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so sick of being me

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Finally finished this erotic piece that I’ve been having a lot of fun working on (it’s emotionally intense for me, but still fun). It’s the first thing in awhile that I’ve actually reached a point where I feel like I can call something finished. It feels nice. I’m not gonna post it here but I’ll probably post it on my other writing blog in the morning or something but I don’t feel like doing all the docx>PDF>JPEG bullshit. I want to sleep.

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kill me after dinner
because I starve before I ever sleep
and my body takes bites of itself
while psychic fissure rapes my dreams
cold and fast without a beat

leave without a word
because I hide when I can’t find my speech
swallowed swords without a choice
and placed my love just out of reach
like something dead, preserved and seen

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wi-ch:

PROOF THAT WE WERE HERE
32 x 32 inches
oil on canvas
2013

wi-ch:

PROOF THAT WE WERE HERE

32 x 32 inches

oil on canvas

2013

(via nocttis)

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"Earnest Hemingway once said all he wanted to do was write one true sentence. He also tried to scratch an itch in the back of his head with a shotgun."
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"But I tried, didn’t I? Goddamnit, at least I did that."

— Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (via barbieandken)

(Source: larmoyante, via suburbanxdecay)

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It keeps getting worse and I feel paralyzed.

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I felt an itch

I felt an itch (it was an itch)

from a long-closed wound begging from the inside to be opened from without

opened like a book

& bleeding just to be erased

it reeks of how the past is (still) now

the endless reverberations of a different day pounding on my eardrums

like hammers to my scar tissue left temple

that bleeds with rotting memories

& while it sings me songs of tortured purity

I bleed again to its embrace