#thoughtstuffs

[octahedralmoon]

still, the grief eats away. the blackness in my stomach never goes away, and I try to put my hand to my throat when i speak, hoping it won't stain my words. still, i feel everyone can see my words dipped and dripping in grief as i force them out like removing a cow's intestines—i have developed into a lens that captures without seeing, sees without knowing, stores it all for later, for it to come flooding out; later is for people who can afford the time.

[octahedralmoon]

a lemon is such a powerful metaphor. bitter and sour, two tastes commonly deemed extremely unpleasant, enjoyed throughout? regarded as fun and vibrant, even. it's a botanical equivalent of a contronym.

[octahedralmoon]

all the hate just turned inwards, didn't it? every time they called the name that wasn't yours, every time they passed by you without a word, every compliment that went to someone else and it pushed so deep into you, so deep, you don't know why it did and why it should but it was ever so deep and deeper than anything you could possibly get out of. this isn't the first time but it's the worst time and that realization probably did more damage than the hate did. all that you have built coming crumbling down and in that process someone else is standing at the porch of your building smiling and they're collecting pieces of your wall to display in their bedroom. it felt like losing. it felt like losing.

[octahedralmoon]

are you desperate enough or do you not want it at all?

[octahedralmoon]

4am tastes like black tea gone cold: bittersweet scattering on my tongue like an old dog's last regret-- and the night presses on, feet shuffling towards the horizon.

[octahedralmoon]

너무 아픈 사랑은 사랑이 아니었음을.

That love which hurt too much, wasn't love at all

[octahedralmoon]

the urge to disappear maybe comes from resenting the things that people do that they can't help but do, then feeling like shit that you can't help but resent them sometimes-- all i need to be is missed.

[octahedralmoon]

tw slight SI, gore (-ish?) under the cut

to peel the layers of its face greedy like an orange, clumps of hair and flesh at once— delicate as an autumn leaf, crimpled, torn, beneath my feet. to settle upon it is a wave of torpor, a tangle of limbs and blinding brutish licks; of crimson bile mixed with eyes too bitter to resist— crashing into hard membranes rolling them between my teeth snapping the walls of pulsing veins slit its arm delicately be careful lifting the skin— dig a few fingers in— drag out webs of sticky waste. i wanted, i wanted; please forgive me for wanting. i worshipped the heartstrings that despite me, kept on beating. Murder isn’t murder If it’s you whom you are killing.