cigarette smoke.

lets hang out sometime

WHUMPTOBER.

LET'S HANG OUT SOMETIME

waking up restrained|shackled|hanging

-

spilling out tragedy from each pore in your skin. you are a menace covered in conciliations and shiny smiles.

writing with smudged ink and speaking in broken wants and mutters that threaten to topple over worlds.

you are something of great renound―to risk it all and become undone. some say you should take a leap of faith; dance like a swan-feather off a cliffs edge and pray to be far better. because now, when you are made of chipped nails and discolored skin, you are as worthless as the mold that hands to rock: moss. green and lively, parasite. you leech off of those with greatness running through their blood like gold. reckless and disruptive. your teachers jeer and the boy who sits front and center laughs at your dream―he says you're worth less than the worthless. the scum of the scum, you'd be better as a stain hammered date-red into the chipping pavement under the school roof.

and some say you should take a leap of faith. so you, young and naive and scared of red-red-as-blood-and-tears eyes stand over the edge and spread your arms as though they are wings (you aren't fooling anyone一you're going to hell). you are of bloody knuckles and bruised gums; of cherry blood that drips from the burns on your body, like stars and crashed supernovas. you are of honey white knuckles and smoggy nights. spitting ink from your fingertips and wishing away sorrows, of praying to a god that doesn't care about your nameless father.

of longing and longing for something. you and your brilliant mind; your mother calls you her hero but you know she's lying - people like you don't become special, they die―jumped from school rooftops in a leap of faith.

you wonder if your best friend is right.

you'll have to take leap of faith. that's too kind though. you've always been bitter, so you think you'll drown on your own lungs. learn how to tie a knot property for the first and last time.

bone-white knuckles and scarred fingers lacing frayed threat. a gossamer of hope - this will be your magnum opis. your best work upon your thousands of burnt pages of thoughts. today is the day your body will be up for display―a canvas of artwork drawn by greedy, bloody hands and sharp teeth. like a shark.

your best friends' smile looks like a mugshot, loud with scrunched eyebrows and you write down as much. that your mother is too kind for someone as cruel as you, as weak as you, as worthless, useless, stupid, sad, forgettable as you. plain hair, plain face, plain rope around the waist of your neck.

licking your lips you write down one thing on the last page of your burnt notebook. it will be forgotten to the hands of time and the hourglass of fate, you will not be remembered as someone beloved, as someone who wears crowns of bone and wears elk-skin-silk and is pretty. never. you have dull eyes and dull hands; dipped in autumn and desolation.

you thing that the rope around your neck looks a bit like the corpses that trees shed before winter.