I saw your name in a magazine entry - where the ink was wet with the heat of madness - captioned with: “derived from a word meaning ‘the primary elements of the Universe.’

This is the theory of everything:

There is a microcosm in time where an object exists in a state simultaneously whole and broken, living and invisible, full of emptiness and sick with holiness.

Out of touch with reality and present with this misery; you see, I fell down that rabbit hole and never made it past the front door.

You see, I’m afraid if I catch your breath into my lungs I’ll hold what you give me until I suffocate from your memory. Your name echoes through my (decaying) arteries like a eulogy for lost lovers.

You see, the oxygen is filled with absence. In a room full of empty space and the perfume of your proximity I will die knowing this is what it means to be holy.

You see, my lungs are pooled with hemoglobin, and I fear that in kissing another man he will know the taste of your name, his skin glowing like an exit sign.

You see, I’m tired of living under the body bag because they didn’t know what to resuscitate me with.

You see, I didn’t want to be resuscitated.

—  7-weeks//Asphyxiated, I love you.

I can’t believe that I spent so many years
swallowing the things you told me,
throwing them back like shots of vinegar,
grimacing and letting them burn
all the way down my throat.

The thought of you
and the thought of who I let you be
makes me want to throw up
because the human stomach
can only handle so much acid.

—  Acid Reflux | Ellie Rosewater

she was not a girl made for tongue-in-cheek lovers;
and there was poison glittering upon her milky skin,
it worked as a charm; kept potential mishaps away
even if she hoped desperately for something to
change. she knew that boys would not cross oceans
to be with her, they would not jump over electric fences
or burn civilizations to the ground in search of her.

most boys dug straight for the gold, they didn’t catch
the glimpses of charcoal in her eyes, or the plastic on
her tongue. it was pointless she declared - to look for
love in there somewhere; and maybe love was best
kept in the Greek Myths and the fairytales and the
Shakespearean poetry because the authors always
managed to weave straw into gold with their words

and love in real life was an anomaly;
not all sugar sweet songs and pretty daydreams
more like ghost stories of
when love once was, now simply an echo
of what was rich and beautiful a long time ago.

—  R.I.P Love by stars-shine-darkly-over-me
In the storybooks and in my head, love was a fleeting touch, a blooming black rose, love was great tragedies and empires burning, lives ruined; bloodshed and mayhem - something epic and divine, love was Greek goddesses and Romeos and Juliets and fluttering kisses under the unearthly glow of the Northern Lights and love was home for lonely people and love was where the broken souls would be allowed mending and love was life; love was the feeling of being born again everytime you looked into someone’s eyes. In reality, love is a ghost, an unseen, unimaginable force, love is a distant terrain where mortals do not go, deserted and desolate and dry without the rain, love is an old wives’ tale, they talk about it but nobody has ever seen it in real life.
—  4 am thoughts about love