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mother, mother

mother, my bones are screaming terribly; i am aching miserably. my mouth hurts too much that it won’t let me breathe; it pains me seeing myself can’t move an inch—i feel numbness all over my rotting body. i am broken—destroyed into hundreds of pieces. be honest mother, will i be able to stitch myself back together? or will i be forever shattered for being a mess?  

mother, loneliness killed your daughter. abandonment reversed her existence into the core; she wanted to be saved so badly that it left her no choice but to split blood on the floor—clothes soaked with her own ichor.  

mother, your daughter wishes to end up deaf so she won’t have to get insanely mad—losing her sanity for hearing such cursed words and death from you—yet you made a woman madly deranged that becomes a roaring thunder like you. but she doesn’t want that; she will never be like you.  

mother, she started wondering if death would please you and father; would it be better to let her decompose her dear body or to hide its expiration from you?

oh, mother… wrap your body against this little child to paralyze her from eternal rest. all she ever wanted was to be loved and embraced. was she asking excessively? to made her howling turn into a roar; creating a child full of anger—bloodlust from her indignation.

mother, i thirst to have a deadly, incurable disease; the only way for you to absorb the tender solicitude of my undying love for you.

mother, when will you going to make this anger disappear from my rotting heart? get rid of this madness, mother; i don’t desire to end up like a person i love for it will swallow my whole due to my cold heart that you crucified.

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生き甲斐 excerpt from the love i once knew

a betrayal of one’s own shadow

&.&.

will always feel wrong and will hurt us in every possible way it can— it happens when we still forgive after being lied to over and over, gritting under the pressure of countless doubts, and swallowing daggers of other people’s pride— we should’ve been our own ally.

just apologize, don’t think about anything else other than how to make things right, don’t waste your time thinking about how embarrassing it was to make me wait for you out in the pouring rain for hours, don’t get torn between the need to mend the broken fibers of my barely beating heart and the if’s of whether you deserve a second chance or not, just apologize, you see, i’m an idiot, so, i’d come running back at you immediately even before you complete the letters of an insincere apology, i‘d blindly accept your reasons, some could say it’s a trauma response— and i know it too well, you’re becoming a massive trigger— and i hate it, i hate that you’re becoming one so just apologize.

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A gothic horror story where a gentleman from a good family gets haunted by something monstrous, which follows him around and keeps killing people around him at utter random, in cruel and horrifying ways. Specifically within circumstances where the protagonist has no alibi, and everything indicates that he committed the murders.

But the real horror is not that he would find himself accused of the murders, but that the people around him naturally assume that he did do it, but genuinely do not care, because the victims are never people that the society around him considers "important". The scullery maid of his household is found brutalised beyond recognition in a room where even the ceiling has been splattered with blood, and a constable of the local police brushes it off as a case of household discipline gone wrong, being horrifyingly casual with the assumption that the protagonist severely beat a girl in his service to death, and will dismiss it as an accident. The street urchin that the protagonist was seen talking with - wanting to help this poor little orphan - is found decapitated, severed head in the protagonist's fireplace. This, too, is calmly swept under the rug.

After every horrifying murder, the protagonist tries to seek help, to present the crime to authorities in hopes of getting some semblance of help, or at least clearing his own name of this, but every time it's brushed off. "These things do happen", he is reassured, like it's perfectly normal that a mansion of that size has a secret garden of unmarked graves in one shady corner.

The real horror is the ever-encompassing implication that this is perfectly normal.

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To love is to come out with cruelty—hands from violent world.

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12-26-2023, 7 AM

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Edit after Félix Bracquemond (Jeannot Lapin) (Metropolitan Museum of Art) (Ed. Lic.: CC BY-NC 3.0)

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Edit after Elliot Daingerfield (Moonlight Landscape) (Minneapolis Institute of Art) (Ed. Lic.: CC BY-NC 3.0)

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"I won't beg for your love ...", Anna Akhmatova (translated by D. M. Thomas)

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Awesome tower: Bishop House, Old Saybrook CT [1920x1080]

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I will always love you but I cannot look at you

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Debra Spence — Lucky Spoons  (pastel pencils on pastlemat, 2022)

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january 12th, 2018

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Mother, Mother

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— Regina Shane, Mother Mother

mother, my bones are screaming terribly, i am aching miserably. my mouth hurts too much that it won’t let me breathe; it pains me seeing myself can’t move an inch—i feel numbness all over my rotting body. i am broken—destroyed into hundreds of pieces. will i be able to stitch myself back together? or will i be forever shattered for being a mess? 

mother, loneliness killed your daughter. abandonment reversed her existence into the core; she wanted to be saved so badly that it left her no choice but to split blood on the floor—clothes soaked with her own ichor. 

mother, your daughter wishes to end up deaf so she won’t have to get insanely mad—losing her sanity for hearing such cursed words and death from you—yet you made a woman madly deranged that becomes a roaring thunder like you. but she doesn’t want that; she will never be like you. 

mother, she started wondering if death would please you and father; would it be better to let her decompose her dear body or to hide its expiration from you?