woodworkthe woodwork of my house inspires my penwoodwork5 years ago in Scraps More Like This
until i am seeing you in the shadows
the deep impressions left by worms
the deep impressions left by you
in the womb of my chest.
this is where you stay.
do you remember how we used to be in love?
the moon would fall at your feet
to feel your breath.
before, when my dreams were tattooed
with our skin pressed together,
no horrors of your body close and naked
to another's, no broken heart tying itself
with crude lace to yours.
we used to be poetry,
two poets strung together
by words and telephone lines.
you used to write,
i used to love.
it's funny how things change.
the renewal of purgingi am sick.the renewal of purging4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
i am curled around the toilet
like a cat in sunlight,
cradling it like my one and only,
cheek rested on the sill,
a makeshift window;
it is a terrible thought.
the bowl is a vignetted glimpse
into my body,
almost pure art
in its portrayal,
of my insides.
that is what it is:
it is a photograph
of my feelings.
i know this makes me sick
but i imagine i am a bird, still
neither locked by air nor earth,
and i feel a little
the lines on my skin, however,
insist that i am human.
i am afraid that they will
in the aftermath of friday,
so i pretend a little more,
a little more that i am
not sick and i will
when i put effort into
i put makeup products
on the underbellies of my eyes,
and maybe i don't look
like i'm so tired
i cut my hair.
it makes me feel less ill,
having my hair done.
but hearing the stylist
hanks of hair hit the floor
strikes me to
let it go before you messso i was just sitting herelet it go before you mess4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
in a room of four people
and breathing like the cold air
filling the walls
would somehow make us happy,
and pretending that music
wasn't sort of like
sucking venom from a wound --
in other words,
so i was just thinking
how music never really healed
a hole in my heart for me,
how really all it did
was make me think,
and at best,
it made me think about things
that hurt a little less
than what i was avoiding so hard.
i was done with looking at myself
so analytically as i pressed
my features into graphite
on a too-large paper,
and i was done reading baudelaire
as he wrote of lovers
and i felt the sadness
grow in me like a tumour.
it sort of just hit me
like i walked into a wall,
how i really don't know
the way i'm supposed to
go about loving you.
i realise i can't love you
how you can't love me back,
and i realise i can't love you
how i am the one who threw us
under the bus,
watching cycling axles
-SherlockxAlice:MR- Prologue-SherlockxAlice:MR- Prologue4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
The Mystery and Melancholy of a Street
Sherlock BBC x Alice: Madness Returns
Title based on Giorgio de Chirico's 1914 Surrealist painting of the same name.
'Underneath this reality in which we live and have our being, another and altogether different reality lies concealed.' -Friedrich Nietzsche
Sherlock never tells anyone about his dreams, not even John. He finds it rather embarrassing, really, to admit to having something that dominates his brain function at night and allows it to run rampage among the illogicality of the subconscious, an aspect of which he deems incredibly unnerving. He cannot fathom the notion of losing control over his mind, when it is meant to act as the most important physical and intellectual support of his entire well-being. He is supposed to be the one who dominates it, not, and never, the other way around.
Or at least this is what he constantly tells himself.
When Sherlock had his fifth nightmare last night (the first
night fading to darklet's talk about stars and sex and love and sadness,night fading to dark5 years ago in Scraps More Like This
drugs and poetry and how they're the same,
bones and madness and mischief and grief,
and how we're all reduced to them someday,
and ways that i can make you stay.
(i whispered that i love you
more than earth to you
when i meant it but could not say it.
you were asleep.)
you did a good job loving me while it lasted.
you left me as sadness, filled with smoke and a burning desire
to light a mentholated cigarette and bathe in rosewater.
i look like i belong on the wall of bones without you.
i will be there one day, i know i will die,
i just look like i'm dead before i stop breathing.
(the same night, you whispered that
you were leaving to-morrow
when you meant it and could not say it.
i was awake.)
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settled for sympathyi am not afraid that you will leave me-settled for sympathy5 years ago in Scraps More Like This
i am afraid of how i will hurt
when you do.
i never want to say
i used to feel pretty okay
when you were around,
how the world fell into patterns
of woven flowers in the
shared space between our hands
i am afraid that when you leave me,
you will take my heart with you;
that i will never be able to listen
to my favourite songs
because i will think of
the way my skin felt electric
when i was with you.
i never want to say
i didn't try
to hold on to the one
with fire in his smile,
a breath of oxygen
and the rapidity with which
it spread, wild
tell me, dear,
my beautiful-hearted boy,
what did i do
to deserve you?
whorei'm a whore.whore5 years ago in Scraps More Like This
not like i get paid for what i do or anything, i'm not a prostitute. just it doesn't take too much to get me to let you cop a feel. promiscuous, if you would.
i like feeling like i'm loved. i get that being used for my body doesn't mean love, but making someone feel good makes me feel good, and it's a little like love in that way.
i'm something of a self-effacing monstrosity. i'm red in the face and so are you as you resurface from between my legs.
i'm a whore.
slut of the earth. that's what i feel like when we come out of the woods. you're so drunk you probably don't know what's happened, and you'd be damned if you weren't having a great time right now, wavering all over the cool grass under the night sky, laughing jovially at nothing but the sounds of crickets' legs locking together like violin strings.
i'm a whore.
it's less being a slut, more crying for help. less throwing orgies to get off, m