this one doesn't have any particular trigger warnings, but it is gloomy and represents a negative headspace, so beware.

words: idk my guy. like 500?

notes: this is where we get to more recent stuff and it descends into second POV because im obsessed with it.

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everywhere you go, you leave smoke. smoke that smells like leaves and hair, clinging to your nostrils and staining up the walls. when the dusky light shines just right and the smoke slides between the slats of your ribs and you can almost pretend you're real. you wonder whether ghosts could have a form if they wrapped tight around their bones and never let go. you wonder whether that's what you've already done. your footsteps don't echo, you've trained them not to. you've trained yourself into silence, beaten back by the world every time you try to be alive. the only mark you leave in this underground home is fingerprints in the dust and hair clogging the drain. you wonder you're already dead. you wonder whether the bunker is your mausoleum.

(it had to be bad otherwise you wouldn't believe me that it's your life)

you sometimes wonder about your ribcage. if it protects anything at all. there always seems to be this sucking hollowness stuck in your sternum, a black hole in the middle of your chest. you know it's a black hole because it's where your heart used to be and when something that wrenching and massive goes missing, it leaves a hole. your lungs certainly don't seem to help, always choking on your own pitch smoke. you don't want to consider the state of your soul. you think about the sharp, narrow bones that your ribs consist of, how much they weigh bleached and hollow. you wonder whether they're sharp enough to break off and stab yourself through with and promptly stop because it reminds you of things. things like half truths and donkey jaws and divine imprisonment.

you try to keep puttering about your bookshelves and small towns, leaving bloodstains and skidmarks but those aren't yours, not really. those are your brother's because even when he's killing himself slowly, drowning out the screams with liquor, he is so much more alive than you've ever been. you spill innocent blood on rotting wood and white carpet like it's spray paint. like you're fifteen and hanging out with the punks again and they're vandalizing property and you're so full of anger but this isn't where you put it. you put it towards putting one foot in front of the other, coal fires to move those leaden feet. there seems to be an artistry to tire skids and driving, but you can't appreciate. this is not your thing, it's theirs, you just took it and broke it in your spidery hands like it was nothing when it was everything. everything that matters. but that makes you think about Things. things like narrative symmetry and holes in the earth and legos in the air vents. so you stop.

you avoid all the books on necromancy. they remind you that all skeletons look essentially the same and you're scared, so scared, of that anonymity that you, in the same breath, crave. you fear that you'll turn the page and turn to bones on a page because that's all you are, really. you're dead and smoking up the bunker with your deadman stench, kept alive by fingerprints on paper and habit.

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notes: whew buddy that was dark. but I mean. grr. I just have a Lot of Thoughts. requests? comments? exact favorite color?

thanks for reading luvs 💙