Mother, I Am ScaredI Cannot Sleep There Is A Monster Under My Bed In The Closet In My Head It Is All

Mother, I am scared I cannot sleep There is a monster under my bed In the closet In my head It is all the things I have left unsaid It wears the most terrifying face of regret And whispers to most vile things Of everything that could have been It smells of sorrow and leaks puddles of tears Yet it never moves Like it is frozen in time Staring off at some distance thing Right through me As if it knows I am the one who has created it As though it knows I am the one who keeps it trapped here                                As though it can see all that would have been Just right there behind me But it never moves. This is what scares me most

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Me Thinking About Shadow Me Being Released Today

BECAUSE THEY WERE TRYING TO BE CUTE LIKE "The Boy With The Bread" BUT IT DIDNT WORK AND THIS IS THE TEA SIS

...me and the red queen series have a tense relationship but i preach the truth I swear

Question: What is with calling Kilorn “the fish boy” non-stop in Glass Sword. Like? We get it, he was a fisherman?

Blood Letting

*Cutting Trigger Warning*

I practice the ancient art of bloodletting I create an incision on my body and let my tainted blood run free in an attempt to cleanse myself of some unidentifiable disease, sickness, illness But I cannot outrun it Cannot seem to drain this contaminated blood before more unholy red liquid is pumped out and running rampant in my veins again I try and explain this to my doctor of modern medicine and she tells me that this is a dated, useless tactic That this is too dangerous a way to try and heal But is this not the point To watch the incisions heal and pretend like I too am healing When she asks me why I do it all I can think is 'red' Maybe I am addicted to the red Ozzing and dripping and flowing more freely than I ever could Red is the colour of love you know Maybe I am proving to myself that there is still love inside of me Maybe I am bleeding all over myself in an attempt to pretend I am loving myself Do you see? I am covered in it She asks me what I get out of it Beside red? Besides pain? Besides release? I suppose I receive the marks It is then that I realize that my favourite thing about my scars is that they are mine That they belong to me That they are the one thing that always will

Paola

Paola is tight brown curls and music note earrings. She is mismatched knee-high socks and thrift store band t-shirts.

Paola is sunshine smiles that crack you open and brown eyes that sew you back together. She is lilting music box laughter and the softest kind of surrender. She is a reminder that there is still good in this world, and that maybe I deserve some too. 

Paola has long since stopped asking me if I am okay but always makes sure I am before I leave. She is the embodiment of salvation, of mercy. She does not ask questions but instead makes the answer clear. She is from a softer place, a kinder era, yet belongs nowhere but here.

Paola is friends with father time and a favourite of lady fate. She is poetry's lover and muse. She is not the kind of girl who's presence demands to be written of. She is not the kind of girl that makes you feel something that compels you to take note of.

Instead, she is the kind of girl that poetry craves. That poetry unfurls itself for on the tip of every tongue who dare speak her name because Paola, is poetry material.

Who did it better? 004

White Hair:

Jem Carastairs vs. Tarquin High Lord of the Summer Court