bring the sting

Whenever I see your picture or hear people talk about you, my breath always catches in my throat and I’m struck by this painful twinge that twists my sides and brings the stinging of tears to back of my eyes.
It’s the thought of you being happy and living your life… imagining you laughing and joking with other people that hurts… Don’t get me wrong – I still care for you and the thought of you being happy makes me happy… but at the same time it makes me sad.
Because… life goes on, or at least it did for you and being confronted with your happiness makes me feel like I made no difference to your life… as if there was never any point in me being in it at all. You were happy before you met me and you’re still the same happy person now even though I’m gone.
I know it’s foolish to wish I had meant more to you… that my absence would change your world or have some sort of lasting impact so I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that the day we said goodbye wasn’t devastating enough to make the world stop turning for you…
Not like it did for me…
—  Ranata Suzuki | Your Life Went On Without Me

anonymous asked:

Hello, Dark. Do you have an opinion on roses? Favorite color? Reresentation to you?

Dark smiled, and from one of the inner pockets of his tuxedo, slowly yanked out the slightly drooping black rose that resided close to his chest. Although it was worn, crispy, and most likely dead, its initial structure still remained true to its original appearance.

“The black rose is the symbol of my work. Not only is it my favorite flower, but it is the blend of primal beauty that I myself am prided to obtain. It is admired from afar, its aroma influences attention and comment. But attempting to go to such an object, attempting to truly interact, is far more dangerous than what the eye may perceive.”

Dark’s eyes ripped away from the rose in his hand.

“It brings pain. It stings the flesh and causes for a silly human to lose trust of such a flower again. They refuse to ever pick up said flower, knowing what it will bring. But they will always, always, enjoy the aroma.”

3

When a honeybee dies inside of her hive, her sisters will remove her and place her outside. This naturally deceased little worker bee has been immortalized in a locket on a bed of moss. Her wings are covered in real gold leaf. The honeybee does so much for me, but all I could do for her was to give her a pretty resting place. She can be your companion if you’d like, and promises not to sting. Bring her home here.

“Black Widow” by Bruce Dickinson & Adrian Smith (Alice Cooper cover)

These words he speaks are true
We’re all humanary stew
If we don’t pledge allegiance to
The Black Widow

The horror that he brings
The horror of his sting
The unholiest of kings
The Black Widow

Our minds will be his toy
And every girl and boy
Will learn to be employed by
The Black Widow

A really cool version of the Alice Cooper song that the guys put out while they were on hiatus from Iron Maiden. Also, the drummer was the great Tommy Aldridge.

Love Me

She comes back to him for the first time, unguarded, her body limp with exhaustion, despair.  She’s always so strong that he thinks he must be imagining this small, fragile creature on his doorstep.  He stares at her helplessly, aching to reach for her but afraid.  Afraid of the rejection.  That swift cut of a knife that he never expected her to be able to bring, but that stings like hell.  He was hoping to avoid that.  Then she opens her lips and her words are like cool water to parched skin.

“Hold me.”

Keep reading

I can sit for hours and hours and just read.
Read all the poetry until it get engraved into my soul.
Oh the way pain makes you artistic.
The way you compare yourself to the magentas and aquas of the skies process of changing from day to night.
The way you compare yourself to the waves continuing to hit the ocean shore over and over again regardless of the circumstance.
The way you compare yourself to the fire bringing warmth yet, stinging all in one touch.
How ironic, isn’t it?
Oh the way pain makes you artistic.
The most cruel things in the world can make you discover the most glorious pieces of yourself that you are even yet to understand.
The emotions you did not even knew were comprehensible now take over and help you aspire to become a master piece.
The anger and frustration of your own defeat bringing you so low to a place where even your own screams cannot be heard yet, you still continue to shout.
Oh the way pain makes you artistic.
It brings life to my veins.
It makes the sun kiss my skin a little bit harder each day.
It makes the moon whisper to me at the darkest times of night.
Oh the way pain makes you artistic…
—  lylitaa