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@allcarrow

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âone dayâ my mother said âyouâre going to bite your tongue and poison yourselfâ She meant âbe nicerâ she meant âbe softerâ she meant âbe kindâ She meant âdo no be like me, look at my mistakes, do not repeat themâ âyou love so littleâ my father said âthat youâll wrap yourself around it and crush itâ He meant âbe openâ he meant âtrust peopleâ he meant âlet them breathâ He meant âyouâre too picky, It doesnât have to be all or nothing, Iâm scared youâll die aloneâ My mother taught me life is a battlefield and now I donât know how to live in peace My father taught me hundreds of different ways to break a manâs neck They tried to raise a lion and asked it to behave like a sheep. They tried to raise a lion and ended up with a snake. âyouâre too high maintenanceâ a boy said against my lips âbut Iâd still fuck youâ He meant âI donât want to make an effortâ he meant âyou make me doubt myselfâ âyouâre gonna ace it anywayâ a friend said hurriedly âlet me copy itâ She meant âI donât want to make an effortâ she meant âIâll take from you what I can getâ âyouâre the girl of my lifeâ said a boy Iâd known of two weeks âI think Iâm in love with youâ He meant âI donât want to make an effortâ he meant âyouâre a pretty thing in a pedestalâ So I spat and poisoned them. So I wrapped myself around them and crushed them So I made efforts for myself because they didnât think I was worth one Sheep are eaten by lions and lions are caged by men. But a snake canât be poisoned by itâs own venom so I think Iâll be ok.
Snakes are better at surviving // V.C.Amandi (via phereinnike)
Female Death Eaters + Aesthetics
âł We will be wild. We will be brutal. We will encircle you and conquer you. We will be more powerful than your boats and your swords and your blood lust. We will be inevitable.
WHEN: june 16th, 1979 WHERE: outside the ministry of magic WITH: ??????
the smile on her lips quivers and fades as she exits the ministry and slowly becomes someone else. her hands reach for her hair, carelessly loosening her ponytail, letting curls of black fall down her shoulders and down her back, making her look far less collected ( a bit more wild and free ). a cigarette quickly appears between her finger tips, and it lights up as she snaps her fingers, fire effortlessly igniting. the warm june air mixed with the familiar scent of smoke SHOULD calm her down, but it doesnât. her heart is beating fast underneath her ribs ( she can feel it, practically threatening to break free ), and her fingers are itching with anger and frustration. the thumping in her ears ( her blood boiling, her heart exploding ) only grows louder as she grows painfully aware of someone elseâs presence. eyes as cold as ice stare into the distance, refusing to look at them, and she blows a puff of smoke into the air. â what? â she spits. fucking what? what fucking now? bellatrix lestrange doesnât have the patience, or the time. frankly, if they knew what she was dealing with, surely, they wouldnât dare stand so close. though, that could also be true if they knew who they were dealing with. â if youâre hoping for a smoke, now is not the time. â she doesnât bother to lace her words with that sickly sweetness that has been drilled into her since birth, instead, words are spat poison, like fire, like rage.Â
Alecto has seen some of the hurricane phenomena that is Bellatrix. She quietly watched her gather all her bones together into crafting a human skeleton to play as at work, pretending to be human, and she stole glances of her hexes. Even with a mask, sheâs obvious to spot: the first, the quickest, the most violent among men. Alecto was mostly silent around Bellatrix, because if her tongue wasnât itching from having to say something sharp, she didnât open her mouth. She listened, she watched, she made mental notes. She didnât want to learn how to be more like her, though some of the cocktail of feelings in her chest had to be awe â she was curious about how somebody on fire all the time didnât burn out.Â
The other extreme, Alecto, empty, collected, easily bored and bleak, feared even the dimmest candle flame. Once upon a time, at twenty-two, she feels like she could have fit in one of Bellaâs cloaks: nearly a Lestrange if only sheâd said yes to Rabastan, with more color in her cheeks and, apparently, a little more alive. Nowadays, she was convinced that beneath her skin, there was something rotting there. Suddenly feigning offence at Bellatrixâs words, Alecto looked down at the cigarette rolling between her fingers and held her wand up to light it with the tip of it after strategically placing it between her teeth. She inhaled deeply and didnât leave out anything but the shiest cloud of smoke, even against the other Death Eaterâs warning. âI can circle the building and smoke in a corner,â she offered mockingly in a little voice. Sarcasm, howsoever, was invisible in her tone, perhaps because she was halfway meaning it honestly. Bellatrix seemed upset, and despite the fact that it wasnât a new mood for her, Alecto knew better than to present a challenge, less out of fear and more out of respect.Â

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i wonder how small of a love i can survive on my stomach turns in on itself i do not hunger anymore
Kiki Nicole, from blk/still/life (via lifeinpoetry)
lxrcansâ:
Lorcan wasnât exactly a morning person and the cup of coffee in front of him wasnât helping nearly as much as he would have liked. He had joined Alecto at the table she was sitting at a few minutes ago, partly because she had been sitting in the very back and partly because he wanted to avoid talking to anyone he didnât know this early. She had given no indication of acknowledging his presence apart from a glance when he had first sat down and though usually he wouldnât have liked having her attention so divided, he wasnât yet fully awake to care about it all that much. It was why he was slightly surprised when she spoke. âHuh-â he said involuntarily as he pulled out a flask from his leather jacket, discreetly pouring some in his cup. Her words registered then and he shrugged indifferently. âBetter safe than sorry or whatever,â he said with a dismissive wave of his hand because those were words he had never cared for. Lorcan laughed as a thought occurred to him, âThough I guess it also gives Death Eaters ideas about where not to strike.âÂ
She didnât even as much as like Lorcan in public. His vortex of a fame terrified her, while not much else managed to even phase her. The spotlight killing her shadow was something she usually summoned as prime argument against his company â mostly in discussions with her own mind. This time, she chose to weakly tolerate it, sitting in perfect silence and unfolding her routine until something cracked in her reading. She gazed at a disinterested Lorcan for validation in her point. Her lips pursed together into a thin line as she folded the newspaper. âChances are theyâll be sorry either way,â her words ran indifferently, not even as a foreshadowed promise. She just knew the Death Eaters and she knew the sort of messages they liked to send, blood on newspapers rather than an actual article. âThey donât strike where the Prophet wants or doesnât want them to. This could easily be Ministry manipulation if they read and followed, one way or another, these articles. I donât know what it gives them, but I donât like how every middle-class sheep listens blindly. Iâm sure some moron is evacuating Leicester as we speak. Why are people so stupid?â she pouted, knowing it for a fact in these moments that nobody should weep on certain graves. So what if they are at war? If it werenât natural, it wouldnât be called natural selection. âBut you seem distracted. Did I interrupt the praying in your mind that the radio would finally put on Necks on you?â Whether Alecto purposefully worded the wrong song title, mistaking âtoâ for âonâ, it was deeply subconscious. She never liked Lorcanâs music, denying vigorously the times it sounded alright, hummed right out of his throat live after there would be nothing left on the table to poison themselves with.
bartcmiusjrâ:
The pencil in his hand ran over the page, a picture coming to life as the minutes passed. Barty could so easily become caught up in what he was drawing, today being one of those days. Heâd shut out the rest of the world around him, only to be brought back by a few simple wordsâDeath Eaters. Mostly, from the randomness of the topic of conversation, realizing a moment into the woman that she was in fact only reading from the paper. He too had read it earlier in the day, leaving it behind to forget about the assumptions they must have received from rumors. âYet somehow we all take the time to read it over.â Barty had been a culprit in such a thing himself, wondering if it had to do with needing to know or the amusement of what he might end up reading next. âThey seem to be grasping for anything they can get a hold of. True or not.â
âItâs foolish to ignore the only remaining line of connection between wizards,â she clicked her tongue in response, agreeing with the cynicism dedicated to the Prophet and their affiliates, but without the slightest intention of giving up her small habit. Perhaps it was a thing of routine to some extent as well. âThe only thing more idiotic than reading this nonsense is ignoring it, in fact.â Alecto weighed the page of paper with squinted eyes, trying to find the balance between mock indulgence and plain spite for the article and the publication as a whole. âRight now, theyâre taking a guess, writing the most possible about as many things they suspect in hopes that at least some of it will come true.â She carefully placed down the black and white lies and pinpointed it with her elbows against the table. âIf I had a newspaper, Iâd use it for true, exact information, like a prediction, except in the wrong order and at the wrong time. This, not bluffs, would finally scare the million wizards who donât yet feel phased at all.â
OPEN STARTER LOCATION: The Three Broomsticks DATE: July 8th, 1979
Page after page, ridiculousness increased. Alecto took time from her every morning to get her two consecutive cups of coffee and a look at the latest lies the press mumbled onto cheap pages. It never once failed to annoy her, as theyâd blow out of proportions in a bad light the slightest detail of her last night, but it was important to read and be informed. Still, one line too bad and she couldnât bite her tongue and hold it in anymore, with an explosive sigh. Voice not particularly raised, but plenty disgusted, she turned to the first person to her right to quote the publication, intrigued though the taste in her mouth was bitter. "Beastly group, known as the Death Eaters, are assumed to strike Leicester in the following nights. Stay saf-" A cutting short chuckle served as final punctuation. With an eye roll, she glanced at her involuntary interlocutor. "The world is burning because people donât know how to write. And because they try to guess."

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Iâm all skin and bone and song-seized, wine-wild and each year more abandoned
Po Chu-i, translated by David Hinton, from âForty-Fiveâ
čĄĺš´ĺĺäşďźé¨éŹĺččă ㏠çŚčŻćçďźç˛čąŞé ćžçă čćĽĺ°¤ĺ§ĺ˝ďźĺŽĺ¤ĺłä¸şäšĄă ććĺşĺąąä¸ďźćĽćĽçťčĺ ă
(via apoemforyourdash)
Who speaks of love? I am cold and I want to be December.
Luis GarcĂa Montero
original:âQuiĂŠn habla del amor? Yo tengo frĂo y quiero ser diciembre.â
(via wnq-writers)