you killed the child and buried it, and i’m what crawled out. i’m the part you won’t forget.
Peter Solarz

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@requieminred
you killed the child and buried it, and i’m what crawled out. i’m the part you won’t forget.
I don’t know why I do that sometimes. You know, like, lie about things for no reason.
You are so cold, baby girl.
dream-soluna (via wordsnquotes)
here, my love, is a flower in your name to remember all the soft gentleness of you: the way you loved sunshine at all hours of the day the way you smiled exuberance like all of life was yours to live the way you shined like a river in midday light from your fallen blood, my love, i raise new beauty for you. and here, my love, is a battle in your name to remember all the fierce strength of you: the way you chased the winds without pause the way you climbed mountains like the skies were yours to conquer the way you wore crowns and robes like a helmet and armour i defy death, my love, and dare the gods to take your soul from me.
Alas! Alas! – apollo and hyacinth ( j.p. )
i broke young, you can see it in my eyes. you can tell by the way i carry myself that i grew up too fast.
there isn’t much that scares me more than my own heart, a monster of tenderness if there ever was such a thing. it sounds strange, but I have an irrational fear that one day I’ll wake up to find it (it being my heart) perched at the foot of my bed in a cloud of desperation, begging to be torn apart and consumed in the name of compassion. and that’s incredibly terrifying for a few different reasons, but mainly because I’d do it. I’ve never needed an excuse to sacrifice myself for love; I’m a martyr for everything soft. I confess to you: I’d bleed for anything if it held me the right way. I confess: I have. I have. I have.
phantom pain, by Caitlin Conlon (via cgcpoems)
inrovina:
lost in hisown thoughts, eyes weighed down with exhaustion, it takes him a few moments toreact to taint’s request. sleep becomes more fickle with each passing day,things only seeming to become harder rather than easier. he wonders when timewill start healing him, not stealing another piece of his soul with everythought of ELLY. there is not an hour that goes by without him thinking of her,barely even a minute. everything leads back to her. always. ‘ oh—yeah. sure.what do you need? ’
TAKING A SEAT OPPOSITE, HE SWALLOWS his guilt for the time he has spent punishing xeno for breaking his daughters heart. he doesn’t deserve it, just a self-destructive being trapped in a life of M I S T A K E S and bad choices with no idea how little sand was left in the hourglass, & taint sees himself in his frayed soul but a part of him has not forgiven him for being ABSENT when she needed him the most. a part of him will never forgive xeno for allowing her to leave this world with a thousand words left unsaid. he has come to realise that it is not his judgement to make - his daughters’ last wish was for forgiveness ( & she would not have been his daughter if she’d wished otherwise ). with trembling hands, he places elly’s cell phone ( the plastic case patterned with bumblebees & flowers ) on the table in front of them, a voice recording ready to play on the screen. ‘ press play. ‘ barely a whisper while he braces himself to hear his daughters voice, hoarse & thick with tears but still so sweet in her final moments. she sounds like the only sunshine that has ever shone on him.
boys like us have a bloody history. maybe we are meant to bleed. maybe we are meant to burn.
- excerpt of Texts between Apollo and Icarus part VII, published in Sunchoked | r.m
@inrovina
‘WILL YOU TELL HIM, DAD? please?’. her last request was whispered while he clutched her frail body in his arms, squeezing his eyes shut & feeling her smooth the hair away from his temples, soothing him first & foremost while she pretended that she wasn’t afraid to go. how many months have passed since she asked that of him? & how many chances has he had to pass the message on to the man who stole her daughters heart? taint feels her scorn & disappointment each morning when the secret remains untold & threatens to die with him. it’s time, he’s decided - it’s time, xeno doesn’t deserve to be hurt any longer. ‘ hey, kiddo---you got a minute? ‘
what have you done to yourself?
IT’S A SILLY QUESTION TO ASK the man who has lost everything a thousand times over, made even sillier than who its being asked by ; boy with SELF-DESTRUCT scrawled across his chest in permanent marker. what does it matter? what does it matter that there’s a cut inches deep following the length of his forearm & that it is dripping onto the linoleum & into his drink ( it tastes like iron anyway ) each time he raises the bottle to his mouth? what does it matter that he hasn’t slept in days because in his thirty-fifth hour of insomnia he can still hear her singing in the garden & there is no gravestone with her name on it & her bones are not ROTTING ten feet under? none of it matters anymore. the only thing keeping him from sinking this deep into his closet full of skeletons, memories of madness rising like driftwood & putting old habits back into motion, is gone. there is no one here to S T O P him anymore. there is no one left to save him. ‘ why do you even care, kid? ‘
RANDOM ANGST MEMES.
how can you look at me and see something good?
the world has gone to hell.
what have you done to yourself?
what have you become?
i trusted you!
you betrayed me!
i will never trust you again.
after everything we’ve been through, you turn your back on me.
who did you kill?
why are you covered in blood?
just breathe, you’ll be okay.
are you drunk?
this world was not meant for people like this.
you are weak.
you are nothing.
i hate you.
i don’t love you.
you’re going to die.
i’ll kill you.
i’ll leave you to suffer alone.
tauhreliil:
wants to write long reply: can only come up with like six sentences
meant to keep it short: writes fucking gone with the wind