#lyriumwclf

my precious drunk aunt.

[ I AM VODKA AUNT ]

lyriumwclf replied to your post:

cute as HELL

[ cutest demonic entity ever (/)w(\) ]

nxrestfxrthewicked replied to your post:

MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE

And wasn’t the drunkest mania we’d ever caught            like a bad crush on merlot: days wrapped in wash-dulled sheets, no matter

           the hundred miles between our cities, their factories like monuments to folly,            producing only smoke.

It didn’t matter that you wanted us to fight in bed,            urging ourselves beyond temporary wounds and into permanence; that I was

           unable to admit reluctance for the mornings I couldn’t raise my left arm            without wincing,

the memory of your teeth a ring around my clavicle,            a familiar pattern surfacing. And weren’t our complicities like a remedy

           for love, absolution from the butcher’s work those memories would exact? Our bodies            weren’t built to last.

The elaborate mythologies we’d bury in each other            wouldn’t stay put, rising as bruises, as ravenous ghosts, as inadequate courtesies.

it’s 2am, and you’re loitering in some long forgotten park. there’s a boy to your left, and another to your right. you’ve kissed them both as your best friend watches on: giggling at their contorted faces. she asks you what it’s like, so you kiss her too. you think you love her: maybe she loves you back.

dear bird boned boy,

you count the days. exactly 142 days before all you’ve known is left behind. you count the hours. minutes. seconds. and they vanish amidst the fog. the air is heavier in the dark, and you look back to see a feathered trail. dear bird boned boy, son of icarus: whatever will you do when your wings disappear?

dear boy with blood in his mouth,

you’re not sure if it’s yours or their’s. it’s under your nails and soaking through the fibers of your clothes. but you run and run until they’re gone, and you think that you should run until you are gone as well. but something pulls you back, and you’re not sure what it is. maybe it’s the iron on your tongue, or the wine dripping for your chin. maybe it’s teeth at your throat.

dear boy aged beyond his years,

no one questions the furrow of your brow, or the quiet voice that cannot escape. there’s a nag in the back of your mind, pulling you toward the faceless strangers spewing ridicule. so you sit in the bleachers alone with your head in your hands, believing that there is something wrong with you. but it is only them.

dear stumbling fumbling boy,

they ask you where your mother is, and you tell them you don’t know with a coy grin painted on your lips and a sparkle in your eye. but you know. she hates you but you love her, even if she is the reason your knobby knuckles pop and crack. she’s lost to you, so you find love elsewhere in the beds of strangers and dusty, dinky motels: thinking neon can hid your lies. you wake up alone and realize it can’t.

dear girl with ash in your lungs,

If you want to RP with me, send me a ✿. If you want to plot with me, send me a ✯. If you’re just following just to stalk me, send me a ♡ ;;

3 - 5 infinite sentence meme—sexual sunday edition.

30. Whatever tickles ur pickle

ｓend a ★ if you think I accurately portray my muse.