quip fast, die young

bettinarps‌:

Take survival, then take it away. What is left? The aftermath of a war. The landscape is a body of pain. There are ghosts in your walls, tucked into the crook of your neck, passing through your ribcage. Tourists come to wander you, to seat themselves in your destruction, to look around and marvel at what a fight looks like after it’s finished. They touch and they take and they desecrate. They sense your ghosts. They do not stay. This is what the after looks like. A valley of ghosts, scars on the earth, but somewhere, away from prying eyes, in the mountain range of your ribcage, a seedling takes root in the cavern of your heart. The aftermath of a war is a hollow place, and your body is a lonely and exhausted earth, blood-soaked and waiting, but there is a poppy in your chest, stubbornly blooming. Blood is not the best fertiliser for a barren ground, but you make do. You always do.

I am that clumsy human, always loving, loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving.

phortescue‌:

She was a wild, wicked slip of a girl. She burned too brightly for this world.

pezmanips‌: