this is no fairy tale. you are doubting and dangerous and a bleeding mass of sea foam that someone made the mistake of loving. falling is no sweet ocean, my dear, and the knives on your feet will not kiss you softly. 

you are not forgotten. 

start a collection. find seashells, find sunsets, find bone pieces and keep them stored in a matchbox. bite down deep into your tongue, taste the blood running. 

you never did let her kill you, but the sentiment still stands.

i have drunk up the sea, the sky, all the water and the blood. for you. i couldn’t help it, though. the colour was just so perfect, so happy, i wanted it to become me, be inside of me. i needed it, oh baby oh baby oh baby.

you are less so a person than a document of the bruising mouth.

there are no gods, my darling, there is no night. there is only your hand in mine and the tenderest call of sleep. maybe when we wake up you will taste different, of springwater and ash, and not of the sea. 

i hope this is love. i hope that when you wrap your arms around me you feel the thrum of cities, the call of armies, the gathering of empires. loving you is carved into the very pillars of the altar, and cults dance frenzies to you in the night.

somewhere between the cold dark earth and the glistening forever, i can taste you rot.

i can’t sleep for fear of missing you, but i know the only way i can see you again is if the nightmares creep on slick. loving you was a mistake, a jaundice, veins cracking at midnight but oh god you could kiss.

lose the bloodstains, baby. i can see right through you.

then stop cutting me open, sweetheart.

rising by a.g. (via hcspera)

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