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Greta Apr 26
Would you drink my tears,
If I asked you to?
And maybe get intoxicated by that little
salty taste I somehow still
find a way to get addicted to?
Cause I would,
for you.

I would fill an entire jar of tears,
any size you’d like.
Ask me for a bigger one and
I’d still find another reason to cry.
Could you bottle one for me,
too?
Ida Nov 2021
There has always been a lot of different ways to destroy yourself - there's the devotion to something that is not you, the cutting a piece off yourself and putting it in another person; that person becomes positive one and you are left with a gaping hole that misses itself, misses what is used to be.
And that hole will never fully fill itself again, you see, no matter how much you stuff it with wool and dirt. There will always be this swallowing-everything-you-see-and-then-spitting-it-out hole. And then you think, what if I completely give myself to others? And then there's chunks of yourself on the floor and you're as much human as your kiddy teddy bear that's been lying in the mud your entire life. And then there's a dead man at your feet.
 There's the protective layer - the fake, something that is not you, the stolen artwork that you placed on yourself because you're too ashamed, too scared, to fill the gallery with something that is truly yours. Something that is truly you. You're walking around with a camera in your hand that captures everything at a hands-reach. And then you pretend its your own until you fool yourself enough to finally grab your needles and thread and sew your own initials on the tag.
You can stab yourself well enough that they won't recognize you anymore. Take every sharp thing you see, and then jam it straight into where it hurts. But it hurts everywhere, so you keep stabbing, until people come up to you and feel sorry for you. ‘what happened’ they ask. You never know what to answer. ‘What happens next?’ You're afraid now, you're not yourself. I’m sorry, maybe if I rearrange your mirror you will see yourself again, but my knuckles will have to heal first.
There’s still blood on them.
Ida Apr 2021
There's a devil in the corner of my room who waits until I fall asleep to kiss my cheek and bid me goodnight.
During the day he cannot reach me because he is, as stated previously, a demon, in all its magnificent glory.

But he's not bad, not for me.

I tell him all my secrets, I tell him of all who looked at me with eyes I can't interpret. I'm trying my best here, and I think this four legged creature is the closest I'll come to being loved.
Ida Mar 2021
In one single night I realized the meaning in which I have been dwelling my entire life to find out the answer to
but now I fear that I know too much about what needs to be kept unknown

I've been mumbling the words of one thousand dead relatives every second of my life.
You can't hear me, neither could I until this one particular night.

I found myself on a bike riding south and wondering why I'm here, what made me get here and why am I on a bike and why am I riding south and why am I ten years old I feel like I should be one million

I fell asleep and woke up one year older, then I repeated the process and now the candles can't fit on the cake but my blow gets compared to storms

I can't keep up and on my death bed I will speak the words of Eve

She said, "This life was made for you, are you ready to do it again?"

and I replied, "We are the same, you and I"
fray narte May 2021
my face is an open casket;
hear it recite obituaries and
watch the mourners cheer
and throw wild roses at my feet;
it's where the rot has started spreading —
like whispers. like applause.
rising, until my skin
resembles raw obsidians
until i am no more.

watch me hang from the ropes —
in hypnotic grace, like suspended light
flying, swaying.
a circus freak.
a certain state of decay.
watch me fall: a weightless,
motionless thing in the shadows.

a vigil.

yet the curtains fall
and mourners leave one by one —
their wrists, stamped with lilac ink.

a vigil.
a funeral.

a freak show and
its curtain call.

lay a cloth on this open casket.
i do not want to be seen anymore.
ishq Feb 2021
The angel of death once
eclipsed our goodbye
Embraced you within a golden abyss
marked with our glistening eyes
I’ve pictured this conversation
more times than I testify
Yet a chance of it occurring
leaves me mortified
For there’s a sweet escape
in lingering within stolen time
Before your demise feels real
allows me to bathe in a tempting crime.

Regardless, this hollowed illusion comes to fracture
Present now a past but my life plays backwards
The gravity of reality cascades upon me
Trapped in a realm of denial unable to be set free
Although I am the creator of this melancholic fantasy
The price of release means a lifetime of apathy

Instead, I extend, and live within a conversed eulogy
Attempting final goodbyes laced with ambiguity. - epiphanyofwords
Why should I
Hold on to pains
And failures of the past?
Am I not mama nature's own?
Even trees in the fall
Let go of their leaves
For come spring,
Anew chapter shall begin.
Hymns of chaos are all my vocal chords sang, while the blissful sun approached the morning. All I could feel was ebbing darkness, fading away and carting my hope away with it oh hymns of chaos, sung in sweet harmony ! How your notes blend with the climate of my melancholy!
It's been a while since I visited this app. Alot of activities and happenings prevented this, but I am back! It's nice to be with my colleagues here again.
Megha Thakur Sep 2020
My life train is passing through,
Many stations.
I don't know what exactly but they have some kind,
Of temptation.
May be one of them is,
My destination.
Regarding my feelings I really have,
No explanations.
-Megha Thakur
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