“simply Remembering What It Feels Like To Love Creatures That Aren’t Human. A Nameless Sadness, The

Just a girl, wrapped in a blanket, with the wind whistling and the rain storming outside, doing her research for her thesis, in a paratextual friendship with twenty-years-old Mary Shelley she will never know about because we are two centuries apart

Official Intro

hello! my name’s ani and i’m a recent college graduate with a degree in creative writing. writing’s always been a passion of mine and this is just my space to post what i’ve been working on. i typically enjoy writing literary fiction, psychological thriller, and experimental pieces. but i also just write whatever comes to mind! hope you enjoy my ramblings!

other links:

main blog

book reviews blog

personal website

below, you’ll find some of my finished works and any wips i have (which aren’t many but still) likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated and i hope you enjoy your stay🤍

Current WIP

With the Stars as My Compass: After ten years of wondering just who her father was, Noemi Clarkson finds the answer in a place she’d least expect. Following his funeral, Noemi is introduced by her estranged brother to the magical world of Mystics, people who are blessed by the Angels to guide wayward Spirits to the Castle in the Sky. When faced with the everchanging landscape before her, Noemi must ask herself if she’s willing to part with her normal life for the sake of the greater good. 

Keep reading

EVERYTHING 

His eyes, oh his eyes were jewels 

I wanted to rob him blind 

He stared at me like I was something 

My heart rushed, jumping in my chest 

Why did I feel like I was 

Nothing to him?

He whispered to me 

“What are we?” 

Nothing 

Coldness surrounds us 

Could we be something?

Could he keep me warm? 

“What am I to you?” 

I whispered back. 

His eyes never left my gaze, 

Never blinking

“Everything.” 

Happy STS! Your story gets told from someone else's perspective. Whose is it?

If Cavity was to be told from someone else’s perspective, it would have to be her love interest. The woman who is caught in Delaney’s revenge scheme. Her narrative would be just as important as Delaney’s narrative, perhaps more honest.

Our love is a garden

A garden that has rare flowers, bugs of all types,

And weeds.

You and i are the gardeners.

Do you tend to our flowers, our bugs, our weeds?

You let it blossom

We let it blossom into something beautiful

Sometimes we forget to water our garden

To care for it

Vines grew

With thorns we never knew

Till now

It’s okay to step away

It’s okay to take a break

The shovel, the watering can,

All of it will be here waiting

For you

For our love to bloom

I understand that you blink and life goes by

You blink and everything is not

What it once was

KNITTED2

Boy you are caught in the threads of your own 

Thoughts. 

You can’t break through, no. 

You trip and stumble over these knitted paths, 

They lead you somewhere dark- somewhere distant. 

You’ve fallen down the rabbit hole with only the 

String as rope to get you out. 

You try to reach, but do you really? 

Excuses excuses are all that’s ever heard. 

Your ball of yarn is lost and you can’t even get out 

Of bed. 

In this dream, you are in a pit.

It surrounds you in pitch black.

Its mouth swallows you whole.

Effortlessly, you sat comfortably in your hole, like it had a hold on you

You sometimes climb, but then you fall like you had no care at all, then you try and try again but only get stuck with your feet buried in the sand.

You are in this constant battle with yourself

while a blindfold covers your eyes tightly

I wish you could see what you mean to me

There’s a snake in the pit that grasps on to you

day by day you decline my desires

my desire for you to reach out, my desire for you to hold on

the stench of dirt that covers you from head to toe and your brown eyes that fight to stay open

they blink and blink with the strength of a human

Please don’t let go.

don’t let go of the red balloon

I know it’s not much in the face of everything but I have been finding hope & resilience in palestinian poetry these past few weeks and I created a google drive file of poetry collections by palestinian poets that I will keep updating as I keep on reading. I also recommend checking out @fiercynn’s palestinian poets series for more poets + poetry available online

Untitled Rambles

I feel sick. Again. Not in control. Again.

Shaken, misplaced, irregular

I have all the words ready to spew out from my faucet,

But they won’t come out, not right now,

And not right. Just jumbled word vomit that smells like grief, aching, and anxiety.

My insides feel all torn up.

All messed up.

Just like my mind.

I’m currently trying to find out if I’m even alive.

This stupid ringing in my ear,

This stupid voice in my head,

This stupid way that I look at him.

Pushing my feelings aside. No longer shoving them down his throat, just my fingers that he loves to suck.

My body that he loves to touch.

My body that is hard for me to touch.

Looking around to see others wanting me but I’m not sure if I even want myself anymore.

Cause he used to want me in a way that made my heart fucking flutter. He used to want me in a way that proclaimed love was real.

I promised to put myself first.

I promised to love myself.

I used to put myself first.

I used to love myself more than I loved anyone else.

I met him and fell down a landslide.

Is it me wanting to get pleasure because it’s so easily accessible, or is it me wanting to get pleasure to erase those feelings, to take me to an out-of-body experience, to just make my brain empty and my body full? I want to be loved, and I want to be cared for. By him. But it’s not possible, not right now, perhaps not ever, just not in the way that I love and care for him. So I’m putting myself first. I will be organized, I will be on time, I will take my medication, I will make my bed and do yoga and see friends. I will have sex for pleasure and to fill that void. I believe that love just isn’t on the menu for me right now. Not right now. I know it will come, I vow it too. But I stop my beckoning. I hold off on the searching and the begging. I’m young. It’s about me.