Drowning. Strychnine. Self-cannibalism. Scabs. Scarab beetles. Soul-abortion. God-divorce. Apostasy. Voice box autopsy. Hydrogen peroxide. Why can’t I scour below the pores? Possible cracked scapula. I didn’t dare go to the doctor. The X-ray would show no bones like the mirror confesses no reflection. Broken camera. Slow shutter speed; same photo over and over. Alchemy. Blood. Heart pumping mud. Black magic. Skin turned to stone. Slaughterhouse. Should have known better. Should have known better. Inadequate gravity. The earth cast off its axis; I’m fighting for an atmosphere somewhere in Andromeda.

Deanna Larsen, ”What Rape Is Like” (via stillbirthed)

furrylittlepeach:

It wasn’t long ago that I reposted this one because someone got it inked on their arm, but here’s ‘The Descent’, one year on from my solo show Wild Things 🌊🐋

furrylittlepeach:

It wasn’t long ago that I reposted this one because someone got it inked on their arm, but here’s ‘The Descent’, one year on from my solo show Wild Things 🌊🐋

But luxury has never appealed to me, I like simple things, books, being alone, or with somebody who understands.

Daphne du Maurier (via lunagemme)

Stop saying it’s okay when your soul’s bleeding. Stop trying to dodge knives that always end up in the depths of your heart. Stop looking to the ceiling hoping that tears won’t overflow. Stop taking people’s shit. Walk away. Fuck them all.

E.B., Self advice (via young-wanderer)

(Source: loveless-people)