no one says big mood anymore. no one even says mood. no one says anything. all thats left is a dry wind, that scours my face until i bleed

My sapphic ass just missed the toilet bowl & slipped in the puddle & fractured muy hulking iron body & now im too crying to get up now theres bugs crawling on me everywhere cuz i spilled my slurpy on my shirt 5 days ago & they want the sugars stuck in it wich i dont even blame them for at all

[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over

mutuals come outside and look at the moon with me

obviously i don't think that it's even close to the answer, but when someone is so tormented by guilt that they're like. strike my hand from my wrist. cut out my lying tongue so that it might never give voice to such wicked words again. tear my offending eyes from their sockets and feed them to the dogs. well it does fascinate and compel me.

the idea that you could somehow amputate your guilt; excise it like a tumor, and cauterise it like a wound. of course it's an entirely empty gesture! symbolic self-mutilation will not make any meaningful difference! it won't bring back what was lost! the satisfaction it yields will be hollow and turn to ashes in your mouth! and yet it's hard to deny the alluring simplicity of it. settling your debt with a pound of flesh. wiping the slate clean with a sharp blade.

(lying in the mud in the aftermath of a bloody battle, fevered and delirious in the throes of death) my amazing digital gut wound 😀

& the ravens wheeling on high begin their gentle descent

dark iron mâché puppets invented in the coal mines of Scranton, Pennsylvania

this shit is something to me man. i love you