csoip - Down The Rabbit Hole
Down The Rabbit Hole

poetry archive and a main for other tendencies. too sentimental to give it up but the day tumblr lets me switch primaries i will rejoicemostly @crossbackpoke-check here

211 posts

Kill Your Heroes

Kill Your Heroes

Did she know what would happen when she let herself feel alive? When she undid the chains that bound her and got rid of her ideals?

Did she know that in order to survive you have to kill everything you ever believed in?

Did she know it would take so much longing, so much destruction. Did she know how.

She cried herself hoarse screaming reaching out for the things she could not describe,

was left speechless to explain. Even if she had a voice she could not have used it. So instead she made a list of indescribable things that could not be translated, and needed only to be known.

Her words were her only reprieve.

Made into something she didn’t want to be by the ideals someone else created, she was trapped inside her own mind.

She broke every window and held onto every inch of ground she gained.

She was not meant 
for a life in a glass cage, 
playing at happiness. 
Children can only be childish 
for so long.

She grew up, and when she did: 
she was strong enough 
to kill her heroes, 
and brave enough 
to become her own.


More Posts from Csoip

9 years ago

sunday mourning

it sounds like a piece of poetry, the way my grandparents talk as we drive through what used to be a town and they point out things that used to be- there was a gas station, a store, a school, that used to be a drive in theatre and we’d go there on the weekends- there was a fire engine, remember? and all the kids would pile in and it’d take you for rides around town but with memory comes regret because then they say that they used to spray DDT, things to kill the mosquitos when really they were killing us and the conversation goes dark, quiet until we drive past the place where my grandmother used to live we have to stop, quiet for a second until she can talk because it was two years ago to this day (in May, the spring always was pretty) and she can smile for a second while she tries not to cry. you never really grow up unless you grow old and she feels so old, so alone even though we’re standing right next to her. my family has a history of mental illness and addictions, suicides and things we could never really escape. we drive around in this ghost of a town so nostalgic that it hurts and god, we’re all sick inside our minds. we can feel it in our bones.

9 years ago

how to know when to stop

When there stops being a want -that ache in my chest for more more more- that’s when I’ll end it. When every day stops being a battle, when there are more no’s than yeses, pleases than try’s, lined up in a row and counted like a ratio of would you mind if I stay? to it’d be better if I go. When there are more reasons to stop than there are to continue on with it. It’s not so much that I want to die. It’s just that I want to stop existing, stop moving sluggishly through life like a half-asleep shadow. When the time comes when I feel like I can’t stand it, when there is no point. When there is no one left to miss me, no one to cry and ask for one more day. By now they know that asking won’t get them anything so they pack my bags for me, ready for me to leave. More no than yes, just sooner than later and leave a note telling us where you’ve gone. When there is no one who would miss you. Would it be so terrible?

9 years ago

mother, i am stupid

(nietzsche’s horse’s eyes pt. two) the eyes that reflected a field of fallen horses, the absent recognition of cruelty. the eyes like empty vacant houses and somewhere, quietly, a child calling out if anyone is home. the eyes that saw too much within the body that bore too much containing the mind that knew too much, that had to live with the knowing. look into the eyes of every victim and every animal and you will see the same dull resignation to a fate they think they deserve. the eyes turned blind, clouded with acceptance that has not been earned. with what else could we see kindness if not for the lack of it?


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9 years ago

pronouns

“they” is not always plural and “fae” is not reserved for faeries. they can be one person, rainbow hair and blue eyes. they can mean masculine and feminine and something indescribable, somewhere between hard and soft without falling in the lines. take everything you thought you knew and throw it back in the box it came from because there is no male, no female, no boundaries or lines of who you are and how you love. they are singular and a singularity, black hole void of all and containing everything because everyone always knew it wasn’t the light it was the dark spaces in between that drew you in. they are an adventure, something taunting when you dare to look them in the eye; something wild, neon and loud that can’t be hidden. some back-street club, quiet coffee shop, promises of laughter and red lips. chocolate and whipped cream, rainbow sprinkles and sitting in an ice cream parlour two blocks down from their street. sundaes with a cherry on top. friendship, bottled and sold a dime a dozen but that doesn’t make it (them) any less sweet.


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9 years ago

how did you get those scars?

(nietzche’s horse’s eyes pt. one)

cats and curling irons and accidents I say, rattling off excuses in a list three pages long when all I really want to say is knives and needles and scissors and my own two hands, I did this I did this I DID THIS LOOK AT ME AND TELL ME THAT THIS COULD BE ANYTHING BUT MAN MADE, ANYTHING BUT BROKEN AND ABUSED. THIS WAS NOT AN ACCIDENT AND NEITHER AM I- I CANNOT BE WASHED AWAY OR HIDDEN. LOOK AT ME AND TELL ME THAT YOU DO NOT SEE YOURSELF, REFLECTED IN THE BEAST WITHIN MY EYES.