#ghostwritersnet

[theamoran-blog]

We often assume that monsters come in the shapes of men, as if men have a monopoly on murder.

monsters and men; 01 | t.m

[acediscowlng]

On a Fine Sunday Morning On a fine Sunday morning there is a varnished bamboo chair where a man, made by his years, is placed. Made by the steel in his blood and the electricity flowing through his skin. He sits with a spine curved so low it almost seems broken. And his sallow skin, draped over fragile bones, barely holding together the choked breaths that withhold his rasping voice and the eyes that have grown large and listless. A mouth that opens and closes, forming words that only he can understand as fingers made of bone and fragile steel grasp at the hard chair, grip broken and wavering. His feet, swollen to that of a giant’s, the color of the sea on a murky day, is light on the ground. It is cold. There is no life in his voice as he calls to a name that was not mine and to people who were no longer there.

/ / the chair is empty by monday morning. (source: pdfcct)

[njmphadora]

her words were like honey: each sickly sweet syllable stuck to my skin. her lips were like morphine: one touch and my body went numb. she was a chemical madness, an intoxicating beauty, too sweet to resist but too deadly to succumb to; and with each kiss that we shared i felt myself falling further and further until there was none of me left, only glimmers and glimpses like stars in her endless sky.

you'll need a map to find me now

[rapunzhel]

i wish the words ‘i’m over him’ were all you had to say to make this aching beating pain in your chest go away. i wish life wasn’t filled with these shades of grey and just pretending to be okay. i wish friendships were harder to break and boys wouldn’t focus on taking but instead they would give. i wish all that had be to done to make the world spin was to say the word ‘okay’ but instead i just feel myself shake and stumble in. life isn’t made up of pretty pictures. instead all i see are lies and gritty details. then my breathing doesn’t work and the little words they make it worse.

i understand now why people compare heartbreak to a curse-b.g.s

[jelotinousblog]

i forget sometimes how much words can do. i forget sometimes that i am a stormcloud that my rain falls heavy onto your shoulders i forget that i am not light raindrops i am thunder crashing torrential sheets of water crashing down when my clouds are dark and i cannot contain their weight anymore i can only open my mouth to speak and when the words pour out landing heavier than i ever thought they would when like witnessing a car crash i watch them hit you when i can see the way they hit it you hits me like a punch to the gut my stomach sinks like a stone as you flinch and i know that it helps nothing for me to say that and i know that saying sorry isn't enough i know nothing is enough but this is all i can say   is that i am sorry is that sometimes i forget

j/l/l/t

[njmphadora]

i feel sorta empty, sorta lost almost like i’m on battery saving mode lights dimmed energy reserved like rocks in the ocean with each passing day i erode

i smile because i want to because it doesn’t feel real this misery is buried just a little too deep too deep to feel

life passing me by like i’m on a train looking out the window only colours and shapes flashing and whooshing no distinct objects, no memorable landmarks

each time i sigh it’s like i breath out a little of my soul soon i will be empty e m p t y i wanted so much more

[acediscowlng]

how to write in the middle of a panic attack, when there is a tightness in your chest and your throat is closing like those automatic doors at the mall except they won’t open again when air tries to step through because it’s been too long too much too empty too short your breaths coming in short gasps over and over and over and— your fingers will be too numb to feel, (how can you feel when there is nothing? when your own body is telling itself that it’s dying and there is nothing in death but death. it is empty and it is nothing) let alone glide across the keyboard of rapid thoughts. because writing is creation— it is buildings and roads and worlds and universes made through the uneven strokes of a pen on paper or the constant blinking of a cursor— and the fog over your brain is nothing but self-destruction. it is a body trying to wage war with itself with whispered—except it’s not whispered. it’s a roaring cacophony of a choir telling you of every single singlesinglesinglesingle thing that could possibly— it is your torso tearing itself apart from the curl of your stomach to your bursting heart. it is limbs shaking into stillness and lips dry and bleeding. there is nothing beneath your feet because there is nothing there because it has not been made because writing is creation. it is spinning something out of nothing spinning and spinning and spinning until it is woven and made and whole and there. but there is no writing here. only nothing and you cannot— frozen. you are frozen. there is no movement. your chest tries, up and down, and your heart tries to beat and beat and beat like a drum but it’s— but your ears ring and there is no movement only ringing. ringing silence. there is nothing. how do you write in the middle of a panic attack? you don’t. you only fall and fall and fall and fall and fall and hope (over and over and over and over again until there is no hope left because everything runs out eventually and you can only try for so long before falling) that you can only fall for so far.

(via pdfcct)

[njmphadora]

They lay in bed together as innocently as they could - both fully dressed, bodies pointing away from each other. Only their heads touched, the bare skin of their foreheads pressed gently together, long hair in clumps of brown and red like dark flames on the pillow that they shared. There was no need for them to move closer, no need for their bodies to tangle into one. This was all they wanted, their breath mingling in the air above them, the feeling of someone beside them, just there, so close and comfortable.

short stories: close enough