Its Mary Shelley Summer

Again, they come running to my call of distress

only to burrow in my skin and call me delicate

their stinger falling off upon entry

They want to peel off each layer to watch it grow back shiny and new.

They choke for me as I swallow their marbles but they won’t bleed for me

won’t breathe for me

and my humming bird heart won’t sway

nor listen to what you have to say

won’t cry as you break my bones

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

A repost of some of my writing…

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You’ve heard of one shots, now get ready for none shots! It’s when you think of an idea for a fic and then don’t write it

i don’t listen to perfect places by lorde for a few months then it comes on and i feel reborn cause we are young and we’re ashamed. sends us to perfect places all of our heroes fading now i can’t stand to be alone let’s go to perfect places all the nights spent off our faces tryna find these perfect places what the fuck are perfect places anyway all the nights spent off our faces tryna find these perfect places what the fuck are perfect places anyway. all the nights spent off our faces. tryna find these perfect places what the fuck are perfect places. anyway.

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. 

. TREES

A bare witness, 

A bare wilderness

Naked but not free 

Been used from time and time again 

Taken for granted 

Tossed to the side when there’s nothing 

Left  Not even a thank you.

KNITTED 

She had knit you a sweater, 

You wear it every day. 

You’ve had it sixteen years so- 

It’s to no surprise that you'd never throw it away. 

The threads follow you like a trail of shadows, 

It’s thin and damaged

It smells of hard work 

She had knit you a sweater, 

You wear it every day

You say it’s disgusting 

But you never cleaned it anyway. 

She had knit you a sweater, 

You hate it with such pain 

regarding the röttgen pietà, elle emerson