𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄

𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚢 —

[griefate1-deactivated20221030]

             ONLY ME AND MY RAGE                      WAITING FOR MY BITE TO GROW IN

[griefate1-deactivated20221030]

             ONLY ME AND MY RAGE                      WAITING FOR MY BITE TO GROW IN

[deathwitness]

RE:     J. HUTTNER.

the heat of the kitchen curls around him.     it laps at his lungs, starved for moisture.      it begs fealty from his skin —   temples,  and jowls,  and anatomical ends made silky with sweat.       and the smell…   robust but over-fried.    a kiss of dough & something slightly burnt / the starched skeletons of frozen french fries askew in a number of serving dishes, forsaken, remnants of a hectic lunch.       he’s cleaning up when he notices that you’re still lingering — can feel your gaze settling on his back.      a sensation so visceral that he could near swear you touched him.       but for an extended moment he pretends not to notice, because he can’t quite detect if he’s embarrassed by the attention or invigorated.       because the emotion swelling up behind his eyes & under his tongue is something too foreign to name.      and even with knowing you’re there,  he still nearly startles when you speak, your words cutting through his exterior,  wriggling in,  demanding the attention of the vulnerose tissue below.       he’s shy and it shows.     it weighs along the broad stripe of his back.      it presses down on his sternum,  suffocating.         eyes glance over / teeth grind.      there’s a smile surfacing but it’s brutal at the ends –   a sense of insecurity.       ❝ I DON'T KNOW THAT THERE WAS ANYTHING TALENTED ABOUT IT, ❞    he’s laughing as the color reaches his cheeks.      it’s vibrant, a rose red.      ❝ MAYBE YOU'VE JUST BEEN WITHOUT GOOD FOOD TOO LONG TO NOTICE. ❞   he finally turns to face you fully.        ❝ BUT I'M GLAD YOU LIKED IT. NOT JUST BECAUSE DOING A BAD JOB MIGHT GET ME FIRED BUT.. Y'KNOW.. I'D HATE FOR YOU TO GET SICK OR SOMETHIN'. ❞

he finds lessons in how to love himself on various streets back in boston,   but out here,   surrounded by nature,   any weight on his lungs and mold in his mind just . . . takes its timely leave.      leaves him be.     there’s no room for sadness,   even the kind that seeps into the deepest parts of his bones and washes over his teeth every time he swallows,   between all those lungfuls of fresh air and the rays of sunshine beaming their way into his retinas.     if the last thing he saw was the sun rising over stillwater lake before his vision went out,   he thinks that might be okay.    or — he did before jax showed up.     the feelings compacted in the center of his chest on day one:   attraction combined with something that feels like it wants to be guilt,   but without enough gall to fully transform.     ONCE AGAIN,   NATURE ROBS BRAIN CHEMISTRY OF ITS FLAWS. 

his cheeks flush red,   but that could just be the hint of a sunburn on his face,   a staple of camp’s first week.     cooler days are deceptively dangerous;     stay out too long,   and the sun will still burn because cloud cover and the amount of time it shows its face each day does not diminish its nature.

❝  AS LONG AS YOU DON’T GET ENOUGH OF US SICK TO GET CAMP CANCELED FOR THE REST OF THE SUMMER,   I THINK YOU CAN COUNT ON JOB SECURITY,  ❞     he laughs as easily as he leans on the surface provided.     ❝  BECAUSE THAT DID HAPPEN ONCE.     ’77,   I THINK.     SAME YEAR THAT OUTAGE HAPPENED IN NEW YORK. ❞

[mudwoven-deactivated20210119]

@deathwitness   𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙽𝚄𝙴𝙳

(     were you expecting something different? a better outcome? an opportunity for luck and strategy in the game of life? lessons, like rain, happen on the worst of days. this is a good thing, it’s a reminder that things can always be worse. count your limbs, make sure your shoes are tied, and try to keep an open mind with our next challenger.   )       suppose you’re asleep for most of your childhood. the environment is shaping around you, the experiences placed in front of you, ready for neglect or acceptance. then, one day, you wake up. fully grown, able to see the government for what it is: an unstable imitation of something very stable. a parrot trying to mimic a lion, a tree trying to be the ocean. it is distasteful, a pathetic attempt at symbolism. to be different, is to be guided along to a very short, very carefully placed traffic accident.YOU SMELL LIKE SOMETHING NOT QUITE DIGESTED. AN IDEA NOT ENTIRELY THOUGHT THROUGH. A DISORGANIZED PIECE OF CHAOS. BURNING RUBBLE WITHIN A FOREST FIRE. INTERESTING, BUT STINGS YOUR EYES AFTER A SHORT WHILE. here is a guess at what he is: an enigma, an entity, a pig in the slaughterhouse, a madman. substance of self, like a piece of clothing, is bound to rip itself apart the more you wear it.  (   IN WALKS THE WORM THAT SPEAKS AS THOUGH IT’S A GOD. A WRIGGLING PIECE OF OBNOXIOUS ADOLESCENCE, A LOUDNESS OF IGNORANCE. WRAP YOURSELF UP IN THE SHROUD OF SOME LIVING CREATURE DOOMED TO REPEAT A DEATH. THERE’S PRIDE IN BEING A MAGGOT, I NO LONGER HAVE TO BREAK MY NECK TO ALLOW THE UNIVERSE TO TRAMPLE ME. )  *his stomach growls. there is an appetite that follows wherever he goes. a beast with no name, no face, no visceral presence in reality. it is akin to violence, a sleeping gore, an awakened deflowering of swallowed rage*  king-less, but in a misplaced way. he is something forgotten, a formless fear that is shoved aside and replaced with facades of primal greed. he lapses the silence, a head tilt - although it is cranked in a robotic way, his neck in need of grease and oil. a smack of his lips, tip of his tongue a slippery eel as it wets the dry corner of his mouth, the paint flaking off like dandruff. the permanent grin is joined with a gleeful clap of his hands, a wiggle of his eyebrows. ‘OoooH!!!! FEISTY. MANNERS ARE LACKING THESE DAYS, ALL I HEAR ABOUT IS, AhhHH, WHY DID JIMMY GET THE NEweST PHONE AND NOT ME? WHY DID JESSICA GET HER GUTS RIPPED OUT AND NOT mE? IT’S ALL YOU YOUNG FOLKS THINK, huh? SO, HOW’S ABOUT THIS... I’LL DO YOU A BIG solid, ALRIGHHH-T?’

there is a quick jolt in his body, gloved hand gripping the jowls of younger male. heel hits the ground in a lazed out poise of the motions of a beginner’s waltz. yanks him closer, switchblade now free from pocket and pressing against bob in slender throat. a mocking leer, he leans closer now, cheek resting against cheek - as if two lovers embracing. ‘I’LL LET YOU IN ON A LITTLE SECRET, YEAH? BECAUSE I RESPECT THE YOUTHS AND THEIR PASSION FOR, AHHH, FOR THINGS THAT GO BOOM!!!  (ahhahhahahahhe  heeeooohahahhee)  LISTEN, I’M GONNA’ LET YOU TAKE THE FIREWORKS, BUT Y’GOTTA DO SOMETHING FOR ME FIRST. SOMETHING..INNOVATIVE, ExCITing! AND IF NOT, I’LL MAKE SURE YOU HAVE AS MANY FIREWORKS AS YOU WANT, EXCEPT, WELL, YOU’LL HAVE TO eaT THEM. BETTER GOING IN THAN OUT, FAIR WARNING.’

[deathwitness]

𝐈𝐓’𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄,   𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐔𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒.     do bullet holes scream when they bleed,   and if the wound is internal,   does anyone hear it?     it’s the only explanation he can give for the sound of blood rushing in his ears because he thinks the walrider holds his heart hostage in the palm of its dangerous and proverbial hand and doesn’t let it pound the way his body needs it to.     adrenaline screams in dried-out veins and his brain cries out for oxygen carried by little red blood cells.     fear seizes every last part of his body,   and he can feel the inevitable inching closer to the surface.     the walrider feeds on strong emotion;     it milks rage and loneliness and depression and fear until it exhausts him to the point of giving up control of his own body.     ONE DAY,   HE KNOWS HE WON’T BE STRONG ENOUGH TO TAKE CONTROL BACK.     so an ivy league promise,   a wayward son of the upper class will become the very definition of a monster.     the walrider will wear his face when it turns into a serial killer,   and so it is his face the newspapers and wanted posters will feature.     MILES UPSHUR:     THE POSTER BOY FOR PRIVILEGE TURNED PRIDE TURNED PREDATORY BEHAVIOR.     they’ll drag his name through the muck and blame everything from his parents to his antidepressants for all the people the walrider kills on his behalf,   and he thinks it’s a fate worse than death,   but  HE CAN’T EVEN KILL HIMSELF PROPERLY.     you see,   this man-made monster protects its host from any and all threats — including those made by his own hand.     ( his nightmares are no longer about dying by the hand of a variant behind mount massive’s thick,   castle-like walls — they’re about staying alive long enough to feel the break of his family members’ bones. )     he’s lost count of how many times he’s woken up sweating and crying,   but he knows it far outweighs the amount of hours of sleep he gets each week.

the black nanites swarm around his fingertips and crawl up his esophagus and onto his tongue,   inch from the corners of his eyes towards the irises,   and his vision is blurry.    he gasps,   adam’s apple dropping just enough to press harder against the blade at his throat.     IT OCCURS TO HIM ONLY THEN THAT HE SHOULD NOT BE AFRAID FOR HIS OWN LIFE,   BUT FOR THE LIFE OF THE MAN THREATENING THE WALRIDER /     FOR ALL THE LIVES IT WILL TAKE AS COLLATERAL DAMAGE WHEN IT INEVITABLY TAKES CONTROL OF HIS BODY. 

❝  LISTEN TO ME,  ❞     he tries to say with authority,   but his voice comes out weak and shaking,   not unlike the rest of him.     ❝  LISTEN,   YOU DON’T WANNA DO THIS.     IF — IF THIS THING THINKS MY BODY IS IN DANGER,   IT’S GONNA HURT YOU,   MAN.     AND I REALLY DON’T WANNA HURT YOU — I DON’T.     OKAY?     SO JUST — JUST PUT THE KNIFE DOWN,   ALRIGHT?     I DON’T WANNA HURT ANYONE ELSE.  ❞

[griefate1-deactivated20221030]

new replies coming out this week if it mfin kills me :)

[conquerlovea]

whumprat‌:

characters who die and are resurrected

but will always remember exactly what death feels like

[masonsgooding]

Joe Goldberg/Forty Quinn from You (2x08)

[deathwitness]

the upshurs are season ticketholders for the red sox and know every word to sweet caroline by heart

[dailytwd]

Let me in!

[deathwitness]

RE:     J. HUTTNER‌.

he always liked to think of himself as untouchable, but the world has proven him easy to swallow —  chewed him up between it’s cuspids and spat him out in pieces that no longer fit together / half man, half idealistic creation / skin stretched tight over mechanical bones.      unmade,  forsaken,  remnants of a corpse uncoiled along the bottom of someone’s shoe.      a soul rejected.       and then you’d found him.       ( he still remembers when he first saw you, your gaze wild and curious –   caramel deluged inquisitivity.  your essence something hypnotic.  a smell of leather and sea-salt.     and even though it had been shrouded by his initial hesitance, he knows that he’d fallen for you instantly,  that your smile was the envy of stars.  your heart become a shrine / his to worship whenever you allowed )     and then you were gone.     ’ like the wind ’ is too poetic.          no,  you were seared away /      burned off /           his bones charred at the edges.     you were ripped loose of him like sutures in a wound that hadn’t healed yet,          leaving him vulnerable.     even now,  he imagines that they healed wrong:  crude and uneven.     that the scar will be a part of him up until his carcass turns to dust in the earth.      you left and he didn’t know how to live without you.     you found a family and he writhed in the lonely of it.            * I'M NOT SURE IF I'M MORE ANGRY OR SAD THESE DAYS. IF THE CHAOTIC EMOTION SPURNING IN MY MARROW IS SOMETHING VILE OR SOMETHING VICIOUS.      viscera compounded by the energy.      for the sake of his head,  he knows what he should do.     he should close the door, lock it,  and burrow into some unnamed niche of a house that smells of empty.      he should run far far away — like you did.     but his heart is begging for something else.     it pleads for a reunion even as the bedlam bleats behind his eyes and under his tongue.      how is he meant to choose ?     ( how is he meant to know ? )    teeth clench in on themselves / jaw taut.      the gesture so forceful he can feel it radiate through his head.     finally, he makes his choice,  walking out onto the porch and then down the stairs.     where you were hurried, he’s more measured.     more wary.        ❝ HEY, ❞       he’s not even sure he says your name right anymore.       ❝ LOOK JUST. .  COME INSIDE, OKAY ?  WE CAN TALK. ❞

 HE  MUST  BE  MADE  OF  GALAXIES,      LARGER  THAN  LIFE  AND  JUST  AS  DESPERATE.          HE’S  STARVED,      ALWAYS  HAS  BEEN.          HE  ATE  BOOKS  AND  SCHOLARSHIP  AND  TRUTH  AND  LOVE  UNTIL  THERE  WAS  NOTHING  LEFT,      so  he  unhinged  the  jawbone  holding  his  face  together,      became  the  beast  he  had  to  be  to  devour  and  digest  it  all.           truth  grated  against  his  ears  when  he  met  it  in  the  cage  they  called  a  hospital  or  asylum  or  prison /      love  pushed  and  pushed  and  pushed  down  on  his  ribcage,     but  his  bones  refused  to  yield  or  shatter  because  somewhere  deep  inside  of  him,      he  craved  the  all - consuming  raw  energy  it  gave  him.           he  has  always  loved  large  and  deep,      and  when  jax  left,     it  left  a  crater  in  him.           he  has  enough  situational  awareness  to  recognize  that  jax  must  hurt,      and  he  has  every  right  to  —  but  he  doesn’t  have  enough  dominion  over  himself  to  craft  an  apology  the  likes  of  which  jax  deserves.          HOW  DO  YOU  APOLOGIZE  FOR  A  THREE - YEAR - OLD  VOID  YOU  CAN’T  FILL?           so  they  just  start  dripping  out  of  him,      oozing  black  and  heavy  like  tar.          “ i’m  sorry,     i’m  sorry,     i’m  sorry  .  .  . ”            apologies  like  baby  teeth /     they  keep  falling  out  of  his  mouth,      and  he  doesn’t  know  how  to  stop  them.            can  jax  even  hear  him?           can  he  understand  him?            DOES  IT  MATTER?

he  shakes  his  head,      the  back  of  his  hand  pressed  to  his  mouth  lest  something  as  deep  and  dark  as  the  self - hate  sitting,      boiling  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach  finds  its  way  searing  back  up  his  throat  —  or  worse.

❝  i’m sorry,      i shouldn’t have  —  i’ll go.      i shouldn’t have come.  ❞          he  rambles  like  he  walks  away;      uncertainly,      with  a  fair  amount  of  stumbling.            HE’S  LOST  IN  A  CITY  HE  ONCE  CALLED  HIS  OWN. 

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Nicolas Calas, tr. by Kimon Friar, from Modern Greek Poetry; “Liracism,”

[neshamama]

albert “kid” mertz (1905-1988)

[renee--rapp]

[jasonincalifornia]

Social distancing on the General Sherman Trail

Prints/Society6

[bering-strait-deactivated202005]

being a guy in love with a guy is not always cute or romantic or soft or tender. sometimes it's pushing your boyfriend's face away yelling because you have viral bronchitis and he keeps trying to kiss you knowing this because he's a himbo with no sense of self preservation

[bering-strait-deactivated202005]

update: he got bronchitis! you'll never guess how

[deadstrangeblog]

Examples of a Brocken Spectre, a phenomenon where a person’s giant shadow appears magnified onto clouds miles away. The shadow from the sun behind the person creates a halo, giving it an angelic appearance. This mostly occurs on any misty mountainsides or cloud banks, and can even be seen from aeroplanes.

[vvnnie]

(why is this) Not my house Instagram / Prints