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An insufflation, a swallow, an absorption of sorts, smoke trickling out from behind a curtain of parted lips. Take my paper, give me my substances but please don’t hurt me. The due date of my life that should have expired has since passed and so has that of a resurgence. I am a year older but not much wiser. My extremities still tremble out of thoughts of constant danger but I don’t blink anymore. “You look like them with your sad eyes and long hair.” I was being compared to a taxidermied animal. My existance is quiet yet reputable once known. I am the one scarred and scabbed, standing on balcony ledges, arms out, eyes closed, hoping a gust of wind will push me over gently. A broken neck for a little girl in a white dress. The same neck you tried strangling so many years ago. A child losing consciousness in an abandoned gas station under a full moon. I am a tornado spinning in slow motion never to be stopped and I haven’t cut my hair since you died. I carry secrets behind my grown veil of grief. My bedroom is littered in pill bottles and dirtied socks they ordered me to put on in the hospital so many times. It’s hard to sleep when the schizophrenic down the hall prays loudly all night and your soul is empty and silent but you are no less psychotic yourself.

trinaechidna: Great blog, followed xx

Thank you for the follow.

(Source: htrk, via sharpmachine)


Michel Journiac - Rituel pour un autre

(via unena)

i am hungry for you, chewing straight through you.

let me stitch your wounds together with the silk from the head of a siren.