"talktomepleaseomg"
19 - Midwestern - Broke
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— 2 Comments— 1 KudosPinned
Category: Quiz/Survey
Basics age: 19 b-day: February 25 birthplace: Florida current location: Indiana eyecolor: brown hair color: brown boyfriend/girlfriend: single, looking siblings: none Parents still married?: never got married Occupation: caregiver Do you like your job?: its a job Who did you last speak with on the phone?: a friend What do you currently smell like?: ci » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I have killed in His name, cut down men with shaking hands and steady aim, watched their blood stain the dirt and called it righteous. I have whispered prayers through cracked lips, begged for mercy in the same breath I used to curse my enemy, wiped my blade clean and asked Him to forgive me. Does He? Does He look down at me, this ragged thing, this dog of war, » Continue Reading
— 2 Kudos
Category: Writing and Poetry
War touches me like a lover, bloody-fingered and breathless, pressing into every soft part of me until I am nothing but bone and gunmetal. She whispers in my ear at night, » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
Love is a mouth with too many teeth, a hungry thing, gnawing, gnashing, biting down to the marrow and calling it devotion. Love is a carcass dressed in silk, a rotting thing made pretty, syrup-sweet words dripping from lips that bruise when they kiss. "I love you," you tell me, and it feels like the snap of a bear trap, like rusted nails d » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I thought I’d drown in guilt, choke on the weight of what I’d done— but murder only matters when the body belonged to a man. And he was not a man. Men are made of soft hands and warm hearts, of gentle words that do not cut like rusted teeth. Men do not take with clawed fingers and hungry breath, do not tear skin like wolves r » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I. (The One Who Strikes) My hands were not always weapons. Once, they built, they held, they traced soft lines down the curve of a cheek, the slope of a spine. Now, they leave bruises where warmth used to be. » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
You’ve been spilling for some time now. Not all at once—no grand, tragic flood. Just a slow and bitter leak, seeping from places you stopped checking. It pools in your footsteps, sinks into the floorboards, » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
Beneath a bloodâred, whispering sky, A soldier treads through cursed fields of night, Armor etched with scars of bygone honor, Haunted echoes trailing each faltering step. His eyes, twin voids of fractured dreams, Reflect t » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
What is my place in this? What do I get to claim? Do I get to call it abuse if you call it love? Do I get to hate him if you keep choosing him? Am I still your friend if I can’t smile when you say his name, » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I see the bruises you pretend aren’t there, yellow blooming over purple, like dying flowers across your skin. I hear the way your voice folds in on itself when you say his name— small, careful, a thing too fragile to break. » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
The hunger came like a sickness, a gnawing thing with teeth of its own, twisting, clawing, whispering: Eat, or be eaten. We held out for days. We » Continue Reading
Category: Writing and Poetry
I wear each day like a tattered shroud, my life unraveling in slow, relentless decay— a ceaseless ache, a fading color in a world once vibrant but now marred by pain. Yet you linger near, clinging to the ghost of what we once » Continue Reading
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