throw my body in a dumpster

amputate the phantom limb of memory. childhood is a scab I peel raw-skinned, I’ve got an edge babygirl wants to die upon. I’ve got a body like a makeshift whip. I’ve got a body like a plastic knife, a blade used for the sake of throwing away. babygirl is a killer like me. babygirl is my demolitions expert, I’m her grenade stashed in an alleyway dumpster. babygirl, I’d be anything for you–trashed halo, electric carcass of light, your arson disguised as immolation. I’d die for you, but I’d die for anyone. I’d kill for you, but I’d choke on the blame. babygirl, I want you most when you kiss me goodbye, so show me all your new ways to ruin a wreckage. babygirl, pull the pin on me, set the bomb to zero in a ghost town basement. deify me. christen me your antichrist, your reverse big bang, detonation bright. babygirl, one of us is always leaving. this time, I want it to be you. all gods are disposable. you would know.

It’s the bad kind of ‘crack.’ Dex knows the screen is shattered even before he picks his phone up off the tile. He turns the phone over and sees the cracks that spiderweb across the front. “Shit. Shitdamn. Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” Nursey turns on the desk light. It’s after 4:30 and the room is starting to get dark.

“Broke my fucking phone. Fuck my life. Fuck everything.”

“Dude, chill. That’s super cheap to fix.”

Dex fantasizes about killing him. That’s super cheap to fix. He could stab Derek Nurse with a hockey skate and then throw his body in the dumpster outside Faber. No one would ever know.

Keep reading


Paring: Serial Killer!Sam Winchester x Reader (Sorta)
Reader Gender: Either
Requested: No
Warning: Blood, stalking, kidnapping, killing
Word Count:1,214
A/N: Just something to get me out of my writing funk. 

He didn’t mean for it to happen the first time. He had underestimated his strength; though the alcohol in his system, and his own reckless actions didn’t help the situation either.

A skull cracks against the brick wall of the club after a well place punch. A body slumped against a dumpster limp and unmoving, eyes blank and staring back at him. It all caused him to throw up, the alcohol burning his throat for a second time that night.

He left the body and walked back home on shaky legs, hoping that nothing could be tied back to him.

The second time was nearly a coincidence.

A boy had pushed Sam too far, had insulted him one too many times. Sam was tired of being the victim, tired of being knocked around and not given the chance to get back up.

Sam doesn’t stop after the first punch; he doesn’t stop until the other boy under him stopped moving. Once Sam stood with his chest heaving and blood dripping from his knuckles, he survived what he had done to the other guy.

It was only a coincidence that’s he’d lost control again, that he wasn’t able to curb the adrenaline rush coursing through him. This time he couldn’t blame anything on alcohol.

Though strangely enough, he didn’t want to, he enjoyed the feeling on this guy’s blood painting his knuckles.  

By the fifth time Sam knew he had a problem.

He knows it’s not normal, not right to do what he does. Burying your opponents after a fight wasn’t normal, getting pleasure from watching the life leave someone’s eyes wasn’t normal; but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help but go looking for his next high in the form of brittle bones and blood spatter. He couldn’t help get off to the high of the adrenaline rushing through his veins.

He knows it’s a problem to feel the most alive when you’re taking someone’s life, or that he doesn’t feel any remorse after what he’s done.

He knows it’s a problem when he has to pack a bag every weekend and disappear into the darkness.

He knows it’s a problem when he’s seen five lives leave a person’s eyes and had to wash off five people’s blood from his hands.

By the tenth time it’s an addiction.

He sees the world in blacks, whites, and reds; in bones so easily broken, in dim eyes right after the light leaves them, and in the blood that flows so beautifully from the wounds he creates. He doesn’t see a person, only their easily broken bodies. He sees his art.

He sees the beauty in how easy a body breaks, in the bruises that blossom under his fingers, in the drops of blood that roll into pools around his feet. Boys and girls, older and younger; it doesn’t matter. They’re all the same on the inside. But it’s his job to make them each uniquely beautiful.

To their families, they’re a living, breathing person; but to Sam, they’re his art and he’s the artist painting his masterpieces. And he can’t get enough of it.

After the fifteenth time the cops are suspecting him.

They know that, despite they’re differences they were all killed by the same person; and part of him is happy that the cops are starting to catch up. They’re finally starting to notice his work, to admire his art.

But it’s always going to be just a game, and Sam is always going to be three steps ahead. He’s gone way before they find the bodies and he’s growing form it’ he’s growing in his art, his craft, his skill. He’s growing in his madness.

He doesn’t notice you until after his twentieth kill.

You weren’t ever aware of crossing paths with Sam; maybe it was after a late night at work, or early morning on your way to grab a cup of coffee. But Sam remembers seeing you and now he can’t seem to take his eyes off of you. He thought you was breathtakingly beautiful.

He remembers the way the sun hit your face and seemed to create a halo around you, the way your eyes seemed to sparkle when you crossed paths with someone you knew, how you seemed to put a skip in your step when you were in a particularly good mood, and how he knew which sweatshirt was your favorite because you wore it multiple times a week.

He could recall a lot of things about your everyday adventures because he was always watching. But he couldn’t help it. You were the perfect canvas for his next masterpiece.  

You never noticed the man with the hazel eyes who seemed to stare for too long, or how he hovered in the background of your everyday life. If you had you might’ve said, he resembled a hunter stalking his pray. But to Sam he was simply an artist planning his next masterpiece.

He watched you, more than he had the others.

He watched you from across the street of your house as you got ready for bed. He watched you from the corner of your favorite coffee shop as you enjoyed your Sunday morning latte. He watched you like he had the others, but during his watching he discovered quite a bit.

He discovered how beautifully your name rolled off his tongue. He discovered that your birthday wasn’t too far from his, he discovered your schedule, he discovered everything there was to know about you. And now it was time to use what he had discovered and find you.  

He calls your phone but never says anything, instead listening to your repeated ‘Hello?’ before hanging up; all while thinking how beautiful your voice was and what it would sound like begging before him. It almost makes him wonder what your laugh would sound like mixed with his.

He comes in the middle of the night. He covers your mouth before you can scream, but that doesn’t stop you from kicking out and trying to bite at the hand over your mouth. Like all the others before you, you go kicking and screaming. But he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy the feel of you squirming against him.

He can tell you’re scared, but it only makes him grin.

He watches you break down in the backseat of ‘his’ car, listens to you sob; but he feels no remorse. But he can’t help but think about your laugh and compare it now to the whimpers falling past your lips. It makes something turn in his stomach; he doesn’t like the feeling at all. He tries to push it down by thinking about what he’s going to do to make you his greatest masterpiece yet. But part of him couldn’t help but realize you’re a masterpiece on your own.

“What do you want?” You ask, it’s a stupid, cliché question, but it’s the only think that you’re concerned about; what he was planning to do to you.

Sam steps closer to you and placed his large hands over the ropes bringing your wrists, he doesn’t say anything just shows this twisted grin. He stays that way for a moment before he speaks, his voice low;

“I think I’m going to keep you.”  

  • me on a date: I love fall out boy
  • date: yeah they're ok but the lead singer is sort of ugly and fat haha
  • me, throwing breadsticks at my date: bitch!!! are you fucking blind???!! patrick stump is my SON but also my FATHER and also my PRECIOUS CINNAMON ROLL and if u fucking say one more nasty ass noodlehead comment about my smol child I will personally throw ur slimy body into a dumpster to rot as I blast numerous throwback fob jams. stay in ur fucking lane and don't speak to me ever again u piece of trash. ps buy soul punk on iTunes

An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn.
              The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night
is thinking. It’s thinking of love.
                                                            It’s thinking of stabbing us to death
and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
     That’s a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey and kisses for everyone.

Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a buckknife
          carves the likeness of his lover’s face into the motel wall. I like him
and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought.

Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.
          I’m sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.

History repeats itself. Somebody says this.
          History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,
over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.
                                                         History is a little man in a brown suit
         trying to define a room he is outside of.
I know history. There are many names in history
                                                                               but none of them are ours.

He had green eyes,
                                       so I wanted to sleep with him—
       green eyes flecked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool-
You could drown in those eyes, I said.
                                                                                         The fact of his pulse,
the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire
       not to disturb the air around him.
Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,
                                           the way we look like animals,
                                                             his skin barely keeping him inside.
               I wanted to take him home
and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his
       like a crash test car.
                                                I wanted to be wanted and he was
very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving.
       You could drown in those eyes, I said,
                                                                     so it’s summer, so it’s suicide,
so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.

It wasn’t until we were well past the middle of it
       that we realized
the old dull pain, whose stitched wrists and clammy fingers,
                                                                      far from being subverted,
had only slipped underneath us, freshly scrubbed.
                                   Mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us,
               replete with the tight lips and the eyes that remained eyes
                                                                and not the doorways we had hoped for.
His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker than before,
      scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.

We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars
                                                                           as the roads around us
grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through a glass
                  already laced with frost,
but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out
                                                                                               of lullabies.
But damn if there isn’t anything sexier
                                               than a slender boy with a handgun,
                                                                         a fast car, a bottle of pills.

What would you like? I’d like my money’s worth.
                                      Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this—
       swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood
on the first four knuckles.
                                                   We pull our boots on with both hands
but we can’t punch ourselves awake and all I can do
                  is stand on the curb and say Sorry
                                       about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.

I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.

—  Little Beast by Richard Siken