vintage melancholy

V. the apogee of mutilated mouths

that torn thread of trust lurks behind the door,
scratches the soft spots of rotten tree as harpy itself beats out the window, howling like those who once stood at the edge of happy images. looking down into the depths of numbness and "there's no point in trying" sickening images.

you told me once you've been chased by those creatures and how you were afraid of your own reflections. i now hide every mirror with blankets made of agony — i don't mind getting hurt for you to be happy.

you told me things that are worth to be written. to be remembered. to be engraved in the dusty edges of emptiness that is my body. i felt warmth, and your eyes made it obvious — gede...

maybe the birds never started singing but I heard cold whispering in my head telling me to trust you, embracing the scars i call wicked constellations — for the sake of poetry because i sound so deep it actually ridiculous. i'm stupid. and, on the first days of melting spring, maybe the sunsets weren't worth watching for you being the only light putting mine into a flutter and panic.

you seem nothing but tired and i truly wonder how much can you take. i'm feeling the pulse of indecisiveness from your side yet you grab my hands when we walk into here  just for everyone to see us. i laugh it off, i roll my eyes, i try to withstand— you are getting too close without thinking twice. oh, gede, you don't want to cross this territory.

leaves of unsaid sweet nothings fell off and covered the whole earth with branchy stems as I opened that rib cage, unleashing hecatoncheires, the visage of lethal earthquakes and floods. them grabbing you by the throat with hundred hands, squeezing and suffocating you until i feel safe again. how do i feel safe after him? after all of them?

getting off my purple silk dress, freeing black curls as they bounce on my bare shoulders, catching you staring at me shamelessly, fixing eyes on mine and not even blinking then watching you leaning back and pointing on your lap, i freeze.
WHO TOLD ME I WAS PRETTY ENOUGH TO FUCK BUT NOT TO LOVE?

so, here's my first secret.

// next two pages are full of scratches and holes. author feels worse — the diaries are becoming too intimate.
// next several chs will be from ged's pov :) think of it as a logical conclusion to the suffer that is caskata.