normal body horror thingz. just a dreary vibe.

words: 391

notes: i am Obsessed with second pov I am so sorry

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your skin screams for touch, for proof of life, but you are scared. you are scared that if they reach out to touch you, you will dissolve into mists. you are even more scared that you won't. you do not remember whether you are dead or alive, whether your hail mary's were given or if they haven't even arrived. looking down at your hands and they are red. red like the dirt of the bible belt you remember driving through eons ago, back when you were a child. red like communion wine, and you wish you could be that holy, your addiction that divine.

you grip the pencil harder and your knuckles turn white, the bone peeking through and that's all you can think about now. you are just dirty skin waiting to melt off of clean bones and dance in flame. you wait to burn them, to perform a ritual cleansing. it's a purity so absolute, when the smoke of your bonefire rises in puffs, free like you could never be. if you do it right, it might touch the sky, tickle the heavens into permitting entry.

you know, though, that your soul is too heavy for that. it will never grow wings to float amongst the angels, to make cloud nine your home. it's stuck somewhere in your ribcage, a glob of something that binds everything unpleasantly. it sits in your chest, messy and festering and so, so massive. your soul takes up the place for your heart, for your stomach and your lungs. distantly, your remember a time when you have enough hope to keep your soul light but that was a million years ago, so long before the Morning Star. when you could breathe enough to shout and eat enough to thrive, you didn't feel like you were carrying your cross everyday. this must be your ritual, the bearing of your soul so that when they burn your bones and you turn to mist, heaven will see your plight and strip you of your pain to play amongst the Angel's.

hopefully.

but then someone reaches out and the touches are tentative and feather light and you realise, with a sinking feeling of your soul re-entering your body, that you are here and will not dissolve into mist, not yet. you are not pure, not yet.

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notes: i still have Thoughts™️

comments, critiques, requests, favorite ice cream?