[Désastre Corporel]

starsinthegutter:

“You were perfect that night… you tasted like my blood… You left me so exhausted and confused.” He smiled, laughing softly.  ”I still have the scars. I doubt they‘ll ever really fade away.” he said, his voice so much more tired and so much more knowing…. “You were….so strange…. like nothing I  imagined existed in this world.” he swallowed. He knew all the things to say to Jupiter… All the right words to bring him back time and time again.  ”You were… I loved you…” His voice was fading out… warbling…. the sea was suddenly louder than his confessions….

The roaring waves crashed down over him and he was pulled from the window and the image of the man he loved was washed away from him in an instant… “He loved me…” he screamed out, his hands grasping for anything other than water… “He fucking loved me…”  there was only grass under his fingertips… and only blood on his lips…

why is

it 

that sadness

always comes at 

night, my

most beloved 

of times?

living off coffee and

clove cigarettes,

pills and tea

I am cliched.

I’m so sorry girl, I never meant you to know this

, ribs beginning to poke through ,

knives at the neck

Never have I noticed your slender wrists more

, the bony knuckles ,

sharp cheekbones.

 I’m so, so sorry girl,

that you know what this

is like.

I never meant for this.

I just
Want
My life to
E n d
Every single
Day,
Is that
So
Much to
Ask?

psychologicalmarker:

Thump, thump, thump.

Do you hear the blood sloshing through our heart? I do.

You shouldn’t get that surgery, I like the way it sounds.

Fast footsteps.

Slow down, what are you running from?

Stairs.

Breeze.

We feel so alive!

You aren’t alive.

We are alive. Don’t you hear our heart beat?

I am alive, it’s my heart beat.

You’re just the body.

the swelling has thinned,

the pill bottles have emptied,

the pain is ethereal.

why can’t I be you?

livingmorbid:

While he stayed casual

I would picture his hands

And his mind

Being captured by mine

But our knowledge and fear

Was always too great

livingmorbid:

You grip my hand, the bones

Interwoven weeds

And yank me through the bodies

The flesh, wounds healing together

My eyes are closed, dead yet feeling

And the oncoming trauma makes me feel…

‘Come on, you’re beautiful’

The toes shrivel and fail to clutch

The loose soil

I am the spider webs

That grow silver in light

Stay away torches of the night

The past life of a physical self

Replays in my darkness

What noise do I hear if not

The one of previous regret

I feel like there is this excessively heavy weight on my chest, pulling me down, back stooping. I sigh to attempt to alleviate this, but to no avail. I want to curl up someplace dark and quiet, and just cool enough to keep me awake, at least for a little while. I want to be the small child, sneaking away and hiding in the corner of the closet to get away from the household disagreements, to hide with the monster instead of hiding from it.

What am I now. A creature who fears her own kind, an awkward doe who doesn’t know feet from sky. A milky thing with fearful eyes and quiet, infrequent breath. I am stunning and horrible. I am nothing.

summerfreezing:

Sometimes I miss myself

My left eye cries constantly.

Allergies, I had

originally thought, but

after months of it

I realise that it is

the only part of me

that weeps without

a 

wound

anymore.

The pills stopped the wrong voices.

psychologicalmarker:

Deeper. She doesn’t love you.

Pain.

You don’t feel anything.

I don’t feel anything.

Keep going.

I don’t feel anything.

i think that

i have

found

a

permanent

sadness

deep in my

bones

where i

can’t reach

to pull it out—

a shard of ice

working further in.

Sadness is heavy
Melancholy; cold
despairing in silence
anguish untold.

desolation
despair
lowness
misery

blue
grey
woe;
dole and despondency

livingmorbid:

When I strip for the running shower

The bleached germs of a million hands

I imagine that I am her, this inner

Repetition, that demands

Attention

‘Your skin is vile’

And I feel the heat of steam

With the lack of clothing

How can I write for myself, when I am

Torn between simple nerve snaps

In my deprived stomach

And complex fantasies

In my mind of denial

And hatred 

I cannot believe the things she is saying. I never wanted her to recover. I wanted her to stay down in the dark with me, tasting dirt under her fingernails. I wanted the darkness to curl under our ribs and tickle our shrinking hearts. I wanted to spill moonbeams down her chest, lap them up with greed. I wanted to cry into her hair. Every spotty scar a kiss from our disease. Ours. Our disease. The only thing we truly shared. And now it is gone in favor of Confidence is Beauty.

What happened to us?