(ᐡ ๑´• ﻌ •`๑ᐡ) <( Thoughts? )
Anger rant because I can't keep this shit in my own head fuck this shit fr
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There is a pressure inside me that never truly sleeps.
Something rancid and furious, trapped beneath the bone of my skull—scratching, gnawing, testing the walls as though my head were only a coffin it has not yet finished clawing its way out of.
And like so many things within me, I keep it there.
Locked in my own grip. In my control. Held tight behind my teeth.
And so it begins to spreads.
It begins in my head, somewhere in the dark space behind my teeth where words decay before they are ever spoken. It seeps into my ears and clogs them thick, until every gentle word reaches me muffled and wrong, as though kindness itself were drowning.
Then it drips down my throat.
There it festers.
It tightens until breathing becomes a violent labor—until every inhale feels stolen and every word must drag itself upward through something swollen and rotting.
From there it spills into my chest.
It spreads through me like a slow infection, crawling along nerves and sinew, winding itself deep into the soft pit of my stomach where it twists and knots and pulls tighter with every passing moment.
It runs down my arms.
Into my hands.
Hands that curl and clench and strike and scrape at the world—at walls, at skin, at anything within reach—until even my own flesh burns beneath them.
My bones feel wrong.
Too brittle. Too hollow. Like charcoal rods pressed beneath unbearable weight.
Carbon waiting for the right pressure to shatter.
And somewhere inside me there is a treacherous hunger that wants them to. Wants to hear the crack.
Wants to feel the pillars of my own body split and collapse—to watch the scaffolding beneath my skin give way, to see my foundation crumble inward like a building that was never meant to stand.
It changes everything.
The way I breathe—ragged, sharp, forced through my lungs like broken glass.
The way I think.
The way my stomach turns when strangers exist too close to me.
The way my blood begins to simmer when even the few people I love do something I cannot justify, cannot forgive, cannot endure.
It stains the way I move through the world.
As if destruction were the only language my body remembers.
Because it is everywhere in me.
In my muscles.
In my blood.
In my head.
In my heart.
In whatever might pass for my soul.
As though rage were never something I learned.
Not something that grew.
But something older than that.
Something poured into the mold that shaped me—thick and boiling—long before there was ever a plan for me to exist at all.
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getting second hand embarrassment from my blog formal but who gives a damn bro,, no-one reads this shit anyway so Im good LOLOLOL (ill actually crash the fuck out.)
