caspurr

that one tiktok writer @callmecaspurr

[callmecaspurrsblog]

it's saturday and we're coming down from a high we can't get enough of when you turn and look at me with galaxies in your eyes asking me what love is. you tell me you took an english course in college and it taught you infinite variations of words that could be used to define the feeling of falling into a void you'll never climb back out of but no words can describe the incomparable feeling of freefalling without knowing what's at the bottom. you tell me of cold hands and bitter words and mean eyes. you tell me of coercion and manipulation and the distressing feeling of watching a grown man cry. i shake my head in disbelief i'm too hungover to hide. i tell you love is not a thing that can be begged for because it is uncontrollable. it is proof we are all animals despite our attempts to domesticate ourselves: love is devouring your partner with sharp teeth and gentle tongues and soft caresses. love is the priest telling fleabag it'll pass so she can learn to love herself before he loves her. love isn't kneeling and begging for forgiveness for simply existing. love is drinking from the same place on their mug hoping to taste the lingering holiness emitting from them. love is waking early to chase the sun away so they can sleep in. i tell you love is many things. love is all consuming - a replacement for the cells in your body and the thoughts in your brain, the breaths in your lungs and the beats in your heart. love is not pain and pain is not love. you look at me with glazed eyes and i wonder how long it'll be until the emotions start to spill down your cheeks in salty lines. i'm sorry - that's what i tell you. i'm sorry you haven't been loved wholly and gently and how you deserved to be loved. i'm sorry you've spent your whole life believing your absent father and your troubled mother and the mean men you give yourself to. you smile at me and i feel your sadness echo in the emptiness of my ribcage. i love you - that's what i tell you. the world is endless and universes have no time and we'll never be in the same bodies again but in each life of uncertainty i can be certain that i will always love you. imprinted on my skin like a beauty mark - embedded into my flesh like fingerprints - a part of me like dna. i love you - that's what i tell you. my stomach churns as i admit; as i confess. i love you.

[callmecaspurrsblog]

>> are you sick, dying, or already dead? <<

i'm unsure if i like this to be honest. it seemed good in my mind before i actually wrote it out but, oh well.

[callmecaspurrsblog]

though i can still dream, as the dreamer i am, of the daughter my heart aches for

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you want so badly to feel pure again you do anything and everything to mimic the innocence of a lamb without realising you are the slaughterhouse each lamb is sent to – you are the blood staining their white fur and the gasp of pain forever caught in their throat

[callmecaspurrsblog]

you are the poison killing me but for you, my dear: i would gladly rot

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she wanted early mornings and late nights and sunlight and moonlight seeping in through curtains he never shut right she wanted to trace lines down his back and leave small kisses along his skin she wanted everything he wanted sex

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you hold me like thorns hold the stem of a rose, protectively, possessively, your arms clench and your thorns prick into me, and for some reason: you ask why i am bleeding

[callmecaspurrsblog]

[callmecaspurrsblog]

if i asked you right now--what is a human, what would you say? would you say a human is a being who lives just to die?

[callmecaspurrsblog]

“there was before you and there was during you. for some reason, i never thought there would be an after you. but there was, and i was in it. i’ll be in it forever.”

Colleen Hoover, Reminders of Him

[callmecaspurrsblog]

"a man's heart is a wretched, wretched thing. it isn't like a mother's womb. it won't bleed. it won't stretch to make room for you."

Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns

[callmecaspurrsblog]

! tw !

It is 1:15 a.m.

You wake up. The world is quiet around you, the wind is whooshing past the window above your bed—the broken one that you haven’t gotten around to fixing yet. The air is seeping in through the crack, a cool breeze despite the scorching weather outside. Your feet rub against the soft covers, the ones that haven’t been washed in weeks because you haven’t had the energy to.

It is 1:20 a.m.

You can hear the clock ticking on the other side of the wall. Tick, tick, tick—the sound echoes. You hated time—the idea of it—the fact that it takes and takes but never gives; no extra seconds rewarded when you wished for extra seconds, for a minute longer to make a situation better; to be with a person longer because the idea of being alone scares you. The dreamcatcher hanging above your bed has done little to keep the bad dreams away.

It is 1:25 a.m.

You want your mother. You want to lay your head on her chest, to listen to the sound of her heart beating, to feel her fingers comb through your hair. The silence is too loud—it’s deafening. You want your mother’s voice to take over it, to fill the room with reassuring whispers, with promises that everything is going to be okay. You want to cry to her, to let your eyes run dry—you want her fingers to wipe the tears away before they fall. But your mother is too far away, and she has broken your heart one too–many times. You don’t call her. Or text her. You lay in bed, in the dark, alone.

It is 1:30 a.m.

You want your father. You want to feel the bed dip beneath his weight, to listen as he makes a joke to lighten a room that has grown too dark. But you know a bulb can only be changed so many times before it is the fuse that has to be replaced. You are the fuse. The thing that keeps blowing everything, the reason the dark exists in the first place. Your mind floods with darkness, and you want your father more than anything in this moment—you don’t call for him. You do not want to become a burden.

It is 1:35 a.m.

You have an itch. The darkness whispers to you. You have an itch—though not one that you can be rid from by putting fingernail to skin; you have a need. A burn, an ache. You are not that person anymore, you tell yourself. Your raspy voice is weak against the whispered temptations floating through your mind. You are not the you that you used to be. You are healed, you are clean—you are better. You try again, repeating the same words over and over again. You are not healed, you know this. You are not better—because better is a thing that doesn’t exist when it comes to you.

It is 1:40 a.m.

You want this feeling to go away. This sadness that was pushed onto you—this sadness that you never wanted to feel in the first place. Your eyes drift toward the white box on the wood shelves and your fingers ache for you to run your fingertips along the edge of something sharp. A tear slips from your eye; the weeks spent clean slip from your grasp. You stand from your once–soft mattress, the springs bounce back into place. The floor is hard beneath your feet. You tip–toe toward the shelves, careful to not make any noise. The cardboard touches your hands, and the decision has already been made.

It is 1:45 a.m.

You are crying. As quietly as you can, you allow the tears to fall from your eyes as you stare up at the ceiling above you. There is a spider there. The moonlight seeping in through the thin curtain provides a little light. You wonder, for a split second, if the spider has ever felt the paralysing sadness that you constantly feel. Then, almost immediately, you curse yourself for having such a stupid thought. You put the box back on the shelf in the same place. You change your shirt to a black long sleeved one.

It is 1:50 a.m.

You regret it. Your actions—you regret. Guilt floods your being, and the overwhelming emotions fade out. Your head aches—it throbs. Your wrists sting, your eyes burn, your heart hurts. The pillow beneath you feels so soft, you find yourself melting into it. You want to be a butterfly; to be free.

Next time, you tell yourself. Next time, I will do it—I will stay clean.

(if you are going through this--you are not alone. i love you, and i am so proud of you. you can get through this.)

[callmecaspurrsblog]

you made me feel bad for feeling the way i felt -- you turned it into an argument. you stole my words, but expected me to yell.

a toxic relationship

[callmecaspurrsblog]

"i want to be a butterfly," i tell her. she looks at me, a weird look; her eyebrows furrowing. "why would you want that?" "to be free," i answer. "i want - more than anything - to be free."

[callmecaspurrsblog]

that’s what i’d ask you,

if i saw you again.

do you miss it? when we were happy?

you’d probably shake your head, or leave the room.

i do, i’d say. i miss us more than i miss me.

[callmecaspurrsblog]

i know anger exists because i exist and i am full of it

[callmecaspurrsblog]

i feel like a stranger in my own body. i look in the mirror and it feels as though i'm looking through a window, my reflection looking like a woman passing by