DEAR TUMBLR
i accidentally changed my email to ugly.ghost@yahoo.com instead of uglyghost@ymail.com. i am
locked out and desperate to get my account back. please help!
landfill blues
i’ve got eggshells glued to my feet and a heart full of bile because you poured out your soul all over me and whoever said a soul is a sweet essence was all kinds of wrong because i’ve seen one and it’s a dumptruck with “how’s my driving?” stuck on the back and cruise control to kill
(Source: kosmia)
the body is a cage
there are two hundred and six bones in the human figure, as one will learn when they sit an anatomy class, or visit the doctor’s office, or bother to count. you must be an exception. there must be a million of these brittle fragments holding you together and at least half of them are out there for all to see. you’re looking thin, almost fragile, and now everything you’ve tried to hide from the world is exposed: could-have-beens in the wrists and regrets in the ankles. clavicles reserved for fears and hipbones for hidden desires. memories in ever-cracking fingers, trying to break the past. touch, hold, feel, feel. twelve pairs of ribs for twelve heartbreaks. the overanalytical, overworked inner ear making note of every shout, cry, whisper. occasional laughter. and the backbone? that’s a myth reserved for metaphors. a millions of these pieces. they’re each in their right place, for now, but ready to break. the body alone does not keep one whole.
(Source: kosmia)
the history of fire escapes
i saw love as something outside the skin
seperate from
blood cum sweat tears
i envisioned us slipping out
of ourselves and uniting in a rush
of stars: love as a cosmic explosion:
spiritual glorious forever
now there are words trailing behind
you like a fast moving plot and home is not where
the heart is: where the heart is, is indeed home,
but i am not with you
when i left you realised love wasn’t forever
and i realised the emphasis i placed on skin
was merely desperation spawned from a fear
of losing my own
(Source: kosmia)
limpid ponds
god’s eyes are stoned swans bobbing in a lake of lymph dimes superglued into the sky catching the sun turning dull rainbows into white light casting it back to earth blinding shielding us from ever knowing about who we really are
celestial junkyard
listening to god’s dial tone
this is the symptom of our stars
shimmering and dead
codding our lunacy, sucking on it like a pacifier
knowing how fated it is to have something to die for
and nothing else at all
i believe in angels and people
but mostly that one if often the other
i write about god to make him soft
i write about god to make him real
the skin of who i used to be is a size too small
both staying inside and leaving are lethal
a constant nameless dread that inspires me
