|Commissions, Adopts, and Just being nice??|
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That Inhaler Sure Looks NiceI was never able to breathe easy,That Inhaler Sure Looks Nice by ParasiticPariah
the tension in my lungs coiling up and squeezing
tightly, never missing a chance to cut the
sweet air off with a sickening pressure.
And when I'm running, my arms are pinned
like puppets to my sides, mechanically moving
and not ever reaching too far out because
I live in fear of burning out too quickly.
When you're inhaling cigarette smoke and
your lungs do not function as lungs, but
rather a cage, that only functions to stop
you from breathing easy,
You do everything you can to not burn out.
Because we are not stars, whose shining
moment is exploding in a great big ball
of light and gas, tossing ourselves across
Space and time. No, we are the people who
have to unpin our arms, and open the rusted-
shut doors of our lungs in hopes to go faster,
to burn brighter in the moment.
I have never felt so alive as I do when
the air is ripped from my feeble chest and
wind caresses my hair, drawing forth laughter
that I didn't know I was able to make.
a picture of perfectionShe was a painting;SeptemberSkies2298
not a Rembrant or a Da Vinci...
much more vibrant than those, she was
the fade of Monet,
her quirks just shy of a Picasso portrait,
and at the same time not quite shy enough.
She was a Van Gogh landscape:
full and bright and articulate and beautiful-
but a real mess up close.
Like someone forgot that when you make people
they're supposed to stay inside the lines.
Self-Harm Isn't a HandbagPick at the scabs of the ghosts of scarsCorporateRockWhore
On the insides of my wrists,
White hot pain memories shoot up my veins
And the tear vapour creates mists
In the lenses of my glasses.
My world narrows down to those
White stitch marks that keep the
Patchwork of my forearms and thighs
Keeping the dark ugly hurt
On the insides
How could I have done this to myself?
Could I blame you?
And her too?
I’m a big girl now,
And the blame rests on my wrists,
That flicked the blade
And sprayed the blood,
And the mind that forbade
Me to ask for help.
I’ve said it before
And I’ll say it again;
It isn’t beautiful
To put yourself through such pain.
When your head is buzzing
From the hit of the high
Of a new cut on your thigh,
Or your mind is lost in a mist
Of ecstasy from a new slice
On your wrist
And you’re dependent on it
A junkie needing a hit,
It isn’t pretty or cute or special.
No amount of kisses
Will undo the cuts
Or absorb the scars.
Ugly Scars“Why do you cut, dear?”MikkiMarie
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
Of course it does –
It hurts more than I’m worth
“Why do you cut, dear?”
“Aren’t you ashamed?”
Of course I’m embarrassed,
But I’m used to the blame.
“Why do you cut, dear?”
“Why don’t you stop?”
Can you stop a dead body
From starting to rot?
Because, darling, you see,
I’m not even here.
I’m only a corpse
With no hope, and no fear.
“Why do you cut dear?”
Well, don’t you see?
There’s a pain inside
So deep within me
And it’s coming to the surface
But no one understands
So I put that pain
Inside my hands.
And I lay it out
For all to see
On wrists so red
And forearms that bleed.
“Why do you cut, dear?”
“It’s ugly, you know.”
“ugly” is exactly
What this is meant
what a bible is worth in a bible belt towntoday it rained hard enough that the colorsMisfitableGrae
of the street lights leaked out onto the road,
puddles of red pooling on the concrete
like blood getting washed away from
the battlefield. sometimes pain is fleeting.
sometimes it lasts forever. i know first hand that
humans have never done good things
with their hands, we keep our guiltiest sins etched
in the grooves of our palms. there is no absolution
for the calluses on our fingers, no matter how many
times we turn the rosary beads.
i almost crashed the car thinking about the way you were
enjoying the sun at the same time i couldn’t see
anything more than a faint streak of white
in the middle of the road like a chalk outline spanning miles
around some god’s body. you probably talked
poetry about the way the light filtered through the autumn leaves
and into your hair, kissing the skin of your cheeks
like a lover coming home after the war.
i want to come home now.
i want less storms and exit wounds,
more blue sky and sun-freckle
the girl never stops moving,
climbing the tarnished metal
of the jungle gym
wildly, limbs swinging,
with a childhood joy
I shed when I passed
the port of twelve,
she is knotted curls,
long silken hair
with infant-blond ends.
her fingers grab
her doll with the frizzy hair
and painted face,
and she's eager to win
I am old enough
that she will not last this way,
that she will grow,
as all children do.
every time I see her,
she grows a little taller.
she no longer likes Dora,
and I guess she thinks
is too babyish now.
she will abandon her dolls
leave her coloring books
for boyfriends and college and
but right now,
her world is simple:
days in school, coloring pictures,
nights at home,
nibbling dinners and
playing with her toys.
Oi, I'm Peyton and well, I'm just pretty much this kid that's trying to figure out their place in the world. I like a lot of things and won't bore you with that, but if you wanna know just ask.|
I'm not a people-pleaser, and I will not change that for anyone.
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