↳ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧-𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.

DISAPPEARANCE;

there are times when i do not choose healing, no matter how many times i will tell you to choose healing. but i am stubborn. i choose self-destruction instead, hoping that i will learn what it's like to have wounds again, to ache again. and i learn and i learn and i learn again. i destroy myself just to write about my aches so you can learn from my pain but i've torn myself to shreds and still i have nothing to write about. i know that the violence is over now but still i carry it with me. i still wake up to claw marks outside my bedroom door, i still hold the anger in my stomach as i write letters to myself begging me to come home. this ache is a constant reminder and the silence is louder than you'd think//

all these stupid letters telling me to come home. this is the house that built me. and i'm gonna burn it down. this is the river i crawled from and i refuse to drown here. and bless the strippers but fuck the men. and bless the berries but fuck the farm. and bless the daughter but fuck the family. what is a home if not the first place you learn to run from? you've got to bite the hand that starves you, and in doing so praise the place that birthed you. birthed you fucked up, birthed you ugly and interesting and ready to scream --

          //back alley angels, concrete kings

we recycle prayers like plastic bottles and wish the wings would wither off our backs. they ask us if we're holy and we bind our wrists with garbage bags and swear to never speak the blasphemy that bristles on the  edge of our lips. 

darling, we are modern martyrs, purging promises with dime store bourbon and pawn shop cigarettes,  hoping that in the ruin of our bodies we will find something purer than the piety that wrecks our hearts and stains our hands. 

and at night we drink ourselves to pieces; and i can feel a baseline beating in my bones. they ask me if i miss the taste of ichor and i tell them not if i pump my lungs so full of starlight that my tears turn in to rivers and run silver in my veins. 

                 - they call us holy and they leave us hollow 

and this is my final act -- this kind of fading, done in secret with the tail tucked safe between the legs. ghost girl knows how to give up. ghost girl knows how to paint herself into the walls like she was there all along, always watching; wanting; wailing that same old tired song. 

what life becomes in the monochrome, when you had color; when you had marigold and; violet and; gentle bush

but now it's gone and you don't have to act like it doesn't matter. imagine that kind of untruth staring you dead in the mouth with a heart so cold it could keep a body perfect, keep it from becoming as soft as the earth that bore it;