#nightmare writing

[mars1309]

I as a german was very fascinated when i first heard the english phrase "falling in love with someone". We don't have that. It's just a word of its own that basically means feel love for someone.

But falling in love is such a beautiful phrase. It's like a metaphor. It's like love is this deep hole you can't help but fall into. Maybe you tripped and now you're falling. The feelings are overwhelming and you can't stop it you just have to let it happen. And maybe you're still falling after years and years because it keeps getting deeper and more cozy and despite all the sharp stones you sometimes hit and hurt yourself with when you bunp into the walls of the hole it's comforting. Sure it can feel like you're at the bottom of the whole after a long time, but as long as you're in the whole you keep digging and you keep falling.

It's this beautiful thing full of emotions and chaos and some holes are more dangerous than others and you should probably get out of them because you'll hit more sharp edges than you have time to recover. But these scary holes make life interesting and eventually it's going to be more exciting than scary.

And then there's this other phrase.

"Falling out of love"

How can one fall out of a hole again? I never really understood that. I always thought of it as climbing. Maybe the hole is making you claustrophobic. Maybe there are just too many sharp edges and you feel uncomfortable. Maybe you even got hurt by those sharp edges too many times. And without even realising it you get your stuff and start climbing. And since you have to climb up the walls now you're probably going to get hurt a few more times. Some people are just good climbers and if their hole gets too dangerous or makes them unhappy they can get out in no time. Others are scared of climbing so they stay in their hole for as long as possible even though they're hurt really badly from all the sharp stones. Maybe someone told them that a life outside the hole is too dangerous or not fulfilling. But eventually even their hole will get too small to live in so they have to start climbing. Some are hurt too much to climb on their own so they need help. Others don't get that far and are just consumed by the shrinking hole without a way out...

Language is beautiful, isn't it?

Alright now scroll to the next shit post i'm done

[suzenhelena]

Nightmare talk!

So have you ever had those nightmares where they could be a freaking short story because they follow a plot so closely? Yeah, me too!

Quite honestly I hate nightmares, but yet again who does right? It’s the ones where no matter how many times you wake up and go back to sleep they still go on. Or the ones that cause you such paranoia that the moment you wake up you have to check your room; to make sure the monsters are gone.

I had this crazy one last night, it started off as memorial day picnic; and then the fire pit cauldron thing in my backyard caught the deck on fire. Then proceeded to catch my house on fire, I grabbed my moma and my sister and we ran. But no matter where we ran all the houses began to catch on fire and soon our neighborhood was in a blaze. We were street's away from our house at that point, and caught up with  people I knew from school who were crying and in pain. And just as I thought the whole nightmare could not possibly get worse demons started to show up. How lovely right? Okay so my nightmares in particular are famous for their demons and killing. And this big monster appears behind this girl who is scratched up and bleeding. The thing is all white with claw’s a huge jagged teeth mouth like a shark and small beady eyes. Me and this girl from school were the only ones who could see it and we started screaming. But the girl beside me was attacked and eaten.  

So that was fun right? Yeah! I hate my brain sometimes, but on another note; does anybody else have any nightmares to share?

-SR

[serosevsky-blog]

Run.

Sometimes you lie awake at night and think about the people closest to you. Sometimes you wonder about how they manage to worm their way into your life and under your skin. And sometimes you wonder a little too much.

You focus on the word worm.

It starts on your arms, under your fingertips at they graze along the lines of bones and muscle beneath the skin. Your flesh crackles and burns beneath the touch, and your hand recoils, as if burnt. Your lungs expand with a sharp intake of breath as finger prints litter your arms and creep up and over your shoulder. Under your shirt, your skin burns and sizzles, and you writhe in the fabric as if caged. You spit and you hack and you twist in the sheets but nothing cools, nothing smooths, nothing soothes.

Your skin erupts, but there is no bleeding, only holes, holes spreading across your skin wherever you have touched and wherever she has touched and your chest heaves. You have not been physically sick in four years but you can feel it rising in your throat, feel a dip and then a hole and then a thumb print abyss on your cheek, between your eyes, they track down your neck and over your collar bones. A mine field, your body is a mine field but it whispers as the burning refuses to subside, but not a sound escapes your mouth.

The hole breathe and expand and contract, and you lie still as you try not to think of worms and burrowing and friendship a disease called friendship a disease that eats away at you until you succumb to something you did not sign up for. You feel one open up in the back of your mouth, but then you realize that's just your throat, just your shuddering breath as you make out words and murmured pleas and whispered quips from the holes in your skin.

And then. And then. It's fingers first, feather light and soul soft inside each hole, each dip, each gaping circular mouth in your skin before hands crawl through. Tiny, reaching, grabbing hands hands of friendship that make your back arch and your breath hitch in an attempt of an apology, my apologies, for not being there and not holding every hand and not making every cup of tea and making every cup of hot smoldering soft words of comfort for someone who isn't there any more. 

They reach and claw and touch and caress your skin, and your lips move in a complimentary fashion and how are you's long overdue, but nothing sates them. Nothing sates them and the voices grow louder and the scratch scratch scratch of familiar hands of you're not sorry you're not sorry you're not sorry too late too late too late. 

You only exhale when your ceiling patterns seer themselves into your retinas and your skin is pale yellowed-pink and smooth once more.

There is a sudden sting of guilt in the left side of your chest, and, shivering, you consider the medical purposes of companionship.

[serosevsky-blog]

Run.

(once you admitted to wanting to be so close to someonethat you were almost inside themalmost inside themalmost insideinside)

(once you crushed yourself against a body and now you can feel the dead flesh curling against your own and the cold cold stiff cold felt through your bones but these bones do not feel like your bonesyour bones your bonesyourbonesyour ribcage is not this shape this curve you are)

(choking gasping)

(this is not what you meant) 

(once you sewed your hands to someone else's in an effort to seem closer closer faster faster but this is not like that)

(this is constricting this is choking is too close too tight there is no room for tow of you here and you cough and you scratch and crawl but all you do is break the surface slash the skin and there is no escape)

(your fingers are around your throat but no no no no)

(his throat your throat histhroat yourthroat our throat)

(that chokes)

(and gushes black being oily hands down our chest and past our heart and no no no no we choke and sigh and clutch at the threads that stitch us together and hold us together to ge ther into one body and one mind and one heart one heart throbbing forone heart one is not enoughthrobbingfor)

(escape)

(escape and separation like a micro organism splitting and breaking)

(away)

(but we cannot we cant we cannot)

(we are trapped and our voice bleeds with two pleas that trickle down our chest and seek to tear us apart at the)

h e a r t 

[serosevsky-blog]

run

stck stck stck stck stck

Something scuttles past your redwhite hair but you don't notice. What is distinctly more attention seeking in the gaping chasm of your heart head stomach but somehow nothing really hurts. Every eye movement is slow and deliberate as if your face has shutters stitched into it into of skin. Your arms cross your chest and cold fingers clutch you shoulders those are your fingers but it is almost as if they belong to someone. Else. They tremble and your breath steams the air above your lips but somehow you no longer care.

There is hands fingers nails scraping at your ribcage and scrabbling around the crawlspace where your lower innards used to be. Friendly hands, their touch carve smiles and sighs and something more than acquaintanceship into your uncovered veins and flaps of skin and the distant foul stench of someone's garters being extracted from your abdominal cave cavit cavity.

Perhaps he will wear them like s o, you wonder. Per ha ps. You attempt a s smile but the willpower available isn't enough.  not when theres something someone feeding whilst you are so hungry and.

the air here is s o cold you wonder if he might actually offer you a last meal. last supper for someone deal and dying and g o n e 

your face flushes scarlet like the floor and your chest and yo u r bodylegsin o u t t e s tines 

as your legs quake beneath his grip and you arent so

afraid any more

a n d 

this is a dream isnt it 

[serosevsky-blog]

Run.

It starts with a crow.

You know straight away that it isn't real, it can't be real, but every feature, every feather, is almost blindingly defined in your mind's eye and the beak immerses itself where your nose should be (it isn't and you hiss and recoil and the bird begins to fragment in front of you.) It cracks and fades and a set of teeth glitter in its night sky breast and oh no no no no you can feel your control slipping away as the bird melts into hardened gunpowder and a white crest wave like lily petals that just smiles

its that hardened smirk that can crack a window and shatter the air like a bullet that makes you take one quivering, wilting step backwards and another step and a third fourth fifth six feet deep. It is like being faced with an industry an industry encased in futuristic curves of black snow and white steel, and you feel your leafy fingers shrivel the iris beating in your chest slow in the shadow of a furnace of a man. And the w o r s t part is that he knows. He knows he knows he knows how you feel and you feel as opposed to see the pulse of fierce electricity and eccentricity pulsing through the veins encased inside him

like a city a living city

with a sickly yellow heart and a sickly yellow crown

that presses a blade to your throat and plucks a flower from your hair and fells the tree with a single swipe of a skeletal ax. You claw at the distant sky in the hopes of escape escape escape but the man city city man refuses to let you until you start to choke and gag and your throat tears open to let out an oil spill motorcycle fuel gatling gun begging praying speech that wrests you back into consciousness.

It is no ordinary carapace that has you up at five in the morning, feverishly cultivating the small wild garden of weeds on your roof.