i intended to actually post these like three days ago but that didn't happen because it has to be super fucking late for me to even want to post these and unfortunately they've now aged sufficiently that i categorize them firmly in the "intensely mediocre" column with everything i ever do. unfortunate, tbh. anyways here's stuff:

bűnös

UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
or i'll shatter your bones
and crush your heart—
to dance with me is to dance
a fine line that wrenches two worlds apart

for on one side there is a hall of saints—
on the other
the brimstone of hell—
and to stay on the side of the hall of saints
is something you'd best do well.

and brave souls that dare toe the line—
that cross it
are mighty thin—
and their ranks are made of anarchists
who commit most grievous sin.

UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
state your allegiance
to the vaunted line—
or soon you too shall join the ranks
of those who deserve malign.

fáj

when i was seventeen
the panic attacks began.
the nightmares.
the violence. the violence. the violence.

violence is a funny little thing—
insidious, slithering in through one grate
and out the other.
it always begins with little things,
little fantasies in one ear and out the other.
dreams here and there, manufacturing terror and hurt.
invasive thoughts, marching to an intensifying drumbeat.
one offs.

it's not normal to
want to hurt so bad.
it's not normal to
want to cut yourself everywhere,
is it?
to feel those feelings,
to bear them like a cross shackled on your back?
to wish some days you could cut to the bone
even though you're afraid of blood?
to mutilate yourself until you can't feel anymore
even though you know those feelings are irrational?
to wish you could die violently, publicly
even though you're afraid of death?

violence isn't a very funny little thing—
terrifying, inescapable and ever recurring
one night after the other.
it was the little things once,
the little fantasies that used to be but now
consume the dreams, the
waking thoughts, becoming a great crescendo.
every day.

when i was nineteen
the panic attacks were normal.
the nightmares.
the violence.

In the shadows

Like a ghost you hide

In the single most foreign

Corners of my mind

Therapy and pills still

Can’t subside the angelic choir

Of your pretty lies

Promises you made,

The bones I broke

You once took my breath

And now I choke

Jesus let me breathe

Is there hope for me?

.

Now I desire

The obscure

All that reminds

Of being yours

Your oils, poison

My waters, pure

Your love is cancer

There is no cure.

.

I watched my grandfather take his final breaths as he kissed my head and you held my hand. Not two months later you foresaw our end, and decided not to keep me, even as a friend.

And now you’re off, marriage in the plans. I pray your time falls like the sand and hits the bottom of every glass as fast as it can.

I have no home. I’m lost and cold. You promised me a home would grow. We got a dog, and had planned for more. Mouth of this world, a fish at shore you took my breath and killed me slow.

I’m suicidal, I have no hope. I’ve not a gun, don’t have a rope. The only reason I’ve not a note, I’d end it all, I’d end it all.

---

I just want to feel pretty.

Pretty loved and pretty free

But for now I keep to getting

Pretty drunk, it isn’t cheap

But I can afford it/‘s kinda sweet

Too bad you’re not round

To drink with me.

I’d fill the bottle

We’d watch the office

Instead I scar

Until I am solid

An ugly rock

A useless object

I’ll break my stones

And build a coffin

And die in your name

Die in your name.

tw: self-harm; suicide; lost love.

i hit my cigarette

like an abuser hits her wife

because i'm a fucking coward

to afraid to take his life

i've felt love before

i beg it through the strife

but i only find a heart

at the wrong side of a blunt and useless knife

.

and it's only mine

at least there's proof

that i can feel

when blood protrudes.

but that's not "work appropriate"

so i get tattoos

what a shame i can't get paid to die.

I was thinking about posting this to ~news, but suddenly I've realised that I don't know if the word “fuck”, or any of the Seven Dirty Words, are allowed in titles. Is Tildes adults-only? Should people write something like “f***” in titles instead?

God

put me at ease

deliver me to peace.

if you're above

deliver me to love.

there's not a sign

you're months without a call.

i begin to think

you never cared at all.

in winter breezes

hang me from the trees.

god i'm sick of

never feeling enough.

make me crease and

break me at my knees.

tarot prophet guide me

with your crystal ball.

.

read the names i've

written in my skin.

banish me to walk

alone in cold.

hit my face and tell me

this is it.

kill me, say you

never cared at all

.

screaming in your car

you said you'd call the cops

if i don't take my seatbelt off

on our way home and walk.

.

screaming in our home

you'd always slam the doors

and leave the silence ringing

in the halls

.

alone in dark i wailed

you didn't care.

as you sat there on your phone

and talked and talked.

.

always acting like

i wasn't there.

even asked me to pretend

that we were not.

.

remember back in college

when you made some friends

and tried to make me hide,

not show me off?

.

tried to tell them

i was just a friend.

and when i protested

god you told me off.

.

but when i made you mad

how mad you went.

and appeared inside my room

without consent.

.

i walked in and found you there

sat at my desk.

it should've ended there

but i regressed.

.

i said we would grow past it

never did.

always made me second guess

the life i live.

.

it's not my fault

that you stayed home alone.

why do i slash and cry and pray

that you'll pick up the phone.

.

tell me why i love you

when it's wrong.

.

.

.

tell me why i want you

when you're gone.

.

.

.

i want you to ignore me,

miss my calls.

.

.

.

if at least you'll speak

to me at all.

fuck you.

i'm sorry.

i love you.

fuck you.

fuck you too.