why    do    you    hurt    ?            :            you're    choking    on    how    much    you    have    to    try

you    have    tried.    you    have    carried    the    weight    of    the    world    on    your    shoulders    and    accepted    more    responsibilities    than    you    have    ever    wanted,    even    intended    to    gain.    it    isn't    crushing    -    you    are    strong    enough    to    hold    it    -    but    you    are    choking.    you    don't    know    what    to    do    with    it.    you    don't    know    where    it    goes,    how    to    move    this    weight    everyone    knows    you    can    hold    onto,    and    do    you    even    want    to    get    rid    of    it?    Never.    You    would    not    give    this    to    -    force    this    on    -    anyone    else.    but    you    /can't/.    but    you    are    choking    on    it.    your    body    will    hold    it    up    even    when    you    lose    all    the    air    in    your    lungs,    and    your    footing,    and    your    courage.    it    does    not    mind    choking    you.    it    seems    almost    designed    to    do    so.    if    you    weren't    wrung    out    you    wouldn't    be    doing    this    thing    properly.

tagged  by  :  @prophezeiung​  thanks  it  Hurts

remember    :    not    trying's    all    i'm    good    for,     and    i    really    dunno    how    to    make    anything    matter besides,    pretending's    gotten    a    lot    harder     now    that    you're    asking    for    more.    

not    trying    wasn't    the    whole    plan but    it's    the    only    thing    that    got    me    anywhere...

silence    as    a    presence,     when    the    guitar    sings    the    rest    of    your    song    for    you and    body    follows    the    beat    even    if    it    doesn't    want    to, head    nodding    at    all    the    right    moments    while    the    eyes    stay    closed. voice    isn't    more    than    a    whisper,    because    mauve only    belts    out    the    final    project,    when    she    really    feels    it down    to    her    toes.

here,    she    sings,    you're    always    wondering    if    i'm    giving    my    all,    is    that    even    fair    ?

keeps    it    as    that    ;    a    slow,    melancholic    question that    ends    the    first    draft    of    a    song more    than    she'll    never    say    to    cerise,    or    any    of    the    girls.    

the prophet martyr.     someone representing something divine.  eyes fixed above everyone else's, on something too great for words.  a person with a heart aflame, and a distant sort of kindness to everyone, a person who'd trade everything simply to understand.

tagged by:   @prophezeiung​ <3 ty op

he can hear the music from the other room,   noise booming against the walls and the bass vibrating against the furniture.       donovan has extracted himself from the group a few minutes ago,   preferring to hear their laughter and yells from the couch as he lounges on kavinsky’s couch,    one leg hanging off it and the other rested gently on top.     he’s having a smoke and a beer,    bottle gripped in his fist and joint hanging from his lips as he stares out the window.    he sees the trees of henrietta and the dark night sky,   too much light pollution even in this shitty little town for him to see the stars.    the moon winks at him,   so he turns his gaze away and tilts his head back enough to be able to see into the next room.     of course it’s swan who catches him looking.    it makes donovan grin,    sharp and lazy,    as he drags from the joint.

even when swan blows the stupid fucking kiss,   donovan’s still grinning,   too lost in his own high to summon frustration.     he abandons the bottle of beer on the floor and lifts his free hand in the air,   fist closing around the invisible kiss.   then he gets up from the couch,    his movements slow but engaging,   hair falling on his face and hip brushing against the table beside him.      he’s in swan’s line of view now,   fist held in front of his face.    donovan’s making sure swan’s following it,   like a dog follows a treat,   as he lowers his fist down to his crotch.    there goes swan’s kiss.    and donovan’s now showing him the middle finger as he walks back into the room,    grin disappearing and leaving behind a cruel curl of the corners of his lips.       “  suck it,   loser.  ”     he doubts the others know why he’s saying it,   though it’s not unnatural for donovan to say anything else than this to swan.   

“    then    stop    trying,    ”    an    even    tongue    doesn’t    miss    a    beat,    free    of    malice    and    patience    alike.    love,    for    arthur,    has    always    been    one    of    the    few    simple    things,    never    something    to    hide    from    nor    to    obsess    over,    never    the    cause    of    his    demise    nor    his    reason    for    living.    morton    is    all    of    these    at    once,    and    arthur    could    hate    him    for    it    if    the    centuries    did    not    attrite    his    harsher    emotions.    if    they’re    lucky,    perhaps    they’ll    find    each    other    before    it’s    too    late    next    time,    but    for    now,    perhaps    forever,    the    truth,    viewed    from    all    directions,    is    this:    “    or    don’t.    it’s    hardly    like    either    of    us    have    a    choice.    ”     

love    leaves    a    fool    taste    on    the    tongue    ;    uncertainty    falls    over    him    after    the    admission    of    his    defeat.    those    are    not    words    he    would    have    desired    to    hear    uttered,    and    those    are    not    words    he    thought    he    would    ever    say    to    anyone    outloud.    love    has    always    worn    the    same    name,    the    one    in    dark    black    ink    on    his    skin,    or    obsessively    scrawled    in    his    journals.    love    was    no    mystery,    no    difficulty.    it    was    just    her,    with    her    nice    smile    and    her    beautiful    ideas.    her    with    her    tantrums    and    her    jealousy.    her.    it    was    her    for    so    long    he    doesn't    know    when    the    name    slipped    away    ___    because    the    love    didn't.    the    love    is    still    there,    like    a    ghost    in    the    back    of    his    head.    but    the    ghost    is    not    alone    anymore    &    that    is    a    scary    thought.    that    graves    managed    to    slip    his    way    into    his    mind    unnoticed.    that    graves    got    there,    or,    apparently,    that    clarence    put    him    there    on    his    own,    without    him    even    desiring    the    spot...    well.    that    is    a    quite    uncomfortable    situation,    now,    isn't    it    ?

          “ this  feels  like  i’m  intruding  on  a  private  moment,  man, ”  a  shadow  of  a  grin,  unsure  still  on  this  foreign  territory,  a  feigned  yeah-i’m-keeping-up.  lynch  in  gansey’s  wrecked  camaro  was  a  picture  for  the  ages.  lynch  in  gansey’s  dream-copy  camaro  is  a  fucking  real-life  miracle.  “ the  fucking  sexual  tension  between  you  and  this  car  is  even  worse  up  close.  how’s  it  feel,  hm?  to  finally  hold  her  again  and  knowing  gansey  is  only  gonna  kill  you  a  little? ”

back    to uni    !!    i    hate    it    and    will    probably    be    too    busy    crying    over    random    books    i    wont    even    open    to    be    writing    on    here.    if    that's    the    case,    you    can    catch    me    on    discord    :    eve    lève-toi#9339    though    fair    warning    im    as    slow    on    there    as    i    am    on    tunglr.    

«        you    want    my    beauty    secret,    dino,    is    that    it    ?        »        the    question    has    less    to    do    with    interest    &    resembles    more    a    warning.    

besides,    she    approaches    too    fast    to    be    anything    but    looking    for    a    fight.    from    up    close,    bright    eyes    are    indeed    bluer    than    usual    __    strange    tint    of    them,    like    pure    liquid    entrapped    by    glass    ...    madness    in    those    baby    blues.    as    for    the    rest,    too    thin,    too    sick    ;    she    looks    down    at    the    body    betraying    her,    revealing    all    of    her    secrets.    she    knew    it    would,    it    always    does,    just    like    the    mind,    it    is    unreliable.    you    can't    trust    anyone,    especially    yourself.    she    thought    she    knew,    but    there    are    always    new    unexpected    ways    __    the    body    is    a    machine    built    for    breaking.    the    mind    is    the    drunk    driver    of    that    stupid    broken    car.