scribbling my heart unto the skin of your eyes

I spin around words and sentences, swim through thoughts and pretenses and under all that muck and streams of plastic consciousness, there is me.

no time for me

she only touches you in the dark

when you can’t see her face,

presses her fingers in the indents in your head,

quiet close


so tender it makes your teeth ache

and you’re too sharp too thin

your voice cracks when she looks away

you don’t know how to breathe without choking on the air in your lungs

she’s broken and you are too and broken and broken doesn’t make a whole but there

are only so many shards on the floor you can step over before they slice open your feet

and you’re slipping, heels skidding over the linoleum, screaming yours yours yours until it feels sincere 

how do you make this weeping wound more an embellishment and less a defining truth  

you take the air out of my lungs

but i want it back babe, i want it back 

Lie down and look up at the ceiling and breathe with those curiously fragile lungs of yours and remind yourself: Don’t worry. Don’t worry. All is as it was meant to be. It was meant to be lonely and terrifying and unfair and heaving. Don’t worry.

—The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home, Night Vale #31.5,”Condos” (via elucipher)

(Source: headofporridge, via theappleppielifestyle)


they cracked your skull open and pressed rivets into the seams, spikes facing inwards clustered tight to the base

but its for your own good!

let’s go back to the stains under  your nails, the smog in your lungs, the stench of your breeding bright red on your skin

but lets

this is for your-

take a breath, this sweet air pumped through for you, oh that cloying touch 

your knees are bruised black but the bone holds true 

you are quiet and you are small and you are pressed down and meek 

you’re too familiar with boot threads on your cheek

if your sternum was any stronger they would have to pry it apart

the world is not a safe place sweetheart

(there are men with baseball bats and nails in your shoes) 

but you dream too much you dream to many and your socks are getting wet 

(if you float any higher the men in masks will come)

you can’t hide forever 

nobody nobody nobody

and you go back to that smoke in your mouth

that wound in your chest

that broken sound she makes between her hair

and you’re helpless, you’re-

there’s this tremor in your bones and the ache that’s breaking through the bottom of your feet

but let’s not 

she says let go and you don’t know how to tell her you don’t know how to do that without a hand in your hair and bruises on your knees

she says leave me alone and you shatter

you wait between the slats, between the wire mesh and hope she doesn’t see you as you’re shaking apart

you love too easily with broken girls that won’t let you in

but let’s go back 

lets go 

she says it’ll be fun and her smile is dripping off her lips and her hands are in yours and you’re flying

she pets your hair and you think safe 

but ships sink into the ocean and spindles break across their spines

and you see the bottom of a glass breaking into 

the tiny little pills exchanging hands

and you’re quiet and you’re sad 

and he’s breaking into static in your head and 

you were not made for the way these people break their heads

(you were made for sharper ways)

of hospital beds and too much sound

and sometimes the cadence of words stick in your head

like a little tic tic tac following the stream of words and syllables and consonants 

sticking like toffee tasting like dirt

and its in your ears its the rhythm of that deep wounded muscle

you have found too many meanings in medical dictionaries 

that sound like you and taste like you 

and you rub the blood of your lips but 

but but 

oh this tiny like clack of metal on the ground

the tremor of your feet as it touches air

you could fold into the ether and no one will pick you up

you can fold into the ground and it wouldn’t make it any less

you are not a teaching hospital, 

the count of your blood and the wrapping of your veins are not maps 

to be pressed and peeled open

you are not fond of being put on display

oh what could be sweeter then the water they feed you 

and still the repeating words pound in your head

louder or softer 

but as imminent as tangible as the rush 

tic tac tic tac 

tic tac

your lungs are too long incubators to words that taste no good

let’s look at that warmthless tide

at that quiet wound that hides under the bandages

its too late now 

the boy under the car has silver eyes

and you shake out the lights in the sky 

that trembling wolf in your chest is starving to death

you have nothing left to feed him

ravens are screeching in the air 

and you hold her small hand in yours 

look mommy, look 

this deep longing, this gentle pull to the center

oh who knows this quiet yearn 

like breathing in a direction distant from you

your head is bobbing in the wind 

the boy with silver eyes is drowning

all you can smell is motor oil

her hair is streaming down to you

you’re on the tips of your toes reaching up

I’m someone who’s mostly dead inside but still has a little hope for something extraordinary, which, as I said, is the worst breed of human, because it means I know everything is bullshit, but that I secretly hope for the day when it might not be.

—Nick Miller (via johnmamaril)

(via completelycumberbatched)