you only kiss me after taking a bite into the apple of shame, after it has run your mouth over, after your guilt has turned into all i can taste. you only care for what is pierced by your own gun and not by another's, for you're agitated by the mere thought of turning into a killer to the point of affection. i have found myself craving and begging for a bullet. the gun slowly turns into a source of tenderness instead of one for murder, each shot feeling like the kiss i'll receive on the scar left from the wound after. even if death may come i will be grieved, for no memory is more permanent than ones tinted by remorse.
how can you trust yourself or anything in your life when all of your surroundings change so drastically? cause life is just a series of unfortunate events. one day love is all you know, and another day, you're empty of it. one day you say you've always been unable to move on from anything in your life, the other day you find you're on the other side of the wall, already walking past the house you couldn't leave. one day, it's your purpose, and another day, it's why you resent yourself.
"All the likes of you are full of deranged thoughts with innocent smiles," my look alike? Where?
it went down in history, my dear. they wrote about us, or so i thought, said you were better dead, rightfully so, and they took it from you, broke my horns, and when you came back, i told them i never even loved you. my heart went cold, you buried yours, and the ocean waves went still. where did they fly away, the feelings? your memory is far, far out of my reach, and if i break that one bone in two, you won't pour out of it anymore. "i did love once," i said, "i guess." and kept the spear close. god, i don't want you back where you once were anymore.
Beyond the window, the pigeons squabble, a flurry of gray feathers and desperate coos, all for a few grains of yesterday's rice. My mom probably thinks she's doing them a favor. Inside, a different kind of fight is happening, a cold dread nestled right beside you in the cramped space of my heart. It's a strange intimacy, fear and love sharing the same worn-out room.
I let my mind wander to a simpler life, one where a rooster's crow, not an alarm, jerks me awake. A farm, maybe, where the rising sun is a genuine need, not just a theoretical concept. Even now, Mars hangs faintly in the sky, a distant promise fading against the encroaching daylight. It’s just a blurry white speck now, against a sea of pale blue.
I don’t know much about that planet, really. If I did, you'd be the first to hear. I’d call you at five, when you’re just stumbling through the door, tired and smelling faintly of work. My hands would be fidgeting, tracing the worn pattern of flowers on the living room carpet, as I rattled on about Martian canyons and dust storms.
I remember middle school, desperate for every stolen minute of sleep. I’d pass out in my uniform, ready for a quick escape in the morning. The hand in hand walk i did with mom, bleary-eyed, barely registering. Then, my dad's familiar car, a soft landing in the back seat. Half-conscious, I'd feel the turns, recognize the growing canopy of trees that meant we were close. The sleepiness had to end, the musty smell of old plastic and dust reluctantly releasing me. Petroleum.
You were a kid once, too, I realize. Napping in cars, on buses, however you could manage, just trying to stay afloat through those early mornings. Maybe we were both awake at the same time, halfway across the country from each other, battling the same urge to just close our eyes and disappear.
I’m glad I didn’t know you then. I’m selfishly glad for those years of untroubled quiet, before the complexity and messiness of us.
Sometimes, I feel like the only thing I know how to be is a child. I'm not sure what happens next. My mom used to pack me cucumber and sandwiches, wrapped in tiny plastic 'ምሳቃ', and shove them into my numb, sleepy hands. Half the time, I'd forget about them, leaving them to rot in the bottom of my backpack. Love, molding. Love too rotten to even taste.
Petroleum… the smell of old plastic and gas... I miss it. I miss the simplicity of those half-asleep mornings, before the world got so complicated.
I let my mind wander to a simpler life, one where a rooster's crow, not an alarm, jerks me awake. A farm, maybe, where the rising sun is a genuine need, not just a theoretical concept. Even now, Mars hangs faintly in the sky, a distant promise fading against the encroaching daylight. It’s just a blurry white speck now, against a sea of pale blue.
I don’t know much about that planet, really. If I did, you'd be the first to hear. I’d call you at five, when you’re just stumbling through the door, tired and smelling faintly of work. My hands would be fidgeting, tracing the worn pattern of flowers on the living room carpet, as I rattled on about Martian canyons and dust storms.
I remember middle school, desperate for every stolen minute of sleep. I’d pass out in my uniform, ready for a quick escape in the morning. The hand in hand walk i did with mom, bleary-eyed, barely registering. Then, my dad's familiar car, a soft landing in the back seat. Half-conscious, I'd feel the turns, recognize the growing canopy of trees that meant we were close. The sleepiness had to end, the musty smell of old plastic and dust reluctantly releasing me. Petroleum.
You were a kid once, too, I realize. Napping in cars, on buses, however you could manage, just trying to stay afloat through those early mornings. Maybe we were both awake at the same time, halfway across the country from each other, battling the same urge to just close our eyes and disappear.
I’m glad I didn’t know you then. I’m selfishly glad for those years of untroubled quiet, before the complexity and messiness of us.
Sometimes, I feel like the only thing I know how to be is a child. I'm not sure what happens next. My mom used to pack me cucumber and sandwiches, wrapped in tiny plastic 'ምሳቃ', and shove them into my numb, sleepy hands. Half the time, I'd forget about them, leaving them to rot in the bottom of my backpack. Love, molding. Love too rotten to even taste.
Petroleum… the smell of old plastic and gas... I miss it. I miss the simplicity of those half-asleep mornings, before the world got so complicated.
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Forwarded from Void station.
What proof do we have that what we are feelin now is true???
Whoever's writing and directing my life I want to have a word with them because none of these makes sense.
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Chocolate is one of the best flavors in literally everything and if you dislike it you're an npc....
The dreary weather (the rain drops were falling audibly down on the metal window ledge) made him quite melancholy. “Why don’t I keep sleeping for a little while longer and forget all this foolishness,” he thought.
— Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis
— Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis
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it’s so awkward being asked “do you really think that lowly of yourself?” because no? of course not? buddy, i was just.. kidding around.. haha, funny, haha? humor, you know? but also truthfully: yeah. absolutely. without a doubt. hold up a handful of dirt & one individual speck of it has more worth & purpose than i could ever even begin to hope to have but, you know! anyhow! nice weather we’re having
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He'll laugh and say, "You know I raised you bеtter than this" then leavе me hanging so they all can laugh at me