#phoenix boy

[heartofmuse]

The boy with a phoenix feather for a quill, he would write until the feather died and burnt up. Then he would wait and mourn, and weep until it was born anew and he plucked it from his heart. He was endless cycles of birth and death, of fire and the coldness of the void when fire is gone, yet he is always what he is, a phoenix in human skin. He carries the joys of a hundred lifetimes and the sorrows too, so much that it cannot be contained for long and it must die in fire and be reborn in water. 

e.v.e.

[yourartmatters-itswhatgotmehere]

♥

[racheldoodles]

*SHRUGS* 

[sunflowerfinch]

Matchstick bones have ignited. I am a living, breathing fire. I will destroy everything in my path

[writingfromruins]

We’re hungry in a way our teeth were never made for, too much of us sharp, too much of us empty, storms inside lightbulbs and exposed candle wicks going up in smoke, the pale blue heart of a flame so hot it consumes itself, wavering, neon signs fracturing from the unnatural heat our presence pours into them.

We’re the blacked out first draft of the bible with red pen making new sins in the margins, hummingbird heartbeats splitting our chests open like an arrow through an apple pie, sweet like summer blood on the pavement, honeysuckle growing under stained glass windows with rocks thrown through, each of us hungry like the weeds are, spring-new and green and devouring the soil and water and sun.

The clouds shudder over the sky which makes the sunlight breathe across the furniture & we breathe in the same way, like something dragging across the city skyline getting scraped up and dirty, and that’s what our lungs are like, a thousand surface level skyscrapes turning into words that boil out of our mouths, all bright heat and broken glass and they taste like sidewalk sins in summer.

NOTHING BUT BAD IDEAS AND GOOD CONVERSATION

[writingfromruins]

I want a better ending. I want an epilouge. I’m 6 feet deep and still not at rock bottom. I can go deeper. I can find a foundation for a rebound baby trust me. However deep they buried you I’ll find you and wake you up with a kiss. I’ll place my head to your chest to hear the absence of a heart, and for every beat of mine place two kisses to the insides of your wrists where the graveyard dirt still lingers.

You’d wake me up with my mouth full of ash and pull me out of the furnace. The fire would cling to me like it couldn’t help but gild my shoulders, my neck, my mouth, and you would reach towards me and make a scaffolding of my blackened bones. Sculpt me back up as whole as you could make me, murmering, “for the fairest, for you, for you,” as my eyes stayed open, two melted golden coins filling my sockets until they overflowed.

GLASS COFFIN GOLD APPLE

[writingfromruins]

I call it an open wound like the knife is still there where the skin has scarred over like maybe it cauterized the moment the knife slid in like maybe i cut out my heart and maybe it left a scar but maybe i did it because it loved you so much it was blooming into the biggest bouqet of red roses with the thorns twisting themselves into my side until i bled.

Babe just listen i love you but i couldn’t have something so red and scorching burning it’s way through my ribs and my lungs and boiling my stomach until i was just overwhelmed and the scar tissue still feels hot to the touch even though my heart’s in the freezer double sealed in ziplock bags and it’s still going summer-rotten, swelling at the edges and bringing carrion crows to my balcony rail.

There’s red on both our hands and i can’t see what it stains anymore except the places where you’ve pulled open your eyes and your ears and your mouth and just poured out a scarlet morning sunrise into the air and god i think a new heart is growing where the old one used to be and i feel red hot like burning liquid glass when you look at me with that crimson mouth twisted in a grin like you’ve known all along what would happen.

CORRECTIONS DONE IN RED INK

[writingfromruins]

You hold me down to say it, pin me to the wall and mouth it into the shape of my neck, write it on the inside of my forearm while i sleep, curl up over my corpse and murmer it while i slowly wake back up, you only say it when i can’t leave, or when i’m coming back, or when i do not know you’re saying it.

And maybe i need it that way, my god, maybe i don’t need to hear it or maybe i’d run from it or maybe it’s what i come home for, love, you say it only when we need it most, love, if i hadn’t killed you, love, if we hadn’t found each other, love, my god, it’s terrible what we’ve done to each other.

The words are terrible too and you know it, they slink into your vocabulary, your sighs, your body language, it’s all terrible. We’ve ruined each other. We’re something new now. We’ve always been something new. We’re new but frayed at the edges and creased down the middle and my god, my love, just say it to me again. Please, just say it one more time.

“I love you”