11-27-2018, 09:25 AM
[align=center][div style="borderwidth=0px; width: 55%; line-height:115%; text-align: justify;font-family: calibri;"][ poetic shit ]
— The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater because he is trying to kill you, and you deserve it, you do, and you know this, and you are ready to die in his swimming pool. Because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means your life is over anyway. You're in the eighth grade. You know these things. You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do long division, and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you didn't do, because you are weak and hollow and it doesn't matter anymore.
— You want to be a soft child, but you are not. You came out of your mother with your fists clenched, screaming and covered in your mothers blood. You were forged in fire and you rose from the ashes, murder and mercy rolled into one. You long to be just honeyed skin and soft curls, but beneath it all, your blood boils fiercely. You were born with heaven and hell already in you.
— You can find ares in the pooling blood seeping from your bruised knuckles and dripping, dropping, plinking on the bathroom floor. Find him in the mirror when you see hatred staring back, I dare you to. He smells like sweet decay and his laughter can break bones and when he kisses you pretty pain shoots through your lips and you'll love it. Because he tastes like blood and metal fire and ash and his smile holds daggers that will tear through your throat in a second. Under him you'll pray: grant me mercy, grant me peace, grant me victory, and he will laugh and you will shatter and you will find him in the pieces he left behind.
— Boy with gunsmoke for breath. Boy with rebellion in your bones. Your city is ignited, your city is screaming your name, your city is raising its fist, your city is slamming its body against a police shield and smiling a red, bloody smile. Your voice is the loudest shout at the head of the picket line, your voice is all war and they love you for it. Your voice is breaking, but it is holy. You are a god and they will follow you anywhere. You are Apollo and you have traded your silver bow for a shotgun and a mean right hook. Boy who screams anarchy from the roofs of police cars, boy born for revolution. Boy, the world is yours. All you have to do is burn,
— That winter, we all took turns drowning in the lake; we would submerge ourselves under the ice, teeth chattering, inhaling frigid lungfuls of pond water like we'd never learned the meaning of oxygen. Ma told us once that facing your fears was not grasping at straws and hoping you got the short end, but every night before we jumped in we talked about collapsing stars, about how dying was the only thing we had left to look forward to to fear, and meeting it half way was the closest we'd ever come to feeling complete.
— You are a demon living in glorious Eden, walking among real Angels. Painting your lips with the lie that you are holy. Hoping that if you ever bleed, your blood will be gold instead of black. And you know their blood is gold, don't you? Because you have watched their brothers and sisters bleed. You have felt their wings under your claws and their necks under your teeth and their ichor under your tongue. You have not forgotten the taste of honey-sweet blood. They call you a savior, not realizing they've adopted a monster. And when they touch you, you have to bite back screams. Because never has Heaven's touch felt more like a cocktail of agony and euphoria. They don't know what you are. Yet. But they whisper about you. They talk of your calloused feet. The mangled hands with nails that look like they've been torn. (You may have ripped off your claws but the beast inside has its own pair). Heaven's children murmur about how you shield your eyes. Because all they'd need to see is the oblivion within to know that you are not God's child. "I'm like them," you tell yourself, "I am one of them." You are not. While they drink blessed wine and laugh like melodies, you will taste ash and choke on laughter you cannot make. They are Holiness draped in silk. You are Chaos drenched in glory-blood. "May God bless you," they say. But the only blessing you deserve is death.
— What is a battlefield but a body? You spend so many nights dreaming of spilling your blood to the moonlight, slipping out of your bones, and slithering into the soul of someone else. You're all bronze and bite. All venom and fistfight. You're the dawn that rises bloody and wrecks ships in its wake, but you're a siren too, somewhere deep in the aching heart of you. Thicket of violet thorn. Oyster pearl gone rogue All you want to do is dance out of your skin into another song not quite about heroes, but still a song where you can lift the spear and say "yes" as it flashes in the sun.
— Sometimes you wonder why he lets you touch him. That night he scrubbed your hands clean twice, and you still see blood struck deep in your pores. Your battle-worn tongue doesn't say the truth anymore; that you are ruined. And you wonder why he lets you - the butcher - touch him - the sun.
— When he smiled it was toothy and fake, and when he laughed it was a cacophony of metallic hollow sounds that reverberated through his small body and chilled the bones of those who knew this was not the boy they used to know.
—The human thigh bone is stronger than concrete, a boy in a man's body tells me, sucking down a joint and trying to kill himself quietly. The funny thing is that we weren't built to break, that our bodies are so strong it takes trucks to overturn us. The funny thing is, we designed ourselves to survive but forgot to make our souls strong. Sometimes people talk to me about the invincibility of the human spirit and I think that sounds really pretty but doesn't solve problems like how teenagers are taking their own lives off of shelves as if they were thieves in a seven eleven. They say that the human spirit can endure anything thrown at it, but then how come so many of us hate ourselves so hard we can't see straight for it? Once a boy told me he just wanted to make me forget everything but the happiness his fingers could pull out of my body, but you can't make love to someone's mind. The human thigh bone is stronger than the buildings we keep killing ourselves in. There is a big difference between being alive and living.
— I've never believed in destiny. No, the stars never whispered my name, my future. I grabbed my own fate with two hungry hands, pulling and pushing and molding my life, leaving smudges and dirty fingerprints all over a once clean soul. My mistakes belong entirely to me. No, the stars never mapped out a path for me to follow, never planned my downfall, my triumphs. I rule the stars, not the other way around. I take their dust and inject it in my veins; I breathe in their light as I live.
— Some people are just born to fight, I think. It's not that they're born brave. It's not that they're born strong. It's just that the universe has decided that this one, this one will have grit and fire and steel in their blood. And it'll be tested, this cosmic mettle of theirs. They'll face trial after trial, be broken and damaged in countless ways. But this one was born to fight. Maybe it's not the life they would have chosen. Maybe they'd love to lay down their arms. But they were born to fight. It's what they know. It's what they do best. It's all they can do.
— The blond boy in the red trunks is holding your head underwater because he is trying to kill you, and you deserve it, you do, and you know this, and you are ready to die in his swimming pool. Because you wanted to touch his hands and lips and this means your life is over anyway. You're in the eighth grade. You know these things. You know how to ride a dirt bike, and you know how to do long division, and you know that a boy who likes boys is a dead boy, unless he keeps his mouth shut, which is what you didn't do, because you are weak and hollow and it doesn't matter anymore.
— You want to be a soft child, but you are not. You came out of your mother with your fists clenched, screaming and covered in your mothers blood. You were forged in fire and you rose from the ashes, murder and mercy rolled into one. You long to be just honeyed skin and soft curls, but beneath it all, your blood boils fiercely. You were born with heaven and hell already in you.
— You can find ares in the pooling blood seeping from your bruised knuckles and dripping, dropping, plinking on the bathroom floor. Find him in the mirror when you see hatred staring back, I dare you to. He smells like sweet decay and his laughter can break bones and when he kisses you pretty pain shoots through your lips and you'll love it. Because he tastes like blood and metal fire and ash and his smile holds daggers that will tear through your throat in a second. Under him you'll pray: grant me mercy, grant me peace, grant me victory, and he will laugh and you will shatter and you will find him in the pieces he left behind.
— Boy with gunsmoke for breath. Boy with rebellion in your bones. Your city is ignited, your city is screaming your name, your city is raising its fist, your city is slamming its body against a police shield and smiling a red, bloody smile. Your voice is the loudest shout at the head of the picket line, your voice is all war and they love you for it. Your voice is breaking, but it is holy. You are a god and they will follow you anywhere. You are Apollo and you have traded your silver bow for a shotgun and a mean right hook. Boy who screams anarchy from the roofs of police cars, boy born for revolution. Boy, the world is yours. All you have to do is burn,
— That winter, we all took turns drowning in the lake; we would submerge ourselves under the ice, teeth chattering, inhaling frigid lungfuls of pond water like we'd never learned the meaning of oxygen. Ma told us once that facing your fears was not grasping at straws and hoping you got the short end, but every night before we jumped in we talked about collapsing stars, about how dying was the only thing we had left to look forward to to fear, and meeting it half way was the closest we'd ever come to feeling complete.
— You are a demon living in glorious Eden, walking among real Angels. Painting your lips with the lie that you are holy. Hoping that if you ever bleed, your blood will be gold instead of black. And you know their blood is gold, don't you? Because you have watched their brothers and sisters bleed. You have felt their wings under your claws and their necks under your teeth and their ichor under your tongue. You have not forgotten the taste of honey-sweet blood. They call you a savior, not realizing they've adopted a monster. And when they touch you, you have to bite back screams. Because never has Heaven's touch felt more like a cocktail of agony and euphoria. They don't know what you are. Yet. But they whisper about you. They talk of your calloused feet. The mangled hands with nails that look like they've been torn. (You may have ripped off your claws but the beast inside has its own pair). Heaven's children murmur about how you shield your eyes. Because all they'd need to see is the oblivion within to know that you are not God's child. "I'm like them," you tell yourself, "I am one of them." You are not. While they drink blessed wine and laugh like melodies, you will taste ash and choke on laughter you cannot make. They are Holiness draped in silk. You are Chaos drenched in glory-blood. "May God bless you," they say. But the only blessing you deserve is death.
— What is a battlefield but a body? You spend so many nights dreaming of spilling your blood to the moonlight, slipping out of your bones, and slithering into the soul of someone else. You're all bronze and bite. All venom and fistfight. You're the dawn that rises bloody and wrecks ships in its wake, but you're a siren too, somewhere deep in the aching heart of you. Thicket of violet thorn. Oyster pearl gone rogue All you want to do is dance out of your skin into another song not quite about heroes, but still a song where you can lift the spear and say "yes" as it flashes in the sun.
— Sometimes you wonder why he lets you touch him. That night he scrubbed your hands clean twice, and you still see blood struck deep in your pores. Your battle-worn tongue doesn't say the truth anymore; that you are ruined. And you wonder why he lets you - the butcher - touch him - the sun.
— When he smiled it was toothy and fake, and when he laughed it was a cacophony of metallic hollow sounds that reverberated through his small body and chilled the bones of those who knew this was not the boy they used to know.
—The human thigh bone is stronger than concrete, a boy in a man's body tells me, sucking down a joint and trying to kill himself quietly. The funny thing is that we weren't built to break, that our bodies are so strong it takes trucks to overturn us. The funny thing is, we designed ourselves to survive but forgot to make our souls strong. Sometimes people talk to me about the invincibility of the human spirit and I think that sounds really pretty but doesn't solve problems like how teenagers are taking their own lives off of shelves as if they were thieves in a seven eleven. They say that the human spirit can endure anything thrown at it, but then how come so many of us hate ourselves so hard we can't see straight for it? Once a boy told me he just wanted to make me forget everything but the happiness his fingers could pull out of my body, but you can't make love to someone's mind. The human thigh bone is stronger than the buildings we keep killing ourselves in. There is a big difference between being alive and living.
— I've never believed in destiny. No, the stars never whispered my name, my future. I grabbed my own fate with two hungry hands, pulling and pushing and molding my life, leaving smudges and dirty fingerprints all over a once clean soul. My mistakes belong entirely to me. No, the stars never mapped out a path for me to follow, never planned my downfall, my triumphs. I rule the stars, not the other way around. I take their dust and inject it in my veins; I breathe in their light as I live.
— Some people are just born to fight, I think. It's not that they're born brave. It's not that they're born strong. It's just that the universe has decided that this one, this one will have grit and fire and steel in their blood. And it'll be tested, this cosmic mettle of theirs. They'll face trial after trial, be broken and damaged in countless ways. But this one was born to fight. Maybe it's not the life they would have chosen. Maybe they'd love to lay down their arms. But they were born to fight. It's what they know. It's what they do best. It's all they can do.
♔ — I want brimstone in my garden