?

Eames’ voice aside, Arthur genuinely finds Eames to be pleasant. He’s kind and thoughtful and always gives great advice, making sure to give out hotline numbers for questions that he thinks are more than he should be handling. From the show, Arthur has only been able to gather that Eames is a sophomore whose least favorite class is physics.

Which, yeah. Arthur can definitely relate to that sentiment.

All Arthur wants is for Eames to slip up about his romantic life—single? Crushing? Committed? He’s been listening for months, but Eames really does his best to make sure his segments are never about him.

Which is why Arthur finds himself googling the university’s radio show, going on the site, and searching for Eames’ blog. The link takes him to Eames’ tumblr, and Arthur clicks Follow before even reading any of Eames’ posts.

Read more …

Filed under smugrobotics arthurxeames arthur x eames arthureames teamdreamhusbandssanta finally ventured back into the inception world

86 notes


part 5 of the We Met at a Bar ‘verse; gifs made by M

"I, uh," Eames says after the silence, glancing around. "I like your place." He’s finished the dinner Arthur made (read: Ariadne made while Arthur chopped vegetables in his nervous state) and has broken the silence (surprisingly, the first big silence to arise during the two hours he’s been here). 

Arthur cocks an eyebrow at him. “I’m in between places.” The apartment is falling apart a little—the yellow wallpaper is peeling near the kitchen sink and a hinge on one of the cabinets is practically totally undone, and oh, yeah, there’s that hole in the wall near his bedroom where the previous tenant had gotten drunk and decided to punch the wall “because he hates the color yellow.” 

But Arthur loves it a little—it was his first apartment after college, and he’s grown used to the cat that visits him by the fire escape and the gurgling noises from the pipes every few days. 

Arthur starts gathering the plates up, and Eames grabs his and follows him to the kitchen. Arthur puts his dishes in the sink and turns for Eames’; Eames hands them over and when Arthur turns back around to face him, Eames places his hands on either side of him, effectively caging him in against the counter.

Arthur smirks at him and lifts a hand to Eames’ face, idly tracing the bridge of his nose, his full lips, his jawline. Eames nips at his finger and Arthur tuts softly. “Now, now, Mr. Eames,” he says softly. “Let’s not be hasty.”

"I’ll show you hasty," Eames murmurs, pressing their lips together and rucking Arthur’s shirt up to get at his skin.

"Yeah, okay," Arthur gasps against his lips, "hasty is good, hasty is fine."

Filed under old otp: dream a little bigger