subroses-blog

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“We often weep in woods, not knowing why.”

Antanas Baranauskas The Anykščiai Grove (1859)

Source

(via 12121135)

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i left my friends. one after another. they asked me until hate me right before my eyes. i am so hurt not because they had hated me for all the same reasons but because i failed to do my job. i should have left them softer and calmer, than they used to. i should have not turn them to horrible monstrosities to disaster. i didnt just left them but changed them. oh.

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your son the little replica of you, you have been pushing him away cause he plays dolls not the toy guns and military and you need to scold him hard thats why he let boys tease and punch him cause thats what you do you have not talk to him and talk to your friends about him; and he was not talking neither about you to his friends but dresses and heels he loves you and you havent keep his heart than of your daughters’ and so he give it to anybody who breaks it always. he misconcepted love that he seeks for someone to fill the gaps you should have filled he was soft and you shouted him to be brave and he became strong when boys always left him

-fathers and gay sons k.cal.

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i love you wearing skin tight pajama

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i am sorry fucking sorry if i am no aesthetic like girls you kiss

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those brilliant eyes you put me to so much exhaustion like you are fucking bad and coded those freckles and every space i made myself to dream big enough feeling them you are thin but never ragged sculpted as aesthetic greek and i got those every dandelions to explore them and press against my heart but it, no, you just make me sad and mad

-k.cal.

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last of all i whispered through saline and spaces and fractures of my whole flesh. i do not belong on places of earth so i dig myself my way to hell. and put sadness on forest and trees. k.cal.

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words are harmless substance tainting flesh like minor contusion or harmful in bare bones to inflict fracture

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put the girl to your ribcage of your palpitating heart and let her hear the running beats she'd been hearing too in her.

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God is sad he created humans. for sadness bears things unknowingly fatal to sad creatures

k.cal.

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i am no your honeypot or bee what you call it to be fingered and raised for beneficial i am no rose garden to cut thorns then picked me then throw off petal to petal i am no no vapors to clouds so so big precipitated me just like that and kill me through city and falling i am not inflated for deflate and burst and i am to be loved afterall

k.cal.

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claire de lune

and city lights casted through nighttime her face and skin sillhouted in every corners

she sat him in thighs, he sat there in a rocker so when they patterned; those movements, it always sings rhapsody

and everytime it was done

his voice was bedtime stories telling her one saddest story of the girl he loved

suddenly her eyes were poetry though, fragemented poems about the man she loves and the girl he loved