redscorchedwings - Tumblr blog

[redscorchedwings]

i wanna kms

I cant believe i have to go through life for another 50ish years, like do i really have to have goals and a job and a car and pay bills all for it to not matter when i die? Let me just get it over w rn

I cant believe this is really happening again. I must be the most horrible person on earth and no one can convince me otherwise. Like how bad a person do i have to be to be left by a best friend 3 separate times. And obviously it not them, its me, im the common factor here. How am i supposed to make any more friends when i know its gonna end the same way, it always does. Im afraid im gonna end up alone. I should just kms

I really think im gonna enf up livinh a mediocre life, struggling to make ends meet and no one to rely on. Thats my future

I have big dreams, i wanna do great things but i dont think i can

[redscorchedwings]

I made a quiz, its 36 questions, and y’all, I play-tested this, I got feedback, I hyper-analyzed, its good. I wasn’t like, I was gonna just let hogwarts houses die but apparently y’all be like,,, not knowing what a slytherin or hufflepuff is no shade and if all these quizzes are gonna ask you this question anyways: this is it. Idiot tested. Idiot approved

take it here! or copy paste if you need to https://uquiz.com/oz0xOu

[redscorchedwings]

🥀

[redscorchedwings]

my cinderella wakes up with the taste of ashes in her mouth and thinks of her mother’s waning sickness. my cinderella has nightmares of watching her mother’s chest rising, a wheeze escaping her ribs. my cinderella does not cry about this, because she lives in the place fires begin. her stepmother has perfect teeth and high eyebrows. “are you done sweeping?” she asks. “i need to see myself in my tiles.”

there are long days spent like this. sometimes cinderella gets caught on things. she spends four hours with a toothbrush swiveling in small circles, her whole body trembling. she thinks if everything is perfect, nothing bad will happen. if she checks the stove eight times, it will not poison her like her stepmother’s venom. if she lets the cat scratch her once a day, it will learn to love her. if she just gets these baseboards clean, maybe her father will come home to her.

the invitation comes when she is adjusting the pictures on the wall. it is announced with fanfare. her stepmother sends out the request for dresses instantly while cinderella watches, waiting.

“baby,” stepmother wakes her on the day of, “hope you know how long you’ll be working for today.” strokes her hair a little.

cinderella stares at her. doesn’t want to go to the ball, where people will be twirling around on floors someone else spent six hours polishing, where people will be careless in eating food someone else toiled over cooking. where people like her fade into the shadows.

when she opens her mouth, she says, “let me go, stepmother.” it is worth the look of shock and terror on that woman’s face to tell a lie. cinderella, after the slap, hides her face and smiles.

they leave trumpeting. her step sisters are cupcakes floating on shoes cinderella has sown together.

in the night, she rises from her bed and coaxes a little mouse onto her hands and snaps its little neck. 

boiling the fur of it off is easy. she feeds the bits to the cat, who twines around her feet. she takes the bones under the poplar tree and lays them out just-so. she says the words her mother used to know.

deep from the shadows comes the Fairy. pink and pretty with eyes that are totally empty. cinderella knows better than to look at them directly. “you summon me?” asks the ancient one. “what needs be done?”

cinderella does not want a ball. cinderella wants a night off. she explains slowly what she wants. she gives the Fairy three things: a needle. a fingernail. a strand of hair. the deal is done, midnight comes. she dresses in her mother’s dress, hidden under the floorboards. it is beautiful, white, shines like a river. on her feet are no shoes at all. she wants to feel the ground that carries her, that has been tilled by people like her.

at the gates, they stop her. no carriage, nothing but a smile on her. but she’s so polite. so willing. has big fluttering eyelashes. lures the guards beyond the light of the castle’s torches. knows how to work a kitchen knife.

inside, she is blinded by the brightness of lamps on granite. everyone here is laughing. gliding. cinderella glides too, effortless without any shoes. 

her stepsisters hang off one another, have their arms draped off the prince. cinderella walks up. smiles. says the words her mother taught her.  they erupt into screams. “needles” they howl, dancing in shoes cinderella made, “needles in my feet.” they bleed all over the floors someone worked hard for. “That,” says cinderella, “is one for me.”

the prince is without words. stepmother in her skirts tumbles as she skitters forwards. she is bubbling with improper language to speak in front of royals. on her hand is a nail chipped from slapping her stepdaughter. cinderella looks her in the eyes when she says the word. without a pause, violent scratches appear over her stepmother. she is torn open. 

“that,” says cinderella, “is for my mother.”

cinderella tips over candle sticks and sets things on fire. leaves them all with the taste of ashes in their lungs. turns. does not run. 

the prince follows. on his steps, as the clock strikes midnight, he finds a footprint in blood. he swears he will find whomever it belongs to if he has to try the shoes of every girl in the kingdom. 

but cinderella is no longer a girl. the last, a ring of cathair, has turned her into whiskers and a tail. she sits there, watching him in the light. she twines around his legs and purrs at him. he finds her white coat fascinating. 

she lives off of castle food for the rest of her life. sometimes, when she is bored, she bats all of the pictures straight in the front hall. 

nobody ever finds the girl. at the funeral of the stepmother, a white cat sits by the feet of the widowed man who was her father. he has nightmares of his first wife forever after. 

[redscorchedwings]

Jenny Holzer Living Series

[redscorchedwings]

Universe tomorrow when I wake up I would like to see proof that I matter and am appreciated from all different directions. When I open my eyes I will be open and receptive to proof of being appreciated. I know I can trust you Universe.

[redscorchedwings]

instagram | meanderingmacaron

[redscorchedwings]

its true that crying wont solve things but we dont cry to solve. we cry to release

[redscorchedwings]

[redscorchedwings]

“Please be careful with me. Sometimes I’m just sad and I don’t know why. I’m sorry.”

-lunas-worlds-blog

[redscorchedwings]

Twisted Disney by Kasami-Sensei

[redscorchedwings]

by Ronald Vd Z

[redscorchedwings]

on a scale of one to ten how sad are you.

you almost say seven but the answer floats in your lungs like rising mud. you shift your shoulders. some part of you is already forming an excuse. that it’s not that bad sometimes. one, two, three on a day that the clouds are out. you’re just complaining about stuff. yesterday you laughed past a brick of a four, does that make the brick come down to a two-point-five.  the solid seven panic attack of last tuesday feels somehow like a little thorn, just a regular day full of a gentle three-point-nine earthquake rocking after yesterday’s close-to-an-eight. see but if tomorrow you have a real bad day, it will make today look simple.

and what if. what if tomorrow it’s a big old red eight-point-nine. like one of those days where sirens are going off in every part of you but you’re stuck behind a glass window watching it all burn down. like one of those days that your skin against the air feels foreign. like too much of everything. like sitting-in-the-shower, like can’t-eat, like the tide isn’t just coming in, it came while you were sleeping and now you’ve gotta learn how to swim. like bounce me against a bullet hole kind of day.

you keep numbers like nine and ten way out of reach. those are for the people who really are suffering. you’ve got no excuse. nine and ten are funeral numbers, for real problems, not yours, no. and sometimes you’re fine. and you’re kind of used to it. and it’s not sad, it’s just numb like a television caught on static. numb like i can’t remember if i care about this. numb like nothing works but i can’t be bothered to fix it. that’s not sad that’s every day stuff. everybody feels like this, right? feels like they’ve been shut off. right.  

maybe five. right in the middle. like not gonna shoot myself but i’m not wasting your time. a nonanswer. like could be worse could be better. like i need help but i don’t want you to worry even though i need someone to worry about me because i can’t worry about myself. maybe five. but what if five is too small. what if five is too big. what if -

“on a scale of one to ten,” he repeats into your silence, and then pauses. “and please be honest about this.”

[redscorchedwings]

if i didnt have depression no one could fucking stop me. i only have depression because otherwise im too powerful

[redscorchedwings]

[redscorchedwings]

Do you ever get overwhelming urges to be devastatingly self-destructive? Because fuck.

[redscorchedwings]

REBLOG if you are -gay -wanna kill yourself - love animals - falling for someone that you don’t have a chance with - hungry

no one will ever know which one