marcella

im only here to be dramatic

[marshallmars]

January 14, 2026. Hey, you. Hey, me.

You used to call yourself a writer. Or entertained the spew from your brain to the page, maybe even felt a little genius in each college class. That was before your heart swallowed you up and you pissed it all away because you were searching for something you couldn’t name. It took a few months and now your head is screwed back on your shoulders, and now you miss the taste of freedom, so instead you fill your mouth up with cigarettes and you only packed pajamas when you came from home because you wanted to fill your bags with the comfort you felt being there.

Beautiful, you sometimes feel it. In body and mind and soul. Usually just one or a few. Sometimes all of them.

Eat the hearts of all your loved ones, and perhaps you can keep a piece of them forever. Sweet fruit makes your stomach hurt, and so do the bubbles in that soda you love so much. I’ll keep drinking it for the rest of my days. Keep smoking. Keep indulging. Licking the honey from the spoon, even when I know that it’s only vomit. Beauty, beauty, beauty. Beauty and pain and stupidity and the constant reach for something new. Something old. Something that will satisfy this hungry little hole in our hearts and our hands and our minds.

I love it, I hate it. I grow bored of it. I dance through it all, music buzzing in my ears and vibrating my bones. I think sometimes that’s the truest version of me, stuck in the middle of all of those lights surrounded by people I will never know, all on the same wavelengths. It’s like New York City. The sound– the buzz- the passion for dreams. A sort of unity that entwines itself with idiosyncrasy. 

Life is all of the mistakes I will gladly make again and again and again.

[siir-poesia]

[marshallmars]

god is motherhood

i press a dimple into its face, scrape my nail into a sharp cheekbone, i create, i mold, i erase.

i stare and my mistakes are reflected back at me. i hate you for it. this is why i can never be a mother. a being entirely of my own hands fills me with disdain, with love, with awe.

it makes me think of holding a child in my palm. so small. i cannot make you beautiful, i can make you unique. i can make you twisted and abrasive, or smooth and buckling.

you would grind your teeth, eyes glassed over. i could not bare your stare, i could not bare becoming who i swore i would not be. you can never come to fruition, my star.

[marshallmars]

i’m going to die, i say. this is my last straw, my last reason, i say. i grind my teeth and roll my eyes and set my jaw.

and then i get up in the morning. i brush my teeth and i eat cold leftovers. i go to work and i go to school, i fucking do it.

i suppose i will survive.

[marshallmars]

dirty fingernails

bloodshot eyes. i swear ive been getting enough sleep lately. im starting to not care about anything. the missing assignments pile up but im content to sit in bed and listen to the rain. i never get off my phone and i don’t exchange conversation all that often anymore.