“Goodness can be found sometimes in the middle of hell.”
— Charles Bukowski, Women
trying on a metaphor
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@malspeaks
“Goodness can be found sometimes in the middle of hell.”
— Charles Bukowski, Women
i used to romanticize the shit out of everything and it wasn’t until recently that i realized; no one is going to swoop in with a cape and save me from jumping off the tallest building. nobody is going to drive to my house at 2am just to wipe away my tears and that’s okay. i am wearing a cape too, i can save myself, i can wipe away my tears. i fell in love with the idea of having a hero but what i failed to realize is that i can be my own hero when everyone else is too busy to see me falling. and yes, there will be times where other people save you and that’s okay. just make sure at the end of the day you’re still wearing a cape too.
i don’t know what made me turn into this, but i’m always teetering on the edge of angel and monster. on days i am the monster, i am all gnashing teeth, broken bones, and fleshy skin being ripped apart. i am all red. pure agony. pure flame. i am a wildfire, lighting a match and tossing it onto the prettiest, most alive patch i can find, just to hear the branches scream, just to hear the trunks burning, as i myself, once did. i dance in the flames of betrayal and listen so intently to the screams. sometimes i think they’re coming from me. sometimes i think the flame hurts me more than it hurts the ones being burned. when i am an angel, i am all soft cloud and light. i am blue skies for days, with a little bit of rain and a whole lot of sunshine. i am holding hands and light kisses and cotton candy at the circus. i am all good. i am laughter and smiles and feeling bubbly inside like you’ve just drank champagne but you’re really just drunk on love. drunk on the fact that the sunshine feels so nice and right on your skin and that blood is pumping through your veins and that you are alive. when i am good, i am soaring. and some days, the most complicated ones, i am both. half angel, half monster. i climb through the six feet of dirt i lie under and drag everyone around me who tries to help down with me to take my place. i make stepping stones out of people so i can escape the dirt. but when i am out, i cry. i cry because this isn’t right. because humans are not stepping stones. they, we, are just flesh stretched over bone, encasing a heart and a brain and vital organs. i tear myself apart so people can feed on my limbs because i’d rather hear my own stomach growl than watch people starve. i give myself away so people can survive down where they are set to rest. on these days, i am half super hero and half villain. i am always half of this, and half of that, and every night, i wonder what led me to such a split and how i can become whole again.
Books & Butterflies | Instagram: c.a.musings
Netflix and let me put my fingers in you
A person in 2 months can make you feel what a person in 2 years couldn’t. Time means nothing, character does.
It is only once in a while that you see someone whose electricity and presence matches yours at that moment.
Charles Bukowski (via bnmxfld)
“Sapiosexual” - Virginia Mori
April 24 2020
The intimacy of being listened to.