simplyinterestedd

[simplyinterestedd]

user vacillator deactivated......... this is my burning of alexandria...... this is the end.......... sobs

[simplyinterestedd]

I turn off the yellow lights so the bathroom is only red. The sound of the cheap projector spinning, humming quietly, endlessly. I close the door and I lock it and then close the door and I lock it and then I stand under the water. The drugs round the corners of the shower slightly and I'm able to stick my hand through the tile if I want but only if I want. I will always look for a crack in the wall through which to feel it. To touch it. To put it in my mouth and my mouth on it. It's easier when it is dark and when it is cold or when it is suffocatingly hot but always when I'm alone. It does not come to me where other people can see it, unless I take the drugs, at which point no one can see me though I can see all of them. I want to stare at the sun for a while, but not nakedly. Instead I hang up quilt over quilt and watch it try to get through. I want to take more drugs because I want to get high because I want to see it and wrap myself up in it. Maybe I should do drugs before I do interviews. I make all my music high out of my mind, it seems silly to talk about it later while sober. Do I even know what I'm talking about when I'm sober? I'm recounting a memory of an experience I had with God, now with God having left the room. I don't have to explain to you what I'm talking about it, you already know. I don't care who you are, you know. You've been alone at least once in your life so you know. I blacked out every window of my bedroom in the attic in Pennsylvania and I rocked back and forth on my bed with the drugs and I cried asking for it to come to me. I want it all the time. I am so angry that it will let me near but it won't let me stay. It's so cruel. It laughs at me when I realize we are not the same. I'm going to take more drugs and get in the shower and put my hand through the tile. I know you can hear me. It's happening to everybody.

[simplyinterestedd]

breakups suck

I wrote about you every day for four months. The small things, the way you fidget with your phone, the way you bounce your leg. I wrote about you every day for four months, but I act like I still don't. I do. I’ve written about you every day for four months and three days, and I will write about you for four months and four days, and four months and five days. 

I once wrote, “and in between your lips i found the meaning of god,” back before I knew what love was. I wouldn’t write that now, simply because I didn’t. I couldn’t find anything there except for hatred and love – juxtaposed through the way your tongue would sink down my throat and the marks on my breasts that still linger. A phantom touch appears to me every night, your hands slipping between my legs and across my face. I cry every single time because I know you’ll never be with me again.

But there’s a reason why all I ever feel is your touch. I don’t hear your voice or see your face, but I knew you. I guess what we had blinded me to what you were, and what I was. 

I’ve loved you for four months and three days – I’ll love you for four months and four days, and four months and five days. And maybe it will stop, eventually. Maybe my sadness and anger will dissipate, leaving only an emptiness where you used to be. 

You didn’t write about me, or love me, despite your promises you did. Touching me and touching me always, an object moulded especially for you. I thought that was love: giving everything and losing yourself in the process. With you I became nothing but a body and a mean voice – unable to voice the insecurities that plagued my every thought. I became my biggest fear, someone without substance. 

You didn’t make me laugh, you didn’t make me smile. You didn’t make me happy or sad. And I loved you but did I? There’s a difference between falling in love and falling into limerence, but I’m not quite sure what that is. 

The way you ended it ended me. My anger has filled me up, trying to push the sadness that keeps swelling and I fear I might burst open. I used to worry I would crumble due to my love but I didn’t, I crumbled due to hate. 

I’m not a good person, but maybe I can be. And I don’t want you anymore, your touch burnt me and made me unrecognisable. And you don’t want me, I don’t think you ever did. 

I wish I could tell you this, but I doubt I ever will. This can stay inside, I’m okay with that, I think. I’ll let you hate me, I’d rather that than you love me.

[simplyinterestedd]

If you are a marauders fan you should really consider reading/watching the vampire chronicles/Interview with the vampire. Louis is such a Remus variant, Lestat is a Sirius variant. Loustat is wolfstar variant. Armand is a Regulus variant. Daniel is a James variant. Armandaniel is jegulus variant. Loumand is moonwater variant.

But they're a lot more toxic and messy

[simplyinterestedd]

[simplyinterestedd]

Goldfinch boys were ahead of their times for having a gay situationship in 2008

[simplyinterestedd]

blend with inner self

[simplyinterestedd]

[simplyinterestedd]

kyle maclachlan behind the scenes of blue velvet (1986)

[simplyinterestedd]

[simplyinterestedd]

And the most unasked for crossover reward goes to

Galran Fyodor and Altean Nikolai because what else am I supposed to do with my life

Yes you are seeing Keith Kogane and Nikolai Gogol in the same room You’re not the one losing your mind I am

Anyway my brain loves doing that shit where you scrape together even the most surface level tiniest similarities between two things that are as unrelated as something can be so,, take this and suffer with me

[simplyinterestedd]

they passed around their perfumed hand cream—guest house laundry was the designated scent of today. in unison they rubbed their hands together, like clapping monkeys. it’s an apt metaphor, considering their brain sizes are practically homogenous. like a choir practices to perfection, they smoothed the cream out over their palms, fingertips, and baby pink acrylic nails that they all had done in the shopping centre near university. they held their hands up to the other, comparing their identical palms. their lips could be peeling off, their pores large enough to be seen in outer space; it didn’t matter so long as their hands stayed soft and smooth. it was their raison d’être, their piece de resistance. their one true beauty. i say their because there was not one. you could not differentiate one from the other, despite their differing colours and structures. they were all the same. same girl hands.

[simplyinterestedd]

[simplyinterestedd]

sun bleached flies – ethel cain

yes i did make a 6 minute long ethel cain x ft edit

no i am not well

[simplyinterestedd]

that ship is toxic to YOU. to me it's a complex, multi-layered, essay-worthy dynamic that'd take numerous hours to dissect (during which i'll spend crying screaming tearing my hair out)

[simplyinterestedd]

We could be heroes

[simplyinterestedd]

Judas Kiss.

My piece for @vashwoodzine!

Thank you for creating such an amazing project, I loved working on it!