What's the point of a fucking window if you can't jump out of it?- Patrick Melrose
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our education systems are cool like that (im losing touch with reality and i need to romanticise life to the last bit but even the romanticising has stopped working as has my brain and ive lost the ability to focus or enjoy anything ) very very cool education system
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unless you literally want to crack open your rib cage and have me crawl inside do NOT flirt with me.
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I hate it when my favorite person is someone else’s favorite person, mine is mine bitch GO DIE
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There is this quote i wrote on my closet "Noone will notice your blood-soaked hands if you do it poetically."
It reminded me of one of the most famous quotes from if we were villains: “you can justify anything if you do it poetically enough.”
It reminded me of one of the most famous quotes from if we were villains: “you can justify anything if you do it poetically enough.”
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Forwarded from Unresolved Issues
I find bruises everywhere. From hits I don’t remember, from scratches I didn't feel. Flesh torn from my bone and barbed wires under my skin. I’d be going peacefully through my day and I’d feel discomfort of a kind touch. The ache of a gentle caress. I find myself lashing out, attacking. Tooth and nail digging into whoever dared touch me where it hurts. Whoever showed me a kind face or a sympathetic smile.
It’s a surprise to me too. The anger. The defensiveness. The venomous snap and subsequent recoil from warmth. I don’t know where the fiery dragon of spite comes from and I don’t know what its protecting. But it hurts, it cuts, it burns. It wounds in defense of wounds I never knew existed.
And how do you heal what you cannot see? How do you dress wounds buried beneath memory, beneath time, beneath all the quiet places where pain has learned to hide? Its hopeless because how many other scars are still bleeding inside me? How many have festered under the skin? How many have reached the core of my being and embedded their claws there?
And what happens when someone presses too deep, when their hands find the raw places I don’t know of? What happens when someone gets close, when they put a lazy arm around my shoulders, ruffling hair and teasing playfully? What happens when someone hugs me tightly and tell me they love me? What happens when I’m discovered and laid bare? What happens when I give myself to be explored? How many wounds would wake up? How many will ooze spite, anger, hate? And how many will poison the ones who dared to love me?
#fiction ?
It’s a surprise to me too. The anger. The defensiveness. The venomous snap and subsequent recoil from warmth. I don’t know where the fiery dragon of spite comes from and I don’t know what its protecting. But it hurts, it cuts, it burns. It wounds in defense of wounds I never knew existed.
And how do you heal what you cannot see? How do you dress wounds buried beneath memory, beneath time, beneath all the quiet places where pain has learned to hide? Its hopeless because how many other scars are still bleeding inside me? How many have festered under the skin? How many have reached the core of my being and embedded their claws there?
And what happens when someone presses too deep, when their hands find the raw places I don’t know of? What happens when someone gets close, when they put a lazy arm around my shoulders, ruffling hair and teasing playfully? What happens when someone hugs me tightly and tell me they love me? What happens when I’m discovered and laid bare? What happens when I give myself to be explored? How many wounds would wake up? How many will ooze spite, anger, hate? And how many will poison the ones who dared to love me?
#fiction ?
it's stupid, it's pathetic even but being seen feeling something deranges me. i feel as if a hundred knives are pointed at me, and every time the curtain moves, a little one is aiming my neck
I want to sit on a train without knowing where it's heading and not get off til it reaches its destination
Perhaps I've overlooked the linchpin, that single, vital sentence lost amidst the sprawling paragraphs of my so-called progress. Perhaps the earth, indifferent to my eighteenth birthday, never paused its rotation, and this festering cake of youthful expectation must now, finally, be thrown away. Perhaps the revelry was always happening just beyond my grasp, the unbidden guest forever peering through the window, or, more damningly, perhaps my circuitry simply wasn't designed for simpler joys.
Perhaps some ham-fisted mechanic, the cosmos' most inept apprentice, miswired me from the start, leaving me to malfunction in solitude, burdened by a broken, metallic heart that sparks and sputters but never quite beats. Perhaps it was a grand error, a misdelivery, or maybe, the simplest, most brutal truth: it was just never meant to be.
Perhaps this poetry, this torrent of words, will become both my enduring legacy and the fatal poison that ultimately claims me. Perhaps I am destined to forever remain the poet, spinning beauty and sorrow from the ether, and never the biographer, capable of crafting a coherent narrative from the chaos.
Perhaps there existed a cord – umbilical, invisible, some poisoned fruit offered by unseen hands reaching for scraps of answers high in the sky. A frayed telephone line, a bridge suspended between unstable ground, a fleeting flicker of artificial light, veins desperately clinging to a lifeless organ that had to be severed.
Perhaps it was all so terribly, tragically unnecessary. That now, finally, I must simply take out the trash.
Perhaps some ham-fisted mechanic, the cosmos' most inept apprentice, miswired me from the start, leaving me to malfunction in solitude, burdened by a broken, metallic heart that sparks and sputters but never quite beats. Perhaps it was a grand error, a misdelivery, or maybe, the simplest, most brutal truth: it was just never meant to be.
Perhaps this poetry, this torrent of words, will become both my enduring legacy and the fatal poison that ultimately claims me. Perhaps I am destined to forever remain the poet, spinning beauty and sorrow from the ether, and never the biographer, capable of crafting a coherent narrative from the chaos.
Perhaps there existed a cord – umbilical, invisible, some poisoned fruit offered by unseen hands reaching for scraps of answers high in the sky. A frayed telephone line, a bridge suspended between unstable ground, a fleeting flicker of artificial light, veins desperately clinging to a lifeless organ that had to be severed.
Perhaps it was all so terribly, tragically unnecessary. That now, finally, I must simply take out the trash.
I think I can make sense of something foreign and unattainable to me, butterflies churn in my stomach, spilling my guts out with the letters I swallowed years ago, waking up to a cardboard cutout of my dreams with a picket fence. I ran on empty for days only to stand at the finish line of all my wrongdoings and ask "Will you come to my kitchen and be hungry for me?"
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And I feel so detached from reality these days, I don't know where my mind goes, it's like I black out and when I wake up it's time to sleep again.
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