self destructive Sagittarius @patrickmccrotch - Tumblr Blog

betenoirs-deactivated20210410

recaption

understands

morbidology

Congenital iris coloboma is a hole or defect of the iris. It can affect one or both eyes and causes varying levels of blindness.

deadlyrealist

“Mom, my depression is a shape shifter. One day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear, The next, it’s the bear. On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone. I call the bad days: “the Dark Days.” Mom says, “Try lighting candles.” When I see a candle, I see the flesh of a church, the flicker of a flame, Sparks of a memory younger than noon. I am standing beside her open casket. It is the moment I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die. Besides Mom, I’m not afraid of the dark. Perhaps, that’s part of the problem. Mom says, “I thought the problem was that you can’t get out of bed.” I can’t. Anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head. Mom says, “Where did anxiety come from?” Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out-of-town depression felt obligated to bring to the party. Mom, I am the party. Only I am a party I don’t want to be at. Mom says, “Why don’t you try going to actual parties, see your friends?” Sure, I make plans. I make plans but I don’t want to go. I make plans because I know I should want to go. I know sometimes I would have wanted to go. It’s just not that fun having fun when you don’t want to have fun, Mom. You see, Mom, each night insomnia sweeps me up in his arms dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove-light. Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company. Mom says, “Try counting sheep.” But my mind can only count reasons to stay awake; So I go for walks; but my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists. They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells reminding me I am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness I cannot baptize myself in. Mom says, “Happy is a decision.” But my happy is as hollow as a pin pricked egg. My happy is a high fever that will break. Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat-out asks me if I am afraid of dying. No. I am afraid of living. Mom, I am lonely. I think I learned that when Dad left how to turn the anger into lonely — The lonely into busy; So when I tell you, “I’ve been super busy lately,” I mean I’ve been falling asleep watching Sports Center on the couch To avoid confronting the empty side of my bed. But my depression always drags me back to my bed Until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city, My mouth a bone yard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves. The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat, But I am a careless tourist here. I will never truly know everywhere I have been. Mom still doesn’t understand. Mom! Can’t you see that neither can I?”

— “Explaining My Depression to My Mother: A Conversation” by Sabrina Benaim

patrickmccrotch

Love

quotejunkiie

-e.h

troughmytears

don‘t look me in the eyes like that if you don‘t fucking mean it

ambroseharte

Sharing my Clouds.

I am going for a walk, but I don’t know where I’m going, you see I am feeling kind of sad, and I don’t like to have it showing. There are some things that I hide, some things it’s hard to share, so I try to find a secret place, and leave my secrets there. There are daemons on my shoulders, there are dark clouds in my head, and I try to bring them far from home, and leave them here instead. I have caused a lot of suffering, done things I so regret, but like the saying goes; you forgive, but you can’t forget. Hear how the wind is sighing, hear the tinkling of the stream, breath the air so cool and scented, feel at peace and feel serene. The rain is pearly teardrops, dancing on the leaves, and the dark clouds in my head, are dispersing on the breeze. I am walking home in sunshine, the warmth upon my skin, and with every step I take, I feel alive again. When the clouds return, ( and be sure they always do ), I will take a little walk, and share my clouds with you. Ambrose Harte Scattered Thoughts

madele-ine-blog1

he thinks it’s love, i told him i’d rather die

He’s like silk sheets with one loose thread that you can’t help but pull at, hopelessly trying to make it perfect again. He walks like a wild fire with no particular destination but he never fails to step back inside the walls of my heart. when it comes to promises he’s not the best at keeping them stowed away but i’d dance on the ashes of every whispered word we spoke at midnight for a chance to feel his hands scorching pathways down my skin. sometimes if you sit next to him in silence you can hear the blood beating through his veins and i imagine it must drive him insane, how alive he is. he’s every bit of insanity that i never found comfort in in myself, but through his trembling hands it doesn’t seem so bad. He’s a little bit like shattered glass that you run your fingertips along the edge of just to see if you’re still alive, never failing to end with a cut. he’s got a peculiar characteristic, in one moment he’s worth more than witnessing the last shooting star to ever be seen and the next you’d rather be anywhere in this painful world but inside the palms of his hands. his heart is relative to the dark side of the moon as i’ve never gotten a good look at it but i’m still sure it’s there, waiting for someone to make it past his stupid mouth that won’t quit coming up with words words for how worried he is that he’ll break you into pieces. He will. he’s a barely lit cigarette waiting to be stubbed out by someone who cares enough to put his out of his misery, but darling i’m just not that girl. if i could, i’d pluck his heart from his chest to keep in my pocket for safe keeping just in case he decides he’s had enough of this whole “love” thing. he’s made to be fallen in love with, and he’s also the boy my mother always tried to warn me about. trust me that i’d wish i’d listened.

we-the-dreamers

“I’d cut my soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home. I’d write love poems to the parts of yourself you can’t stand. I’d stand in the shadows of your heart and tell you I’m not afraid of your dark.”

— Andrea Gibson

cynsyllables

“-while this has killed aspects of me, some traits have bloomed”

- Cynthia Chapman

fremde-waren-freunde

“I’ll tell every one in the world that you are the only one that matters”

— Ernest Hemingway

livelearnlondon

The truth is: everyone is sad. Most people just hide it.

But even those people miss somebody at 3am, cry till the sun rises and at 7am they are on their feet, with their masks on talking about how they have never fallen in love..

Poet from London