i'm no hero.

and you underestimated me. your mistake.

Ghosts talking to us all the time — but we think their voices are our own thoughts.

Trusting is hard. Knowing who to trust, even harder.

somethingaboutblacktop :

you fear that love will do what it always does turn you into rain

The first time he calls you holy, you laugh it back so hard your sides hurt. The second time, you moan gospel around his fingers between your teeth. He has always surprised you into surprising yourself. Because he’s an angel hiding his halo behind his back and nothing has ever felt so filthy as plucking the wings from his shoulders— undressing his softness one feather at a time. God, if you’re out there, if you’re listening, he fucks like a seraphim, and there’s no part of scripture that ever prepared you for his hands. Hands that map a communion in the cradle of your hips. Hands that kiss hymns up your sides. He confesses how long he’s looked for a place to worship and,oh, you put him on his knees. When he sinks to the floor and moans like he can’t help himself, you wonder if the other angels fell so sweet. He says his prayers between your thighs and you dig your heels into the base of his spine until he blushes the color of your filthy tongue. You will ruin him and he will thank you; he will say please. No damnation ever looked as cozy as this, but you fit over his hips like they were made for you.You fit, you fit, you fit. On top of him, you are an ancient god that only he remembers and he offers up his skin. And you take it. Who knew sacrifice was so profane? And once you’ve taught him how to hold your throat in one hand and your heart in the other, you will have forgotten every other word, except his name.

Every angel is terrifying. And yet, alas, I sing to you, almost fatal birds of the soul, knowing what you are.

they made you into a weapon and told you to find peace

ＹＯＵ  ＨＡＶＥ  ＮＯ  ＩＤＥＡ  ＷＨＡＴ  

and you underestimated me. your mistake.

I know. I’m very hard to talk to. I realize that.