February 2009
102 posts
I have rage issues
Out the ass.
When people mumble something unintelligible and...
(via whatannoysus)
Every day. Every day.
When your stomach is making lots of ridiculously...
(via whatannoysus)
This is my life. Just today, I was sitting in a lecture and my stomach made the most menacing sound I’ve ever heard. I think the guy in front of me thought I growled.
Fire.
You walked through my fire. And you didn’t complain, not even once. Not when your feet became completely engulfed, obsolete. Not when I scorched your hair and singed your clothing, or when my heat made your skin shimmer with sweat, melt. Not when my rage striped you naked, left you exposed and melting. No, you stayed all the way through, until you were reduced to ashes, so small and insignificant...
“A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is...”
– Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (via thresca) (via skysignal) (via sine-qua-non) (via isthisblood)
G.
My sister with her head in the gas oven.
What was going through her head when she died.
What was going through her head when she was alive.
I think the world didn’t make any particular
Impression on her in forty years.
War hunger cold. Two children, her husband,
A drunk. She loves him, though. He lives
Off her back, off the work she performs quietly,
Like a quiet animal. When he leaves...
I can't wait
to get out of school. I need the real world.
“He was different from other kids, Corey knew. He carried his clouds.”
– joe r (Put into proper grammar because I can hardly bare the read his work in it’s original manner)
If you be my star
I’ll be your sky you can hide underneath me and come out at night when I turn jet black and you show off your light I live to let you shine I live to let you shine but you can skyrocket away from me and never come back if you find another galaxy far from here with more room to fly just leave me your stardust to remember you by if you be my boat I’ll be your sea a depth of pure blue...
I've recognized today
That my Mother isn’t going to let me live. Ever since I was three she’s been prepping me for this eating disorder. I am her life’s work. Killing me is what she set out to do.
Portioning, restricting, skipping meals, counting calories at three, four, five.
Weight Watchers at eight, nine, ten.
Twelve, Thirteen, anorexia. Locking me in the basement until I ran one mile. Two...
