Aaron Warner:

Aaron Warner:

Me: Excuse me... Mr. Warner...Can you stop existing for a quick second so I can breathe?

CAN WE JUST TALK FOR A SECOND ABOUT HOW MALEC IS CLASSY LIKE THIS? BECAUSE CLARY AND JACE GETTING IT ON IN A CAVE IN THE DEMON RELM (the books) IS SO UNCOMFORTABLE BUT MALEC DOING THIS (tv show) AND THE WHOLE “why haven't you called me back” “you stupid shadow hunter” (the books) AS MALEC FIGHTS DEMONS IS CUTE AND HEARTWARMING. BECAUSE. THEY. MAKE. IT. WORK. THEY ARE MATURE AND GENUINE AND BEAUTIFUL. IN THis essay I will

Malec just kissing each other while the world burns behind them because nothing else matters is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen

So I’ve officially decided I’m using the Parabati Vows as my marriage vows and that’s final 

Superstition

Noun // so͞opərˈstiSH(ə)n// a widely held but unjustified belief in supernatural causation leading to certain consequences of an action or event, or a practice based on such a belief

I carry an odd sense of superstition. That is to say, I do not believe open umbrellas inside or shattered hand mirrors will bring me bad luck. Soulmates and miracles are nothing more to me than fairy tale endings but I do carry an odd sense of superstition. 

That is to say that I believe magic eight balls hold fate’s voice, and that fate is the universe’s cruel sense of humour. My superstition entails wishing on stars and birthday candle flames. Wishing on fallen eyelashes and blowing them into the wind hoping an angel which catch them and hear my prayer.  I carry an odd sense of superstition, which is to say I believe in love and all other impossible things.  

“I--I don’t think you should face me when you do it,” she is so quiet. So pure. So young. So gentle.

“I am so sorry,” my voice and heart shatter. Here she is, hope, telling me how to snuff her out. Home, telling me how to burn her down.

I am sobbing. Again. All over again. My heart scabbing and splitting apart, again and again, and again.

“Lucy…” I am crying, like a child, screaming her name. Shaking her head she presses her forehead into mine, squeezing my hand tighter, and I scream again. Scream. Loud. Screeching. No words. Words have failed me too many times before. I yell, feel the sharp pieces of my broken heart stab me, and I scream.

“Andrea, Andrea please, Andrea there is only one song. Andrea, I love you. Andrea, please. I love you. Please.” she is trying to be kind, trying to speak over my outburst, but I cannot focus.

“I love you,” and she is crying too, murmuring it over and over again against my forehead, and I am crying too, throat sore, voice rasping.

“I am so sorry Lucy. So, so, sorry…”

“I know, Andrea. I know. I am too.”

The music comes back into focus and I too quickly recognize our place, in the music, the timeline, the countdown.

“I’ll do it with you…” a brush of her nose, I whimper.

“I’m sorry,”

“I know,”

A graze of her lips.

“I love you,”

A kiss. A breath.

“I know,”

A few more notes.

“I don’t want to do this,”

A few more breaths.

“I know,”

My other hand is now covering her’s, the one with the dagger. It is warm to the touch, her palm is damp, my breath is shallow.

“I’ll make it quick, I--I'll make sure it doesn't hurt,” My voice cracks, my soul fractures.

“I know,”

I wrap my hand around the hilt gripping it, fighting back vomit. Close my eyes, another tear rolls down, she kisses it away.

“I wanted to keep you safe,”

“I know, you did what you could. I don’t blame you. For anything,”

I open my eyes, I can read a million things in her eyes. Too many things. I am already overflowing, I can’t take anymore, but I do. Because I take it all in. Every emotion on display for me, every emotion I would never get to see again. Because I would put that light out. Stomp on it. Crush it.

“I remember when I played this for you, in the sitting room. I wanted to give you something, something you would remember,”

“I remember,”

My dressing gown has slipped off a shoulder. Her eyes brush over it before she leans in to press a small light kiss on my neck, and goosebumps ignite all over me. She pulls away, her fingers leave mine to brush my hair over one shoulder, and then covers the hand with the blade so she has encased it, one hand under it one hand over mine. I brush my free hand over her knuckles and find my fingers reluctant to lift again.

“I’m going to turn around now,” her voice almost blends into the music. Like she is meant to be there. In it. With it. I do not reply, just look up at her. Her burning eyes. Such fire. Such beauty. Such life. That life that had lit my own. Set me alight. Set me up in flames. Bonfire, no sign of fading. But here we were being doused in water. Turning to smoke and steam. When you are done burning alive, all that is left are the burn marks and scars and the absence of the warmth that once flooded your veins. That once reminded you that you were alive. Her hands leave mine as she moves stiffly and I cross my legs, shifting my aching muscles. As she sits in my lap leaning into me, as I wrap my arms around her and bury myself into the crook of her neck, trying to inhale the universes that exist there, I know that if she is not alive, neither will I be, and I suppose that is the point.

Just like I know I will have to hold her lifeless body in my arms before someone comes to get her and I know that is the point.

Just like I know this robe and these hands will be stained with her blood and that is the point.

Just like I know this song will never be the same for me.

Clair de lune. Moonlight will never be the same for me.

And that is the point.

The point is to tear me apart into so many tiny lifeless pieces, that no amount of happy drenched memories or hopeless love affairs could put me back together.

~Excerpt from the short story ‘Dance With Her’~

Preformed at my city's first slam and came in second place...and met the mayor...and got a gift card to a book store...like-- could it get any better?