Fire At Her Heels
23.. Native desert creature (we all have some kind of thorns here). Mother, art-doer, creep. I occasionally post my writing and decrepid thoughts.
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I love my body. I haven’t always felt this way. It is empowering, it makes me feel so much happier than I have. There are days where I still have issues, but they are fewer and more spread out.

Was considering posting a nsfw picture, I could care less if I lose followers, but I am debating whether or not I want to scar people. 

Stripped.

A simple force of motion,
Bending hinges, entering a gnarled vision;
A grim voice that beckons to you—
The immeasurable future.

We pass from room to room in the dark
Never with endings or beginnings,
Limited within our sights. We are
Horrible creatures, always running

Leaving pieces of ourselves behind.
When the doors click and lock,
What happens in the dark?

Where your eyes cannot see—
Straining to construct images
Of the sounds around them,
Even when there is no sound at all.

In the sum of these moments,
We are stripped.
Our facades sit around us in shavings,
Peeled off, for any eyes to see, 

For No One at all.
What remains is a collection of a life,
Objects irremovable
Or silently missing.

Moments staining the walls,
Occupied by the presence of every feeling that lingers
This is the last place to show. 
Where we hide irrevocably,
As the foundation burns. 


"What’s the matter with you lately?"

(Source: Spotify)

hell-in-her-eyes:

Everything is impermanent.
Except death. 
Each time it comes as a puncture.

You can hear the air rushing out of you,
Frigid emptiness whirling inside.
A chill that never leaves you—

Only being stifled from time to time,
Returning with resplendent force,
It is you in a crowded room buzzing

Every person is busy and blurred,
All the unhealthy food and condolences,
Mouths reiterating false comfort

Muted against the silent cold. 






Everything is impermanent.
Except death. 
Each time it comes as a puncture.

You can hear the air rushing out of you,
Frigid emptiness whirling inside.
A chill that never leaves you—

Only being stifled from time to time,
Returning with resplendent force,
It is you in a crowded room buzzing

Every person is busy and blurred,
All the unhealthy food and condolences,
Mouths reiterating false comfort

Muted against the silent cold. 






marleens-diary:

"I want to be with you,
it is as simple,
and as complicated as that.”
- Charles Bukowski

(via andrugs)

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