It’s strange. I felt less lonely when I didn’t know you.
The Flies (Jean Paul Sartre)

(via moodymoonie)

Come to the House of Hades.

we come up with leitmotifs for our lives
some just fall into our laps
like my mermaids
or your vampires
some we choose,
like my fire, my cyborgs,
or your death & dying.

my cyborg mermaids are on fire.
your vampires are dead & dying.

my cyborg mermaids hunt you down,
they seduce you while feeling nothing
then light you on fire.

your vampires are already dead,
but they’ll die some more at my hands
when i light them on fire.

we are knives.
we cut one another.

my robot sirens want to burn your undead.
listen to our siren song,
no less sad than sweet.
the end of our song is death.
(we have that much in common.)

I am a digital Persephone, written in code
my cybernetic sirens sing my songs of doom. 

I am the kidnapped queen of the underworld
you are the Stockholm Syndrome king of my desire, Hades.

we’ve evolved, this is some next level shit.

I am not the cyborg mermaids, but their queen.
you are not the death-wish vampires, but their god.

together, we bring death.
we combine our power & are unstoppable.

I eat pomegranate seeds from your palm.
we feast on the fruit of the dead.

come to the house of Hades and dread Persephone
& pay tribute to our throne.

we are destruction, death, & decay.
we are hate, which outweighs love,
& hope, which outweighs hate.

every 6 months I burst forth to the surface of the earth
my loins bear hope and harvest.
I keep us alive.
I give birth to us, again and again.
we crawl out of my womb.

we are rubies & gold in knife hilts.
we are constantly stabbing each other to death.
we are constantly dying & reborn.

the skin you’re in. the skin you put yourself in. you put yourself in my skin. in the broken vessels and the breakage. i carry you in my skin. i didn’t choose to do this. but there you are. you live in my skin. under my skin. you’ve always gotten under my skin.

the skin you’re in. the skin you put yourself in. you put yourself in my skin. in the broken vessels and the breakage. i carry you in my skin. i didn’t choose to do this. but there you are. you live in my skin. under my skin. you’ve always gotten under my skin.

kys.

you find yourself walking down dark empty streets more and more
fantasizing that some bad men will appear from an alley to jump you
imagine them with knives
plunging into your gut
screaming “yes yes”
when you feel the blade pop past your skin
just like that

you look less and less when you cross the street

you cry silently on trains home
you want somebody to punch you in the face

bones

i get sad when i shower now. i see the soap you handed to me, standing side by side in the warm plenteous water less than a week ago and i remember your hands on the bottle, like I remember your hands on me, and i know soon it will be empty, and then gone, like us, and i’ll have no choice but to throw it away with your memory all over it like that, sunk into the plastic, part of it, and you can call me a romantic, but i’ve never been very good at tossing things aside.

i can still feel your fingers interlaced with mine — not one, but both hands gripping the other’s tightly as we cross that border into sleep, as if we’re afraid to lose one another on the other side. and this was how we went, nightly, locked together in these little ways, never not touching, always moving legs between legs and heads on shoulders and fingers between fingers until we were almost one entity, tangled and imperfect, all skinny useless limbs and clumsily pieced together, but together nonetheless.

i want to feel your bones on my bones, still.

but i’ve felt them too intensely, those bones of yours on mine. i’ve felt your knuckles graze my cheek and the sticky wetness of the blood it left behind. i’ve felt your fingertips, all dug into the sinews of my throat; felt elbows on breastbone, knees all down my shins. i should want nothing more to do with your bones. if my bones break, I want to be the one who breaks them.

still, i watch a little sadly as the bruises fade away.

do you remember the child you put in my gut? that perfect union, all blood and genes interlaced like fingers before sleep. when we cut it out of me, we drew closer in the space it left behind.

our bones are all fused together now; sin is a glue and it binds us.

when i kill you, it will be a suicide.

when the soap runs out and I throw you away, I throw myself away too.

I’ve never been good at letting go, but staying is dying and dying is easy, but living, it’s harder to do.

blipsterinsverige:

c0ssette:

Gerrit van Honthorst - Saint Sebastian,detail, ca.1623.



how i’m feelin’

blipsterinsverige:

c0ssette:

Gerrit van Honthorst - Saint Sebastian,detail, ca.1623.

how i’m feelin’

(via smothertongue)

I really need someone to talk to right now and I feel like you might be important to me in my life
The Darjeeling Limited (via susiea)
There was another life that I might have had, but I am having this one.
Kazuo Ishiguro (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

(via susiea)

breakup poems

i am sick with the love i feel
overcome by it in great feverish waves
sweating and freezing
in turns
under covers
alone
sleeping for days then
not at all

i am sick with the love i feel
whole swaths of my innards
turn black and cancerous and harden
i begin to slip out of this human shape, to
feel my shell weaken, wait for its discard

i am sick with the love i feel
starved and
all fire to touch
my skin
sparks,
burns,
slips away like ash.
i am engulfed in flame.

i am sick with the love i feel
i wait it out
withdrawal
sweats seeping out in dewish beads
across my brow

i am sick with the love i feel
in my guts,
churning,
then spilling out across the floor.

i am sick with the love i feel
though for months i resisted, raged
against the dying of the light

i am sick with the love i feel and
it’s terminal; deep in my marrow,
the futility lives inside my cells

i am sick with the love i feel
it eats up my blood
the white rush to heal slows and
weakens in dejection

i am bedridden with the love i feel
the rot has taken hold inside and
buzzards circle outside and
a man in black writes my will and testaments
my pores swell and burst green pus

i am dead from the love i felt
my body is black and
blue and all
open sores and
leprous, but you should know
that my last labored breaths
were hopeful
waiting for death’s embrace.

 

femme.

everyone i meet has your name
& everywhere i go i see it written
no one has your face, though, and that’s the real shame

i think i will die alone because
everyone is ugly

i need something to look forward to
or i die
(every time)

i just want to collect baubles
& pretty things
& take walks around lakes & lay on docks in the summertime
and not be alone while i do this.

a pretty girl sent me photos of the minutiae of her day & it really charmed me
i wanted to eat frozen yogurt with her & pick out the cute-colored spoons
i wanted to help her wipe off her skirt when she spilled her yogurt on it
i wanted to touch her hair, which was like mine, but yellow
i wanted to walk around the lower east side buying paper together
& watch her make her art
& maybe fall in love a little

i wanted to forget all about you
through my new love for her

i find white men a little grotesque
especially the wide-jawed ones, all 5’oclock shadows, all future paunch
& circumstance
i like a man who has seen some shit 
that isn’t the same shit i’ve seen
but i like a feminine man
& i’m not sure what that says about me
i’ve always been this way
i want those soft clammy hands & thin fingers
i want smooth cheeks & long narrow faces
& small statures especially, no hulking Neanderthal frames

i like a human being that looks like it can kill you with its brain
a human being with no need for brawn
or big puffing chests
or talk of the alpha male

i’m more lenient with the women
just give me the soft skin & a few years’ wisdom
the red lips & black lashes & cat-eye spikes for daze

i want to replace you
with a dress & some heels