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S. // 18 // he // iheartmygf
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G*d's least favorite cuck. aspiring.. pretentious writer/filmmaker/actor. idek man. 1# NIИ fan. keep me away from stupid ass discourse I'll blow my brains out❕I hate this bio & everyone else. I really like movies.
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I watched interview with the vampire (1994) and became a tom cruise apologist.
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Vaguely Catholic. or whatever. EXTREMELY sleep-deprived.
I’m the world’s number one, professional oversharer. I wanna be a thousand different people who are nothing like me. I’ve got some fucked up shit going on in my head. Don’t hold it against me.
This is basically just poetry and ramblings about my life and feelings or some shit. (Mostly ramblings, let’s be honest.)
I ❤️ 90’s movies
& i h8 posers who think they’re better than u 🖕🖕
my all time favorite song is Simple Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd. (Honorable mention to every single Nine Inch Nails track)
‘08
dms are open, but I prolly won’t answer unless I feel like it.
I’m into a lot of bands and tv shows/movies, so I might talk about those on here sometimes.
am i delusional or is ur blog title a reference to man of the year by lorde 👀
No 💔 it’s a reference to fight club, which I watched a few weeks ago and decided to make my entire personality (I had to look that song up cause I don’t think I’ve ever listened to lorde but it looks cool)
I had a dream last night, and in it, you said; “I broke all the rules, but the first one I broke for you.” I don’t know what that means.
I miss the dream where you were on top of me, choking and choking til the pain behind my eyes was too much and the lights flickered out. I miss the dreams where all I wanted was for you to kill me.
It’s me and my deep, gnawing-burning-rotting pit of shame again. That’s why I’m writing this, and why I’m having to justify to myself the fact that I’m writing this. I don’t know what the hell to say anymore, most days. I want to rip out my heart and lungs, swallow a bottle of pills, cry on the floor. “Boys don’t cry.” What about men? Is it okay now, that I’m not a kid, and I have to live in the real world? Can you I there? Can anyone?
What if everything worth crying over or laughing about or holding in our hearts is already gone, anyway?
The most beautiful things are the things you’ll only ever see once. Things you can never lose cause you never had them to begin with.
The blue-green-pink-white that dances through the air after you stare at the ceiling lights too long. The blood pouring from the side of your mouth, coating your teeth in crimson and rust. The bruises just under the hem of your shirt. The painting in a motel that reminds you of the place you died.
Is this a poem?
Kick my teeth out, help me break my knuckles. Disfigure me until you can never tell I was somebody who cared. Cave in my ribs and pull my hangnails. I want to absorb your flesh into mine.
I’m having the dream again.
It’s beautiful, cause you’ll only see it once, and you’re killing me.
Everything gets louder and louder. Your laughter sounds sweeter, a million miles away. Your perfume smells like cherry cola. It’s all I can smell. You grind me down into sawdust, shotgun to the head. Knife to the throat. Euthanasia. Boot to the temple. Shard of glass stuck in my jugular. Lethal injection. A million thoughts in my head. Zero, when it all snaps and suddenly, I’m crashing.
You sound like a word that means something. (Like Sacramento, or Michigan.) I need a new name. Something to shed the old. Something that feels holy. (Like Raphael, Gabriel, or Lucifer.) Time to filll in the blank. I want to ____ you. So badly. Kiss, kill, keep, drown. I fucking hate this. I love the taste of my own blood. I’m writing nonsense again. I’m thinking about everything and nothing all at once. I think it’s too much, and I feel like I’ll never be enough. Tear tracks and bloodstains mixing together…. I write too much about love, but that’s not what any of it is really about anyway.
I used to wish for dreams of my father. But then I have them. And his body is cold and decaying in my arms. His flesh is thick, like sludge, dripping through my fingers. He rots away slowly and surely while I scream and beg for someone to do something. In the ones where he’s alive, he’s hitting me again. I can’t decide which are worse—the ones where I end up alone, screaming out to God, to do something, anything, or the ones where I’m taking a fist to the face.
