WEIGHT OF A NATION

{ 𝑾̶𝑰̶𝑳̶𝑻̶ } /   I     would     prefer     a     𝒏𝒆𝒘    𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕     altogether.

[worstheir]

independent  &  highly selective  post-timeskip  𝑯𝑰𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑰𝑨  𝑹𝑬𝑰𝑺𝑺  of  𝑺𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒌𝒊 𝒏𝒐 𝑲𝒚𝒐𝒋𝒊𝒏  / 𝑨𝒕𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒏 𝑻𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒏  /   primarily  manga  &  headcanon  based  with  show  influences /  Crossover & AU friendly  /  25+  / she & her pronouns / understood by plum.

This blog will be exploring topics of heavy mental degradation and insanity due to trauma, familial trauma due to extended abuse. My portrayal is heavily inspired by gothic lit, psychological horror, shakespeare, biblical references, hauntings both physical and metaphorical. Historia is often an unreliable narrator in both her pre & post timeskip verses.

PERSONAL BLOGS:  PLEASE DO NOT REBLOG THREADS OR HEADCANONS. Any other posts must be reblogged from directly from the source.  

𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑲𝑺:      {  CARRD  / MULTI SIDEBLOG  / PINTEREST  }

[worstheir]

logs on for two seconds to post this gem MMMMMMM

[worstheir]

might... do a lil mini facelift to this blog today >.> I deleted her carrd so I'm gonna stick some rules under a read more and what not.

[kuutamosonaatti]

Dante’s Inferno (1967) | dir. Ken Russell

[worstheir]

“we can talk through the door.”  // from Lo @bruchfest

THERE IS ALWAYS A LEVEL OF SEPARATION BETWEEN THEM, a gap that could not be bridged, a door that could never be opened, an ocean that could not be crossed. in the rot of her mind she wonders who had placed it there? what great hand had reached down to dig the trench? madness likes to coil its fingers through her flaxen hair and coyly whisper that it was her long lost loves. the two mighty enough to quite literally rend the earth. how even beyond the grave they could not bear the thought of her and another. that they would extend into life once more to jealously divid her from any other. but in her heart she knows that hand was her own. she could not delude herself anymore than she could delude the man that sat on the opposite side of that door [ . . . ] in the stillness of her half empty room, the clamor of guilt-conjured voices finally allows a moment of clarity and respite. were she like the wretched faithful she would mortify her flesh in penance, instead she destroys every scrap of undeserved goodness that dared cross her path. he deserved the same for daring to love her in spite of the blood. there is no punishment harsh enough to absolve her sins, there is no punishment harsh enough to absolve him for forgiving hers.

' I don't know what to say. . . ' historia murmurs wearily into the silence. the thump of her head against the door behind her enough to make her flinch. the house demanded silence or screaming this late at night. it grows restless with their meekness. she considers reaching up to try the door handle, knowing it will be locked and how her husband would cringe and fret if she got herself worked into a state again. ' you aren't obligated to be here anymore. you should take her and go. '

[worstheir]

[lifeinpoetry]

The sadness in him ends in me tonight.

— Ocean Vuong, from “Beautiful Short Loser,” Time Is a Mother (via lifeinpoetry)

[worstheir]

EVERYONE WISH HISU A HAPPY MOTHERS DAY RN

[luthienne]

Elena Ferrante, from Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay (translated from the Italian by Ann Goldstein)

[Text ID: maybe, in the face of abandonment, we are all the same; maybe not even a very orderly mind can endure the discovery of not being loved.]

[godsopenwound]

— Traci Brimhall, “You Said the Lambs Were Ready” from Come the Slumberless To the Land of Nod

[godsopenwound]

You’ll be hungry forever if you stay here, trying to hide your secret mouth from all this light. Before you can cross the gate into that dark valley, you must look at yourself. You can think of other words for red: crimson, cherry, scarlet. But there's no other name for blood, no name for a shame like this, its hiss of pain when you press your finger to it, the sweet stain it leaves on your fingertip. You just have to taste it.

— Sara Eliza Johnson, Parable of the Unclean Spirit

[histria]

[phantomleaves]

Darlin’, 2019, dir. Pollyanna Mcintosh

[ohmyshinee0525]

Guillermo Lorca García-Huidobro (Santiago, 1984)

[lifeinpoetry]

Your daughter’s face is a small riot, her hands are a civil war, she has a refugee camp tucked behind each ear, her body is a body littered with ugly things

but God, doesn’t she wear the world well.

— Warsan Shire, from “Bless Your Ugly Daughter,” Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head

[lifeinpoetry]

19 & always crying in front of professionals, asking to be healed but never taking the advice, showing them skinned knees & being given a sad, pinched look in return. 19 & sitting still in the sun light, skin broken, medicated, & unsure.

— Silas Melvin, from “Nineteen,” Grit

[worstheir]

modern hisu