Lostprinc3 - Running Around The Garden - Tumblr Blog

those moments when you can hear your skin tearing like paper and it reveals that you are actually styrofoam fat muscle bone all foam you're just a pool noodle with skin badly glued on and glass for teeth + eyes all of which are too heavy for your styrofoam head you're just rubbery air

What will appear when I die🎀

‘ordinary’ flirting doesn’t work on me.

tell me how obsessed you are with me.

tell me how you worship the ground i walk on.

tell me how i matter more to you than anyone else in this world.

tell me the things you’d do just to be with me.

if you don’t stroke my ego or share my obsessive nature then you have no value to me.

It’s me. I am bitches

I’d tear holes in my skin, if you wanted to love me intimately

A life without collecting trinkets is no life at all

Dec 16, '23

— wasted wine.

dear one,

my hands are too cold,

and my heart too fragile,

i don't want to grow old,

this world is much so vile.

right ones come at the right time,

little one, do you not know,

they don't owe you a single dime,

you'll be alone in the first snow,

there won't linger a seamless smile.

forge a promise, break a heart,

this december, i wait another start,

hold a hand, forget about mine,

how bittersweet like wasted wine.

i sold my soul,

to a longing long unsatiated,

i can't control,

the lonesome i have created.

— vin.

in the land of gods and monsters, i was an angel

Caitlin Siehl, "Cut" // i.g.p, "Mama Bore a Girl" // Natalie Wee, Letters from Persephone // Sarah J. Maas, Heir of Fire // @klyukvav // @heavensghost // Carol Ann Duffy, "Medusa" // Aria Aber, "Ideology" // Clementine von Radics, "Vigil" // Ocean Vuong, "Prayer for the Newly Damned"

I met god at a bus stop. She was dragging on her cigarette and sitting on a cold bench. The bench still covered in writings from previous ones. Her mascara was running down her face, her runny nose almost as red as the tip of her cigarette, and her chipped nails scratched open her skin. As she looked at me, I swear I could see the whole world in her eyes, just as it is. Broken and damned. Under her finger nails laid the dirt and in her eyes pooled her tears, forming oceans. I could feel her staring at me and judging me. It was that night I realized, that god is every teenage girl.

An Angel came to me last night. It lingered infront of my bed and glowed like a thousand suns. As it opened its mouth, I almost passed out. The deafening cry it gave me, sounded almost like a sweet serenade. The angel gifted me a pomegranate. I broke it open and it’s red juice dripped down my fingers, staining my white linen. I handed the angel a half and watched as it drank the sweet nectar and let it dribble down its chin. It looked nearly unholy. Staring at the creature, tears ran down my face and burned themselves into my skin. Only later I realized.. only later I saw the mirror infront of me.

Ache is a shrew residing in my chest. She burrows, she festers, she radiates until her scent intertwines with my organs, until each breath, each beat of my heart is reminiscent of her.

Ache claws at the delicate pink satin surrounding my ribs; she does not care that my blood begins to run.

I howl to an empty room, "Tell me where to put the pain, Tell me where to put the pain, Tell me where to put the pain."

The shrew whispers back, "It will be okay", but she does not tell me how to care for her, nor does she relent.

My life is just so silly.. I am sitting on my bed in the psych ward, trying to figure out which dried flower I should put in my journal, while I am drinking the cheapest earl grey tea I could find in the supermarket… so silly

I am my family. I am my mothers drunken rage. The one she can’t explain. Her voice still ringing in my ears. Loud and clear. I am my fathers disappointment. The one he never wanted and never perceived. And he vanished, just like my shadow does on a cloud filled day. I am my sisters mind. Her childish thoughts and her loud voice, laughing and begging, and screaming and crying. I am my wounds left open to rott and I am my scars, the ones that leave never ending memories. I am my family.

oct 5, 23

— my image.

love of mine, there's no tomorrow,

so please let me borrow,

your scabborous little heart,

oh, i worshipped it right from the start.

yours eyes are where mine follow,

embracing that everlasting sorrow,

you are that piece of art,

which has torn me apart.

i waste my time. i waste my breath.

answering questions you'll never ask.

preparing for when you'll next seek a glance.

you should have told me, you lack courage.

you'll chant love songs in a crowd,

but you never got to chant them with me.

because of those words, those phrases,

your thoughts enrapture my senses.

and when i am not there,

i hope my image lingers in your mind

and the illusion of my touch feathers across your skin.

you chance a glance, but you don't chance a word. who will tell you that time is finite? seasons last for moments, and years only as long as a brief wind lasting merely the blink of an eye. don't you regret it then. when i am no longer there in the corner of your eye, and when you turn to look, only the illusion of my silhouette remains behind.

— vin.

Megan Chance, The Spiritualist // Edith Eger, The Choice (Google search results) // Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe // Holly Black // Ariesa Ra // Andrea Bartz, We Were Never Here // J. U. Scribe, Roman Identity // Hannah Harrington

[Requested by @lynnimal]

HAMMOND B3 ORGAN CISTERN by GABRIELLE CALVOCORESSI