| be the gallows to my pretty noose |

[seraphinesaintclair]

Madison Julius Cawein, “November”

[mineisforever22]

caked with blood

her fingers understand

the poetry scribed upon

frigid flesh and the

ruin some touches leave

[mineisforever22]

I bury my feelings

in storm-dark hollows

seal them with fire and bone

and now

when a smile

dares to haunt my lips

it is nothing but

a garden

grown upon a grave

[mineisforever22]

I slip the tether

and wander the ether

satin breath

against onyx clouds

becoming ghosts

we sway there

slow, melancholic

a lilac evening

inside my ribs

where the bruise

of you still flowers

into english gardens

[mineisforever22]

I showed him my darkness;

the violent undertow,

the salt rot that

coiled in my ribs

yet he looked at me

like I was all tide-light

and distant horizons

like I slept beneath

storm-scented waters

and let the moon

gather my grief

in her silvery waves

[seaphine]

they injected me with mental illness when i was a baby because they didn't like that i radiated moonlight and had stars inside my eyes. they were jealous of me.

[seaphine]

we all have one foot in a fairytale, and the other in the abyss.

[feral-ballad]

Ana Božičević, from Rise in the Fall; “Anxiety of Influence”

[petaltexturedskies]

Ingeborg Bachmann, from "Eyes to Wonder" in Three Paths to the Lake

[mournfulroses]

Rainer Maria Rilke, transl. by Edward Snow, from a poem titled "Earth, Isn't This What You Want," featured in The Duino Elegies

[mineisforever22]

bleating heart led to slaughter

white-throated and trembling

beneath iron-scented storms

[mineisforever22]

always trying to hold on

to the beautiful things

that are not forever;

not meant to stay, but to

provide peace

deliver hope

inspire souls and hearts

back to life

back to softness

[mineisforever22]

she watches

the world pass

from inside

her glass heart

[hapless-hollow]

“If you had touched me any softer, my spirit would have had to lift to meet your fingers.”

— Helaena C Moon

[mineisforever22]

f a u x t o g r a p h i c

[mineisforever22]

pretend

that we’re

dead

[mineisforever22]

anxiety like

a rusty saw

blade shaving

thin ribbons

of hope, and

long after the

cutting, the

amaranthine

ache remains