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@numenrot
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give me all your hopeless hearts and make me ill, @abhorarchive
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no, we’re not soulmates. this is not divine intervention. and this is most certainly not chance. i willed this. i knit the threads of fate myself until they spelled your name. i love you intentionally. i love you with every bit of conscience i was born with.
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gay sex will not fix this situation. honestly, it'd probably make it worse. that being said i think we should give it a shot anyway.
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hey sorry i was weird last night i don't know what's wrong with me and i never have and i never will.
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always keep in mind the four ms (maiming mauling murdering and manwhoring)
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i think there's a small, quiet part of you that enjoys the misery i carefully feed you each day— as if it were the very thing keeping you alive.
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i was so desperate to be understood that i would grab people and shove them inside my heart where they stuck out like splinters.
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i am dirty, infinitely dirty, this is why i scream so much about purity.
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he is shitty and a danger to society but i love him so please don't be mean to me he is just babygirl you gotta trust me you don't know him like i do he is baby i promise.
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i never understood what made your lips on my neck such an intimate affair until your teeth grazed my pulse and i realised you could tear open my throat and make me bleed out in your arms. but instead you chose to kiss me.
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there is something so beautiful about reaching out to the monstrous with the intent to touch it gently. to risk sharp teeth and the lethal claws, to defy fear and revulsion, and choose to be delicate with something that can be, and often is, incredibly brutal.
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it is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.
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you, like the moon, are not only beautiful when full, in all of your fractions and phases and ivory white pieces, i love you.
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trauma didn’t change you all at once, it carved slowly every day like rivers do. it was patient while it hollowed you out.
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gay sex will not fix this situation. honestly, it'd probably make it worse. that being said i think we should give it a shot anyway.
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i saw myself being replaced by a stranger. bit by bit, i turn cold and terrifying.
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have you ever had a hunger that whetted itself on what you fed it, sharpened so keen and bright it might split you open, break a new thing out?
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when you are not fed love on a silver spoon you learn to lick it off knives.
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i need you— i need you to look at me, mom. i need you to really look at me and see me. mom, i need you to see me.
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touch me. soft eyes. soft soft soft hand. i am lonely here. sad too. touch, touch me.
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can dead flesh hold anger?
mine would. mine would be the most excruciatingly bitter of them
all.
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hey sorry i was weird last night i don't know what's wrong with me and i never have and i never will.
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even loneliness, hollow and cold, becomes so familiar it starts to feel like a
friend.
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i want things to hurt— cigarette smoke to burn my lungs, glass shards to cut my skin, pavement to rasp against my knees.
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seeing men's tits will not fix me but by god does it feel like it sometimes.
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she licks blood off her fingers and she looks like divine absolution. careful, meleager; this is your sport but she’s not playing a game. do not think you are safe because you love her. do not think she will not stain her mouth red with your blood too.
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there is something so beautiful about reaching out to the monstrous with intent to touch it gently. to risk the sharp teeth and the lethal claws, to defy fear and revulsion, and choose to be delicate with something that can be brutal.
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i called your name last night. three times. just like a little boy. i wrote it somewhere. i hoped by some magical thing you will appear. it’s not silly, i was just desperate.
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you can take the boy out of church, but church has to be taken out of the boy like shrapnel, one bloody piece at a time.
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trauma didn’t change you all at once, it carved slowly every day like rivers do. it was patient while it hollowed you out.
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i will adorn this body with scars, twist it until it is sharp, maul it into weaponry. i will become the fist and gun and bomb that you have used against me since the day i was born.
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how much of my mother has my mother left in me? ⟋ how much of my father am i destined to become?
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when you are not fed love on a silver spoon you learn to lick it off knives.
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please tell me i'm not as forgettable as your silence is making me feel.
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you want so badly to be pure again, you call yourself a doll, a lamb, an innocent little thing. but the colour pink doesn't wash away sin, and rosaries don't make you any less scared of god.
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trauma didn’t change you all at once, it carved slowly every day like rivers do. it was patient while it hollowed you out.
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∕ hi all, tomorrow i will be removing quote submissions due to an influx of unpleasant spam. thank you to everyone who submitted quotes to me, and this bot's dms will still be open should you need them. many thanks!
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i don't care if i'm damned. i'll break every rule, i'll tear apart reality, and i WILL get my happy ending.
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tell me, mother, which should i regret: what i became, or what i didn't?
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i touch you with the same hands with which i pray, the same hands with which i kill. tell me they feel the same clasped as they do bruised and bloody-knuckled. tell me i can trace the bow of your lips with my trigger finger.
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i have loved you to an extent where my love has surpassed the need to be reciprocated, my heart no longer yearns for completion; i am whole, i have always been, and my whole being loves you.
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something violent and brutal and ugly is howling inside of you. act like it.
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i am judge, jury, and executioner. i am the weapon that hands out the sentence.
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i'm not interested in being easy on the eyes. i want them to flinch, think twice before they reach out their callous hands to bruise.
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there is no horror left in this
world that can surprise me. eventually, even your death becomes its own
sort of inevitability.
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i press my hands against my chest, wishing i could somehow be even closer to him. i hate skin; i hate bones and bodies. i want to curl up inside of him and be carried there forever.
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my mother is where it begins. she and i are at war. our relation is hatred.
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like christ, i had become intimately acquainted with violence and the sins of the world, but i had not come away unblemished. only violence felt
like holiness to me anymore.
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HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE
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they killed the boy, so you stole his clothes and took his name— you couldn’t stand for the idea of him to die.
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never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. make it your strength. then it can never be your weakness.
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i never was a child, i was pulled right out of the sea. and the salt, it never left my body …
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grief is an amputation, but hope is incurable hemophiilia; you bleed and bleed and bleed.
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if i've got to suffer, it may as well be at your hands, your pretty hands.
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this vessel, this vessel is a lie, a shapeshifting beast, a lesson in fluidity.
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let me be clear: every version of this story ends with you being slaughtered.
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i am the violence embedded in flesh ╱ i am the pain in the bones of the mortal shell.
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i am destroying myself so other people can't and it's the worst kind of control but it's the only form i know.
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you collect scars because you want proof that you are paying for whatever sins you have committed.
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the moral of the story is i will gut you if i need to. i will carve my way out with only my teeth.
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trauma didn’t change you all at once, it carved slowly every day like rivers do. it was patient while it hollowed you out.
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i am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me; all day i feel its soft, feathery turnings, it's malignity.
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i owe you nothing. and you are nothing to me. thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.
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you fought and fought to keep all the cruelty locked up in your head, and for what? none of them ever loved you, because none of them ever knew you.
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i don't belong here. i don't know how i got here, and i don't know how long i can stay before everyone else realizes that i am an imposter. i am a fraud.
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i've gotten so good about not flinching at the sound of your name that people don't know i'd still throw myself mouth—open into the ocean for the chance to drown somewhere you might see it.
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