shitbag tumblr barista

red at your mouth, uneven and blurred

tasting of wine and stinging like salt

you touch it again, pretend that it burns

when really, that’s what you’ve always craved most.

he tastes like marlboros

sweet on chapped lips, soft-filtered at first

a sting you’ve almost mistaken for comfort

until you’ve held it in for too long.

ash settles in spaces you leave

between sentences you hate to complete

it clings to your collar, your teeth, to your sleeves

when you heave for your breath just to make him catch his.

you brush it away like it’s nothing at all

like it’s soot that won’t rearrange you

but it gathers in layers too constant to call

until there’s no version of him that can save you.

black / red / white, you reduce it to that

like a palette makes damage look cleaner

if it fits in a frame, if it’s sharp, if it’s flat

it feels almost safe to go meaner.

you stand in the mirror and study the lines

tilt your head like it’s lighting, not your own doing

trace over places you’ve carved out with time

just to relish your latest undoing.

you don’t call it damage, it’s discipline now

something pure in the way that it aches

if it sharpens your edges, it must show you how

to become something worth of possessing.

outside, it is white - far too quiet, untouched

so you ruin it just for the contrast

and the red spills too quick, and it always feels like

wearing black is the only conclusion.

he laughs like his lungs never learned how to fail

like the burn isn’t slowly increasing

like the sweetness won’t turn into something more stale

with a grip that forgets how to loosen.

you don’t fall apart, you refine it instead

make it softer, controlled, almost pretty

black on your nails, white knuckles gone red

in a ritual stripped down to pity.

and it turns, but not fast, just enough to be felt

just enough that you notice the shift

when the sweetness is gone and there’s nothing else left

but the weight of a permanent drift.

still you chase how it started, that first fragile taste

when it felt like a choice you were making

now it’s pattern, it’s muscle, it’s second to waste

every part of yourself that’s now aching.

burn it down to the filter, he says like a prayer

like stopping was never the question

black in your lungs, red that shouldn’t be there

white noise as the hardest concession.

repeat it again till the black dulls to grey

till the red’s dried down into something much darker

till the white is nothing the wiser

and the colors all bleed into nothing.

and you still call it beautiful, still choose to stay

when your lungs hold the weight of his ways

like loving him meant you were meant to decay

just gonna leave this here cause it explains my mental state PERFECTLY rn.

the mirror splits open, it shows me in thirds

one laughing, one bleeding, one gone.

they mouth my name without speaking the words

their silence keeps dragging me on.

the ceiling drips numbers, they crawl on my skin

each digit devours my breath.

i try to fight back, but the digits sink in;

a tally that ticks me to death.

the window is bleeding with faces i know,

they whisper my failures in rhyme.

their laughter is louder the longer i go,

it drowns out the passage of time.

a woman appears with her hair made of ash,

her voice is a violent flame.

she hums out a hymn, then she tears me in half;

then she stitches the seams with my shame.

i walk through a door that dissolves into two,

one silver, the other of smoke.

i follow the figure that looks just like you,

but your skin is charred to a choke.

the corridor bends into organs and wires,

a tunnel of teeth on the floor.

each step that i take fans invisible fires,

each fire consumes me to core.

the staircase bends backward, it laughs when i fall,

its steps are the spawn of regret.

i write out my name on the cracks of the wall

then weep when my ink won’t cement.

soon comes the dawn, though the dawn feels diseased,

its light is a fever, not rest.

i open my veins to be finally released,

but the veins only offer me jest.

the sun is a record that skips when it plays,

a circle that scratches my sight.

i drown in its needle for a hundred of days,

still trapped in the loop of “good night.”

and the hallway returns, with its hollow hands,

they beckon me back to before.

the child in the corner keeps counting the sand,

everything hurts

but not loud enough to scream it out.

just static pain, just background rots

like mold in the drywall,

spreading behind the smile i staple on.

i don’t want to be clean

i don’t want to be dirty

i want to be nothing.

i want to unzip this skin like a costume

step out of the meat

and leave it twitching on the bathroom tile.

i am a passenger

in a wreck with no driver.

i am a scream

buried in six feet of “you’re so strong.”

i am the ghost

haunting my own time.

don’t tell me it gets better.

don’t hand me fucking sunlight

like i don’t burn on contact.

just let me lie here

cold and useless

and not be

so i knelt with the damned;

i’ve always been vain.

we wished collapse on the stars

before weeping the dead.

i carry this thing in my chest:

a crow’s egg.

it hums. it leaks.

it’s been nested in me

since the first time i blinked.

it knows the shape of my greed

more than my mother did.

it swells when i lie.

it scratches my ribs.

it mutters my name

in a tongue known to flies.

i choke on its preachings,

i swallow its wings.

it teaches me sorrow

is older than dreams.

i drag the girl’s shadow

like a shroud through my ribs.

its threads catch on organs,

its edges shred lips.

its eyes bloom black flowers

that smother my screams.

i cough up her feathers

like prayers gone sour;

they fall in my palms

and rot by witch hour.

each time i reach to be her

she flinches like prey.

she cracks at my touch;

fills my nostrils with ash.

my skin curls like paper

over blackened bone char.

happiness brushes by

like a cloth pressed to my face

and then it jerks away.

it drips through my hair

like blood down the cradle.

i plead with the air

i claw at the shadows.

my hands stay barren

my eyes run vacant.

no one can bear

the decay’s only daughter.

they breathe in the filth

before doors can slam closed.

they leave me their names on my teeth;

their relics haunt me like riches

stuffed down a dead man’s throat.

i wanted to bloom,

but my petals were knives.

i wanted to sing,

but my throat held a hive.

i wanted to love,

but my touch made them rot.

i wanted to be

but i always was not.

i dream of her still

the one i longed to be:

running barefoot

through fever-sick wheat.

untouched, untouchable,

uncaring of the blood i have spilt.

her hands carry happiness

never grazing my skin.

she wakes from her slumber

it pulls at the stitches.

it whispers in drains.

it climbs in my mouth

and chews on my shame.

unlove is early. unlove is late.

it shows up drunk. it eats my plate.

it takes my name, my teeth, my sleep

then weeps, then laughs, then calls it deep.

unlove is the bruise that talks in my ear:

it says, “that’s what you are.”

repeats, “that’s what you get.”

it doesn’t shout. it does not hunt.

it feeds like a vulture.

it knows how to wait.

i thought it would leave

but it dug a bed in my chest.

now it fucks me to sleep

and sneers when i bleed.

unlove has hands

they feel like mine.

they crawl down my throat

they rattle my spine.

unlove isn’t gone.

it only goes quiet.

like a lump. like a boil.

these wrist-white scars replaced my love

smoldered out my hope for decent life;

they’re clean and rough

i’ve never meant to be that tough.

my brain is wired to hate my skin

i’ve marked the parts of every limb.

i fake a breath, a laugh, a name

and wear my silence like a frame.

i’ve scrubbed myself down to a ghost

still ended up the thing i loathe most.

no sugar, no talk, no social disguise

a carcass draped in oversized lies.

to keep this stomach cold and bare

i starve, then eat, then hate, then swear.

for every year i’ve breathed and tried

i’ve lived inside what should have died.

my skin sags down like rotting fruit

my legs betray, my arms don’t suit.

a landfill stitched into a shape

of someone built just to be raped.