a-fruit-that-is-missing-all-the-fruit and instead is just the pit

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

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HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I WOKE UP EARLY ENOUGH, I MADE MYSELF TOAST, I CUT A TOMATO INTO NICE THIN SLICES, I GROUND PEPPER, I TALKED WITH MY MOM, I PUT TOO MUCH SUGAR IN MY COFFEE, I READ ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE DEPEND ADULT UNDERGARMENT, I WASHED MY HAIR, I MASTURBATED, I CAME, I PUT ON A CLEAN PAIR OF SOCKS, I TIED SHOE LACES, I STARTED A NEW JOB, I SCRUBBED THE UNDERSIDE OF A TOILET, I COMPARTMENTALIZED STRANDS OF HAIR, I MADE SIX DIFFERENT BEDS, I THOUGHT ABOUT YOU, I ATE A PERFECTLY RIPE NECTARINE, I DECIDED YOU ARE PART OF THE HUMAN CONDITION (TRAGIC AND TIMELESS), I SWEAT THROUGH ALL OF MY CLOTHING, I WASHED MY HANDS (I NEVER FUCKING WASH MY HANDS), I MADE MY BROTHER LAUGH, I WON AT CHESS (CLOSE GAME), I LOST AT BASKETBALL (LESS-CLOSE GAME), I POURED A GLASS OF MILK, I DRANK A GLASS OF MILK, I DRANK A GLASS OF WINE, I PACKED AWAY BOOKS, I ROLLED GLASS JARS IN PAPER TOWEL, I STACKED BOXES, I RAN OUT OF TAPE, I SHORTENED ‘FRAGILE’ TO ‘F’, I CREATED MY OWN LANGUAGE, I LAUGHED OUT LOUD AT A PICTURE OF ME AND JOHN, I FOLDED MY FAVORITE SWEATER, I DRANK ANOTHER GLASS OF WINE, I MASTURBATED (AGAIN), I WASHED MY FACE, I BRUSHED MY TEETH (I NEVER FUCKING BRUSH MY TEETH), I WROTE THIS.

IT’S STILL NOT ENOUGH.

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Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer, and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe.
― Andrea Gibson, Bone Burying (via feellng)
3,381 notes
fucking-weedy-fuck dandelions

How is it to be home?

… it’s like being surgically transplanted into a 

jello-cake

not even flavored strawberry:

anxiously cemented in the center where the only possible (and not necessarily probable) escape is to eat your way out \ compliment the stasis by staining yellow teeth purple to a point of recognition for both yourself and the trained-but-somewhat-worn eyes of your mother and everyone-ever \ filling but not quite saturating all sorts of hunger:

pink sunlight reflecting through opaque hands,

a fantastical cat playing the violin,

climaxing alone:

the garden of earthly delights.

 

Everything tastes violent red:

Your suspectedfucking darlings

sip on my spinal fluid 

from a sweating martini glass,

only to drool out all sensational transaction

(whether it be through eye lids, hips,

engorged finger tips yadda-yadda-yadda

is mostly irrelevant).

 

It’s like being the egg when everyone thinks IT’s the chicken, but at least you are warm in yourself and the sac of nutritional fluid that will inevitably result in greener vegetables and uncharacteristically strong fingernails that never seem to break despite how feverishly you hack away at them, growing longer and whiter by the minute, until they eventually weight down already heavy hands, possibly even end up digging through the soil, leaving trenches where fucking-weedy-fuck dandelions will grow and maybe even sort of look beautiful in a yellowish type way, like being awake at 5:30 in an October morning on an uncharacteristically hot day.

For ONCE it feels good to sweat.

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lostboys14:

"What can you do when you’re not getting sober?
It’s hard to admit but you’re always feeling alone.
A few miles down as the streets count backwards, I realize it’s true.
Everything reminds me of you.”

3,152 notes

ratparty666:

Radiator Hospital // Leather & Lace

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"hahaha I forgot you were home"

I’ve gotten into the habit of

picking beauty marks out of my skin;

digging with drain-spade-fingernails

(very narrow shovels with slightly curved sides and

a rounded tip, which makes them

ideal for precise spot work:

adding flowers to established beds,

clearing existing trenches,

transplanting small shrubs)

until there’s nothing left but a small

circle of blood

that I get to lap up with my

normal tongue.

I lie in bed

(supine)

streching my left arm out

until it faces the edge

and rest of it all \

looking young and beautiful and

tight

enough to engage

my right hand

down its spine.

All ten fingers marry

into a multitude of x’s 

clung to each other like velcro

(sound and all).

I sleep with scabbed worm holes

imbedding my skin,

vacuum-sucking myself

(deeper)

into a celestial body of

too much wine

and crippling-self-doubt

to be productive;

ok with the *expansive*

and the music

(Radiator Hospital)

sounds in the background. 

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Another Story About the Ocean

I am learning to jump through time and space by
the necessity of
touching you
(whether it be to feed you tomatoes,
cool you down,
or make you cum
is yet-to-be determined).

I am lying on the beach and watching a little boy,
no older than five,
dig through the sand.
He is
digging and digging and digging
with a shovel as blue as the ocean
if he were to color it in.
He didn’t dig to China, but he dug
deep enough
to dig into a large rock,
especially in comparison to his impressionable head.
Through the minutes of his small, prying hands,
his fingers slipped between the bottom of the rock and
the much smaller rocks that held it in place
when eventually I and everyone around me
(whether they were watching the little boy or not)
knew the only outcome to the story:
The little boy
with his
not-so-little rock
walks up to some innocent beach-goer and
SMASH SMASH SMASHES
his head in,
repeatedly repeatedly repeatedly,
until the innocent beach-goer is
lying in the sand,
swimming in his own blood.

I’m not really sure the slaughter was a decision
in-and-of-itself
as much as it was simply the influence
of heat.

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