I promise to never go outside again @achingkid - Tumblr Blog

#Ms. Bunny #nostalgiacore #weirdcore #dreamcore #traumacore

I don't know what we're living for anymore.

Every day, I live happy-go-lucky, ignoring the fact that I haven't been able to realistically imagine my future for months. And I know it isn't your fault. And it isn't even fully my fault, even though I have a part in it.

I just keep blindly hoping and trusting that we can get out of here and that momentary excitements will keep me satiated. What does any of this matter? Why does this matter?

I've spent so long desperately wanting to get through the day, and I do, again, and again, and again, and again. And you make it better.

But I don't know what it's adding up to anymore.

I never help. My money does nothing. Why am I here? Why do I keep going? Why do I keep a straight face through my tiny fucking shifts that will never get us where we need to go? Why am I going to spend my time keeping another straight face today? Again?

When am I finally going to break? When am I going to stop? When can I stop worrying?

I've been happy. I know what that feels like now.

But I don't see my future anymore. I trusted you when you told me the several year plan. But I don't know if I can wait that long.

I love you so much. I don't know how long I can hold on like this. I don't plan on leaving, but I don't know how long I can do this. I'm so fucking tired. I don't know what to do anymore.

I saw a vulture land over where your remnants are today. I felt lucky to have that sight obscured by grass and flowers. From where I was sitting, a tree obscured the view of the vulture gorging on your decaying carcass.

That's all you are now, I suppose. A carcass.

It's strange, when days ago, you were trotting over to me, giving tiny squeaks of conversation, whiskers trembling. Like you were trying in vain to warn me that you'd be leaving soon. I couldn't hear you.

Or maybe I did, but I didn't want to acknowledge it. You were straying from the others more than ever before — You wouldn't even come to the food bowl to eat. You made me come out to feed you.

And now you're dead. That's such a funny word. The word itself brings no recollection of grief or anguish, but the vision of your body massacred so brutally makes me ill to the highest degree. Why were you out there? Why did you have to be there?

Your mouth was open, your eyes wide, as if in a silent gasp of shock as your organs were crushed. I can't bring myself to believe it wasn't painful, even if it was quick. Though, I am glad you weren't like the other one — the one who dragged himself into the yard as he bled through his nose, dying from internal injury.

I can't get you out of my head, you know. I sat out there for the longest time with the dog and ate an apple. But I couldn't finish it. It tasted like nothing; felt like nothing but a texture of wet grain in my mouth. Why are you dead? Why did it have to be you?

Maybe it's the same I've always been told. I'm just overly sensitive of the whole thing. I haven't seen the same horrors that they have. But the thought still shakes me.

I don't want to be desensitized as they have been. I want to remember you, but not in so much horror. I want to grieve you, but I'm not sure which way is best. How can I grieve properly when the thought of you splayed out so flatly rolls my stomach again and again? Your eyes glazed over, lifeless — your entrails decorating the surface of the asphalt and being cooked repulsively by the morning sun. Your back paw lying feet away, detached. You looked like someone had blown you up with a bomb.

I had seen roadkill so many times before, but never so intimately familiar. Never you. Never someone I loved.

I'm sorry, I just don't understand. I don't understand any of it. I'm lost in thought of you and of my future. Am I next? Surely not victim to an actual vehicle (I should hope not), but with today's political decline, I worry. How little I work. How little I make. You, lucky to have never known the cost humans endure. Unfortunate to be a victim to their cruelty.

But I don't know how long we humans endure. How long this family can endure — we two who cared about you and our animals. I don't want him to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders. It isn't fair. But I don't know what I'm doing anymore. What monetary support can I sweep if I am nothing but shambles of a person?

I wish you were still here. I took you for granted, as I do so many things. I only hope that you send messages through my remaining daughter. I try to tell her clearly that I love her, but I am hurting. I am sorry that I am hurting.

I just wish you were here.

I am a werewolf in fear of impending darkness.

Rather than a fierce beast of night and moon, the werewolf cowers at the smallest notion. He's overcome so much, and yet, at the cliffside, he sits, quivering over a silly little illness.

He knows his role. Like all other werewolves live their lives, so must he, and that means hunting. But hunting is such a violent endeavor. He has thought so since childhood, where the fathers would cheer and celebrate over the downed carcass of a buck. How masculine, how adult! It gets you where you want to go. Hunting is the way of the world. A werewolf can't simply not hunt.

To not hunt when he has his partner in the den waiting is such an inconvenience. A burden. Hungry mouths expect of him. It must happen sooner or later. You have no other option.

Hunt.

The werewolf aches to please, and every rising orange moon, he tries again. He stalks through the night, after a deer, but his body quakes. What of the many who have been impaled on the spikes of a mighty antler? What of those who have been trampled, their tracheas rendered nothing but mush as a pitiful last cry bleats out?

No. He cannot trust himself to be normal. It is not in his DNA. He stares out at the field with no desire, no ambition — Wishing deeply to omit himself from the conversation altogether. How selfish, he knows. When the burden is so heavy, so frustrating — He knows it is selfish to feel this way. He is all the madder for it. To hope and dream of an accident where his leg is mangled. Perhaps his eyesight, too — All to be excused from a duty others see so mundane.

He has to hunt. He has to try. Again, and again, and again ... And when he tastes the carcass upon his tongue, the meat will taste sour and bittered every time. But he will do it, because there is no other option.

What would be of a werewolf who never hunted?

Loneliness and never a pack to be had.

Failure isn't an option.

Why am I ill? What's wrong with me?

Why do I ruin everything I touch?

My lungs feel restricted. Part of me hoped you'd just stop the car and shove me out. Get rid of me.

I'm worse than Kayla. I serve no use and should just stay quiet

How could anyone love me? I keep seeing my reflection in the phone screen and I feel repulsive. I'm hideous. This body is nothing but a mass of rotting flesh covered in acne and misplaced blemishes

It's not even about the thrift store. I was in the wrong i know that I don't care

Whats my problem? Why can't i think clearly? Why does everything feel like it's twisting and warping in my head?? I feel so ill

There's snot bubbling in my nostrils. I'm so gross. I feel so exhausted