prose and stuff.
i wish i could just sort of catch this elusive thing
this thing called interest. or motivation.
if i could, i would hold it close to my heart
like an hour old puppy.
i would keep all the cracks between my fingers to a minimum
and i would hold that puppy for as long as i could.
it’s a shame, though; that little puppy just wants to leave me.
it’ll squirm and wiggle until i’m left holding either an exausted little body
or nothing at all.
(Source: famousbitches, via classifying-organism)
omgyes.
(Source: mandaflewaway, via rainbowweatherandorangesunsets)
//WARNING;gore//
with perfect, practiced form, i swing. the right hook collides with your face with my entire weight behind it. the results are devastating. i look away, and proceed to step over your body.
and what are the chances. you have a hatchet handy.
i’m on the ground before i know it and my left arm is missing from the elbow down. i lay momentarily, screaming and writhing in agony. i reach out weakly and grasp at your ankles, but you kick my only hand away and leave.
delirious with pain, i moan and drag myself away from the street to lean against a covered storefront. the rainwater from the pavement has joined my blood, soaking into my clothes.
i can see my severed arm laying in the sidewalk.
how did the bone break so easily? i wonder vaguely. in shock and confusion, i gingerly cradle the gushing stump and whimper like a child.
the concrete is cold and hard, and people hurry by. some give glances of pity. others of repulsion, and the rest of complete indifference. people hurry by.
i think to wipe the tears and snot from my face, but succeed only in replacing one mess with another. blood is now clinging to my eyelashes and dripping from my chin. oblivious, i pull myself into a standing position and stagger over to the disembodied limb. i pick it up carefully and start to walk.
i walk past the rushing traffic, sounding just as traffic should. i walk past glowing signs on both sides of the road, looking just as signs should. i walk past street lights and bicycle racks and trash bins, all just as they should be. and all the while clinging to a dead piece of flesh, i walk.
the bright moon gazes down at me. i duck into an alleyway; i can’t stand the moon’s awful gaze. i stumble upon a huge pile of garbage and slide down to side beside it. the darkness is comforting and i pull my knees up to rest my head. i can’t see a thing and decide that it’s for the best. i can’t bear to look at what’s left of my arm anymore.
what feels like hours pass as i slip in and out of consciousness. i’m startled awake as a homeless man comes shuffling down the alleyway, kicking garbage on his way.
i think to myself that i should probably find a hospital, but the loss of blood has heavily affected my reasoning abilities. i (miraculously) drag myself into a somewhat vertical position and exit the alleyway from the direction i had entered. the left hand has slipped from my grasp to lie in the alleyway, and my right hand, without my knowledge or consent, begins picking at the wound. this brings waves of fresh pain, but i continue.
i wish you had cut off my other arm, too.
back on the sidewalk, i look back up the street, expecting you to come hack off my good hand for me. you never do. and so i walk, poking at the graying, bloody stump and limping on down the slightly declining street.
the more ground i cover, the more vigorously my right hand torments the stump. focused on putting one foot ahead of the other, i don’t notice when the poking turns into rubbing. the bone of the stump circles around and around in my palm. i can feel the marrow start to sort of leak out into my hand, so i try to poke it back into the bone. the pain is excruciating, and my knees give way. i stumble sideways into a glass storefront, and bounce back across the narrow sidewalk, nearly falling into the street. i keep complete control over my face, as if i could keep people from looking at what i’m doing to my arm. i don’t want anyone to see me, that damn moon included. and so i walk.
my rest in the alley had temporarily stopped the bleeding, but the rubbing has wiped away all of the blood clots, sending blood gushing down onto the pavement. i keep rubbing.
a tendon is pulling away from the rest of the soft tissue, and i begin pulling at it. my hand tugs and tugs and suddenly rips the tendon right out of the stump.
i hold it up to see, but my eyes won’t bring it into focus. stony faced, i drop it on the sidewalk and proceed to pluck at the other bits and pieces in my now-mangled stump of an arm.
i stop walking after the third tendon and stand in the middle of the sidewalk to finish my job.
piece after piece of my arm come loose, and i throw each one away with silent determination. i want to see bone. pearly white bone. i pick and i pull and i rip. and finally, the bone is visible up to my shoulder. but it’s not white. not even close. shreds of flesh still cling to it in places where my fingernails have failed to detach it. and it’s covered in blood. drying near the bottom, fresher near the shoulder.
i let out a wail in frustration and scratch feverishly at it. i’m tired of dying flesh and blood. i’m tired of this useless arm. i’m tired of the moon gazing down at me tirelessly.
i want to go back up the street; to find you and force you to cut off my other arm. i want to trick father time into letting me have another try. but the moon just gazes.
i sink to the ground and lay flat on my back, staring at the moon.
i want to cry, but i don’t. i want to yell, but i don’t. i just stare. and that damn moon stares back.
slowly, my already blurred vision begins to darken. i close my eyes and sigh, waiting for the inevitable. i imagine i can feel the moon’s light caressing my blood-stained face. it whispers to me. ’i see you,’ it says.
i wince and use the rest of my energy to curl up into a ball. and i whisper back.
i’m sorry.
(via wordsand-fire)
Clinging to the feeling of nostalgia,
Though the nostalgia isn’t good.
I’m so damn afraid
Of losing my grip on that slip of time
Where I had the potential to be content.
But what will I be in the end?
A decaying collection of molecules,
Fighting with the nature of the universe?
Slaughtered expectations and
Potentials that were never met?
In the end,
I will be just as gone as the rest of us.
My eyes will not see
And my ears will not hear.
My hands will not feel,
And my heart will be cold.
In the end,
I will be just as broken as the rest of us.
….
But what would I have been?
What could I have been?
In the end I am uneasy,
With those slips of time
Finally escaping my weak, tired grasp.
And with a sigh I will resign to the whispered
“nothing”.
All we know is distance, we’re close and then we run.
(Source: hyperbolicmisanthropy)
