dancyfeast

[dancyfeast]

okay fuck the poems, im just gonna dump my thoughts insteaad

[dancyfeast]

dove - doll ver - antihoney

I can barely feel. I can't feel the burn anymore. My eyes are open, but I can't see. I'm curled up in a ball, but I can't feel the tug of my limbs. I'm breathing, but I can't process my breath leaving and entering my nostrils. I can't really tell if I'm there, or if this is just a dream. I try to recall the previous hour. It's all a blur. Yelling. Slapping. Crying. That's really it. I can't remember what was said. I can't remember how I felt about the pain. I can't remember why I was getting beaten in the first place. I can hear someone now. A voice that must belong to a girl a few years older than me. Get up. It wasn't that serious. Let's watch some videos. I blink away the fuzz in my brain, but it's not fully gone. It still feels as though this body doesn't belong to me. I uncurl and it's not really me moving as my tears are wiped away, and my legs are moving out of the room and towards the couch. I'm watching my sister put on some youtube. I can hear myself giggle at some points. I can't feel the humor though. I can't feel anything. This is weird. Am I numb? No..? I don't know anymore. I can't focus on the feeling. I'm too worried about making sure my siblings aren't worried about me. There's bruises forming, I'm sure. Not that I can tell anyhow. I can feel someone nudging me, I can feel all my muscles tense. There's a pause before I feel myself moving again. I'm going back to my room. Okay. I'm opening a door, then another. I'm entering a room, but it's small. I close the door. It feels like I'm trapped. I go down to my feet, and I curl up in the closet. When did I realize it was a closet? There's music playing, far away. It feels like it's far away. There's even further voices. Something about a crybaby... sensitive. Just leave her alone, she'll be fine. I wonder who 'she' is. Doesn't matter. There's tears. Who's crying? Is it me? I can't hear any sobs. No whimpers. Only heavy, shaky breaths. There's a salty taste on my tongue. Then there's a sniffle, and someone is wiping away the wetness on my cheeks. There's pure darkness then. And then, there's not really anything. No sounds. No sights. No sensations. No smells. No tastes. This is the closest I'll ever be to being non-existent. And it's the happiest I'll ever feel. The most emotion I'll experience. Sleep truly is an escape.

[dancyfeast]

idk what to title this

i might post a few poem esque writings that could be either mildly triggering or extremely triggering to some audiences. these themes include self harm, body horror, body dysmorphia, child abuse, toxic relationships, and there is going to be sexual abuse. everything I write about is to cope with what i've gone through, and to possibly help others. i've decided this is the healthiest way i can cope, and it might not be as healthy for others to read. so if you know you could possibly trigger yourself with this blog, i suggest either blocking me maybe? or simply hiding some posts and continuing to the less triggering ones. i think it would be cool if people sent in prompts, but yk. that might be a far stretch. also, i'm not an artist, but i do draw sometimes. maybe i'll upload some things if i ever get around to finishing some projects. but yeah, this is just like an intro to my blog? and a warning. enjoy!

[dancyfeast]

under my skin - jukebox

My skin feels disgusting over my bones and flesh. I can feel my blood rushing through my veins. I can feel my pupils dilate and shrink. I can hear my heart pumping inside my ribcage. I can feel my bones rubbing against each other sometimes. I crack my fingers, my wrists in any ways I can. I crack the bones in my legs, my toes. I crack my neck. I move my shoulders until I hear a pop from one side or the other. It's not enough. There's still too much tension. I know what will satisfy my body, yet I can't do it. I can't have that relief. I cannot break my bones, feel them digging into my muscle and bloom different shades of purple and green as my bone threatens to be freed from it's fleshy encapsulation. I can't shiver as I hear that loud snap. So I think of something else. If I can't break, I'll rip. I shuffle in that familiar black bag until I find a sharpener. It's probably getting dull. It still digs deep into my skin. It's a delightful euphoria, that adrenaline rush as I press the blade deeper, drag it further across my thigh. Blood, dark as wine, beads at the seams of my flesh. I want to see the fat of my thigh. I don't care about the blood. I pull the blade away from my skin and decide where I want to stab. I press it lightly, then I push downwards. It hurts, kind of. It feels like I'm poking myself with a pen. I decide I've gone deep enough, and I drag the sharpener away from my starting point. It's a shorter wound than the others, but it bleeds almost as much, if not more. I take the blade away and I shiver as I see the large bead of blood seep out of the small wound. I rip some toilet paper off the roll and wipe it away, ignoring the sharp sting. It's a beautiful fleshy pink that quickly becomes red again. I didn't go deep enough, but that was expected. I do it again, just once more. It doesn't bleed as automatically, and that's more than disappointing. I frown but I get up off my toilet throne of self-inflicted pain and shut my eyes, holding the waistband of my pants away from my skin as I pull them back up. I wince slightly as the fabric presses against my wounds. A week later, I'm doing it again. I've reached a breaking point. I want more than just slits. I just took too many aspirin, it'll get rid of the pain. I take that familiar sharpener and I rush into my bathroom, taking deep breaths before deciding it's gonna hurt either way. The pain is sharp and bright, but it's wonderful as I dig the blade into my forearm, dragging it and delighting in the sensation of flesh ripping. It's not enough. One more time, longer. Then again, about the same length. That's enough. I wipe away the large amounts of blood. There's some on the sink counter. I wipe that away too. I call my brother. I'm pacing. Talking. I can barely breathe. My favorite show is on. I ignore it. I focus slightly on the wounds on my arm. It's not enough. I'm back in the bathroom. I'm cutting more. None of them are deep enough. It's frustrating. Dad's home. Time to go.

[dancyfeast]

cop car - mitski

You were a toxic person. You treated me like a prized possession. Or perhaps like a bad dog. I was mean like one. I bark loud and I bite hard. And still, you tamed me. I became an indoor cat. I cuddled up to you and I wouldn't leave, even when you got up and left the room, I remained by your feet, tail swinging in the air. And then I would realize that you were leaving. I would wait by the door. I ate when I had to, drank when I was thirsty. I played when I got bored of the waiting. Then I would go back to waiting when I got bored of playing. I drank and I ate until I realized I needed you to do either of those. When I became dehydrated and starved, you would return. The cycle would repeat. I loved you, I tried to care for you, though what could I do with my unclipped claws, and my sharp tongue? So I let you pet me. You let me sleep your chest, on your lap. Then you would leave again, and I would wait, and I would care for myself, until I could not. Until I could not bear to be without you and I could not feed myself. Then, and only then, would you come back. And still, I would love you. Purr as you clipped my claws again, meow as you cleaned my dusty fur, and knead your flesh as you held me close to you in your bed. I loved you. You loved me. Then you got bored. Now I'm hungry, and I've become a stray cat. You haven't returned in months. I miss you, even as I roam the streets and I eat from different houses, let different families pet me, sleep in different beds. I've learned this is the way to provide for myself. I've realized I cannot be dependent. I will not be dependent again. I will not love another person again. I will not stay in the same home for months, or years. I will sleep, I will eat, I will drink. Even if I am never satiated again. I only care for myself. I don't care for anyone else. No matter how much I know that the bad dog inside still needs you.

[dancyfeast]

aishite x3 - kikuo

I'm trying to protect myself again. I flinch violently with each slap of your hand, every time you shout for me to respond. I can't find it in me to say anything, though I'm sobbing. I can barely hear myself over the way my brain is screaming at me to run away and protect myself. I can't. I have to endure this. I don't let go of my legs when you stand at your terrifying height. You can stretch on forever. How are you short? You seem like a giant the way you stomp your way over to your room. steps echoing loudly throughout our small house. Then you're back again, and something rougher is snapping against my skin. I wish I hadn't worn shorts today. I close my eyes and escape. When I'm back, I'm curled up in bed. It seems to be night time now. I love it when it's night. I get out of bed and fall to the floor, where my xbox and TV is. I turn both of them on and I play my favorite videos. The brightness burns into my retinas, but I ignore it. I watch until I'm tired. I don't want to sleep. I play a game instead. I play until I'm bored of that too. I look out the window. It took me a while to get bored it seems, because the sun is rising already. Uh oh. I shut off my devices and hop back into bed, just as that jingling noise sets off alarm bells in my head. I curl up in my sheets and shut my eyes and escape. I escape until someone is shaking me awake. I don't hear her words, I just do what I know I was asked. I return to bed when I feel I've done it. I escape, using that xbox. I take a break from it to use my tablet. People. Videos. Nasty pictures. Nasty videos. I close the app after deleting all history of what I saw. I escape once more, closing my eyes. I slept through the day because it's night again. I repeat the pattern I did the night before. Always a routine. No love in this cold void I call my life. Though there's facades of it that comes in food, clothes, shelter. Not like I care about any of it. I could starve and still be content. I could be naked and be content. I could be homeless and content. Just as long as I have my warm body. As long as there is meat on my bones and I can feel my existence, I am content.

[dancyfeast]

wutiwant - saraunh0ly

I'm finally free from that hell, but it seems I'm only in a new form of it. I'm free, though my wrists and ankles are bruised from the chains, my neck has burns from the rope, and my body is littered in scars from their blades, every kind they can press into my human skin. I can still feel the sharp burn that came after you would press that hand onto my cheek with as little love as you could muster, and as much hate as you could turn into a force. I still feel your leather belt making a loud whipping sound as you snapped it onto my exposed legs, then my arms. That voice of yours, like nails on a chalkboard. You could shriek, or you could spit out your malice. You could even shoot me a glare and it would easily burn holes into my heart like a mirror in the sun's rays. And like the sun, I try to brighten your day. Only it seems like each time I shine the brightest, there's a cloud to darken your sky. I cleaned the kitchen, scrubbed your floors shiny. Tidied the living room, my own room, and the bathroom. I did laundry. And still, you whine and complain and punish me for never quite meeting your expectations. The floor always has dust, a stain I failed to rid of, a stray roll of toilet paper, or candy that a fellow prisoner forgot to pick up. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, a never ending flow that I can never seem to stop. I don't sob, don't even whimper. Quiet, shaky breaths leave my nostrils. I don't speak unless told to. I don't make eye contact unless ordered. You wonder, years later, why that is. I wonder if it's changed. Do I speak more than not? Do I look into people's eyes instead of looking up at the sky and counting the clouds, recalling their names? Names. Do I have a name? You shout it when something has gone wrong. I whisper it when I stare into the mirror and I can't quite recognize what I see reflected back. I feel my face, brush a finger down my nose, feeling the curves of my jaw, the softness of my brows and length of my lashes. I rub a thumb side to side over my lips. I can't tell if any of it is my own. I pull my hand away, and simply stare. Who is that? Who am I? What was my name again? Who am I? I blink away the queries, but they linger as I trail my gaze down to my exposed torso. My breasts have scars as well. Those must not have been you. Was it me? My waist is thin, but then again, so is every other part of me. There's a gap between my thighs. My legs are so thin. I look up to my collarbones. They seem to have hollowed. My face. It's grown paler than before. I stop staring and make my way into the shower. The heat is comforting over my skin, the burn familiar and welcome. It takes me almost an hour before I leave the warmth, and slip on my clothes, offering not a glance to the mirror. Hours pass, someone new is in the apartment with me. He's not new. I don't regard him, instead curling into that ball of flesh and pulling the heavy plushy into my arms as well. I disappear from existence, and appear in a new one. I must be dreaming. I can't recognize such as I'm used to my setting. I'm in a hospital of some sorts, people know my name, though they aren't exactly talking to me. I don't mind. A boy is talking to me though. Hazel eyes, brown wavy hair, tan skin. He's nearly my age. My words slip out of my mouth, but it doesn't feel like they're my own. Jesus. I can't feel right now. I close my eyes and when I open them, my name is being called. I realize now, who I must be. A god of pain. A god of sadness. Oh well. I must be human for now. One day, I'll return to my throne of sorrow. For now, I'll be a shell of what I'm meant to be. I'll be human for today.