soaracrossthestars

8:40 am breathe open your eyes and close them back 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 they are not shut enough rip off your eyelids twitch the miniscule opening from my eyelids letting in light open and close them until it feels right until my eyes are strained or else i will lose my vision, or die 8:43 am it is an odd interval have to wait until 8:45 fuck, missed it, it is 8:46 cannot get up until 9 number isn't right twitch 9:00 am get out of bed to use the restroom strain bladder must be fully empty wipe, wipe 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 count to 12 and count back twitch get dressed take off my clothes, get dressed again sweat dripping down my forehead seams do not

prologue. four is considered unlucky in chinese proverb in the way it is homophonous to death a number never written nor mentioned around the sick, the diseased, or the elderly in fear of summoning death's persona but the number four only gave me life. i. mossy eyes and long, tawny and blonde hair split down the middle extending to her spine which curves almost as gentle as her words; always tender and nurturing. skin creamy like french vanilla cocoa wrapping me up in a blanket of warmth and rosy, plump lips that i wished would rest upon my skin. we were young, living our days in pits of depression instead of roaming the woods like the oth

slit my windpipe and splatter carmine blood upon the blank canvas, call it "blood of the succubus". take the words that spill from the bleeding gash and scrawl them onto parchment, call it "words of a fiend". rip out the cervical vertebrae and carve my tale from  broken bone, call it "the lost soul". skin my flesh from my throat and sew together a warm winter coat, call it "hell's warmth". rip off my appendages and tear me apart like a savage, call me "the demon".

a is for how artificial your honeyed words are as you stand with a sword held in your claws beneath you. a is for every abhorrent word that drips from your scale-ridden tongue and the smoke that trails behind in the form of deceitful lies. a is for the aggression you hold that beats against your rib cage like a prison cell under your facade of innocence. a is for the way you antagonize others, subjecting them to false crucifixions so that you can cope with your own sins. a is for your arrogance in how you take words and turn them into pretentious puzzle pieces, priding yourself as you hoard your treasures. a is for the adolescent way in which

we start out with 300 bones in our body and that deteriorates into 206 bones by adulthood maybe that’s why i feel like i’ve been losing myself lately.

people say that it isn’t real love if you still get the feeling of butterflies in your stomach when you look at them but every time i look into your eyes, i feel the caterpillars crawling down my throat, and when i lay awake at night the thought of you finally defeats my insomnia and those caterpillars settle into their cocoons only to burst open when in the morning when you’re the first thing on my mind it is an endless cycle of metamorphosis. people say that when you don’t love someone anymore, you run out of things to talk about at 3 in the morning while you lay in bed and your love dies in silence. but i could la

when you move your fingers, (whether they are slender and emaciated, small like an infant, or chiseled and riddled with scars) the tendons in your wrist are working, pulling. and for each finger, another tendon is pulled. when you play piano, (whether the grand piano which belongs to Beethoven, the old, dusty piano belonging to your grandmother, or one in bright neon colors that you owned as a child) the strings in the piano are working, pulling. and for each key, another string is pulled. and darling, i hope you never again have the urge to tear your strings. i hope your soul never stops playing.

if you are reading this, i am okay. but i was in a dark place before. i tore open my skin every night, because maybe that’s where I could find my beauty. maybe my beauty was flowing through my veins, maybe my beauty was in the box cutters stowed away in keepsake boxes on my dresser, or in the blood that stained the floor when I bled faster than I could clean (as if I needed more of a mess in my life) i pulled my hair out every night, because maybe that’s where I could find my worth. maybe my worth was in the clumped hair in my fists, maybe my worth was in the skin I picked when there was no hair left to pull, or maybe it was i

perhaps you sat and watched me in moments of boredom, to bring you some sense of entertainment into your mundane life or curled back against your chair with a bag of chips, the remote in your hand clicking rapidly, trying to ease your mind you looked into me and saw my moments of hilarity, my sorrows, my happiness, my trials, my anger but i saw yours, too. i watched the first time you argued with your mother when you come home a few minutes too late because you were out with your friends, living for what felt like the first time i watched the first time your father hit you and knocked you to the floor, and you were scared to get back up aga