ecannibalistico

[ecannibalistico]

"a house is one only with a loving mother, semi absent father; a white fluffy dog and solace intertwined. A house where the breakfast table is set open to invite with eggs, high rimmed glasses of orange juice and freshly peeled "pomegranates". a morning where I wouldn't be forced into ignition under the shower as I stare at the mirror across;, waiting for a miracle, waiting for refraction or rather waiting for self extinction. I look at my reflection to look for even a single trajectory which I, to my own standards: find mesmerizing. To Love, and to bleed as I button my shirt and trousers -- wear a tie around my neck, consciously knowing that it'd only get harder to breathe, to know im ill, but awake at 5, To look across at my eggs which look otherwise colorless and bleak. I run about to my bus-stop with toast in my mouth; outlooking at present fathers who wave the other kids goodbye with a smile, only incandescent with the sultry probability lingering like a calamitous afterthought-- does mine love me to care? The hair he greyens is it all for his gods of desertion or yet, his own array of serendipity? or rather does he hate how my voice clammers and reflects off his bookshelves knowing it has distinction? does he realise that I am naive? know that when I reach for maturity- not only do I return ink-stained but unsuccessful because I also hunt validation under the sheets I fold before every sunrise? yet a fact is; the way my pen glides on paper, and the way it changes course may be ephemeral but the way the optimism leaves my voice, happiness executed like running water is concurrent? the way my pages absorb my feathering ink, is the same way I hang on his walls, absorbing everything he should believe in, but distinction hurls like a stab-wound, the ink would stay for as long as his doubt laid out would-- yet that lantern existed before me and will exist for multiple epochs everafter"

[ecannibalistico]

maybe Im sentimental. I'll take pictures of dogs and flowers I'll see but never tell you about it. I'll sleep a lot. sometimes I cry when I'm on the way home because of what people say and fall asleep, sometimes I'll run away so I won't have to deal with you and me in the present, sometimes I'll reflect on something which happened a year ago and write a whole analysis on it to see if i can fix it. sometimes, I'll notice the change of seasons and jump in excitement. sometimes I'll be mean to you because I want you to think about me later. I like fresh fruit. sometimes, the pens you let me borrow take that anxiety of my plate. I appreciate anything but would never show it.

sometimes melancholically, I'll grow to ruin, sometimes I'll shrug it off, sometimes I'll laugh about it.

that dosent mean every moment isn't worth living.

[ecannibalistico]

And i was never good at telling jokes but the punch line goes, ill get older but your lovers stay my age.

[ecannibalistico]

Did you hear about the boy who lives in delusion? He’s frozen between instances of time.

[ecannibalistico]

Dear reader,if you don’t recognise yourself that means you did it right.

[ecannibalistico]

And you know damn well, for you I’d ruin myself. A million little times