#antiopa

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

who wants to love me in a way heaven is not fit to house

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

i need to see devil and the deep blue sea as a 14hour (at minimum) movie. for my soul.

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

there’s something hauntingly permanent about ink on a page. black staining your fingers along with the cellulose, a lasting reminder of all you’ve let out. matter does not ever disappear, it only changes forms. the scratches of ink feel wrong now, and so you hold it to the flame of a pomegranate scented candle. the flame eats away at the page, leaving smoke and ash in its wake. carbon that will flood the air, leaving the mark of your ink, your words, your mind, all through the lungs of every person on earth. the plants will absorb your thoughts, and the next time you eat a pomegranate, the ink you set out on that page will be back inside you, a spectre of what it once was. a reminder of everything you tried to forget. now, instead of black staining your fingers, there will be red. it looks the same.

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

i should fucking [remembers suicide jokes are bad for my mental health] lie down

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

i cant tell if i need to be kissed or hit by a bus

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

i love all of you 🫶🫶🫶 please stay as safe as you can

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

sync[opated] and [dis]harmony

mosaics fashioned of glass that shattered without making a sound. late nights become early mornings become roaring silence. the hurricane rolled through and left the houses standing but the ground is chipping away beneath our feet. an exchange is made, dragon fire for salt water. the other way around wasn’t working out. hallowed gravel in the fields. anima sine vita. vita sine anima. the lake is still as death. sleeping through the sunset. vines grow and cover gravestones. same words in different fonts. pages of children’s fairytale books, now turned into gauze. they don’t stop the bleeding. yes i love you and no that doesn’t mean anything. nothing is real when you’re running on no sleep. what are dreams made of if not future fears? pomegranate stains on my fingers, but my mouth tastes like sawdust. daily suggested servings met but every day this body feels more hollow. is the blackness on my fingers ink or are the shadows creeping in? atlas would not be remembered if he hadn’t held up the sky. i fear my name will be invoked until the end of time itself.

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

im having bread with olive oil and salt right now and i feel like a fucking king

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

this character is so relatable and i dont like that.

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

January - Xana // Pinterest // Review of Gross Anatomy A Dynamic Approach - Ben Panksy Ph.D., Earl Lawrence House Ph.D. // anatomy - @wastedonthesebutterflies // The Creation of Adam - Michelangelo // Pinterest // @poemsonmars // All Things End - Hozier

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

you know you’ve made it when your plot is used in multiple different crime shows over half a century after you came up with it, in addition to the initial movie

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

that northern carolina sunshine brings my flaws into the light, the way i disrespect myself and how i’m so visibly tired all the time

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

do you ever do something super incredibly off-brand and then remember it ages later and have an existential crisis

because i do. i am, in fact. the existential crisis is occurring now. what the fuck was that

[wastedonthesebutterflies]

the radio is playing some niche band neither of us has ever heard of and my mind is playing catch-up.

you look at me and my tongue itches to say something cheesy but my throat is dry. drier than the white we’re sipping in the near dark of sun-behind-mountain.

i think you’re the prettiest thing this side of that mountain. any side of it, really, and with the way the sun’s last rays look like a doorway into heaven, that’s saying something.

all the time i’ve known you you’ve been spilling poetry and i’ve been spilling my guts. you’ve got colour and all i’ve got is lack.

suddenly the red and white checkered blanket seems too small, too tight. i’d move to the grass, but my jeans are white, and despite all my protests i’m one hell of a coward.

i guess that’s the difference between us.