my followers are dropping like flies lol
i’m sorry i’m such a self absorbed bitch
What would you name your autobiography?
To the Ghosts of Summer Winds
Create a soundtrack and book list for a rainy day.
Soundtrack : Ludovico Einaudi
What kinds of outdoors would you most like to spend time in (woods, beach, open meadow, etc.)?
When I was younger, I used to imagine open meadows, rolling hills. Much like the default XP background on Microsoft computers. I called it the Land of Quiet Song, and I was convinced I would travel there someday through a portal and never come back. Believe it or not, I was 14 when I believed this. I was desperate for any way out, I started forging false hope with promises of a beter existence.
scales swallowing your heart
while sandbags fill the veins inside you
like the litter in the rivers of the long, broad amazon;
you are the amazon, but your body
cannot move that way, it doesn’t
move enough for someone who is trapped —
take your pills
take your pills
take your pills
three hundred is the charm, or at least you’re hoping, because the morphine is so heavy in your head.
What is this nonsense about people wanting you to delete your blog/you wanting to delete your blog?!? ;(
It’s not nonsense. I don’t think anyone wants me to delete my blog, but I do. I’m so sick of everyone here. Most of the “friendships” I’ve made here went poisonous quickly, I have no support here. If I sound bitter because I can’t fit into this community, it’s true. But I’ve announced my last three suicide attempts, and nobody cared or even tried to help — yet i bust my sorry ass for tumblr acquaintances, and I know this is all very self pitying but I don’t feel respected or cared about here. I feel almost like people are stealing from me or using me, even though I know they aren’t really. It’s just that my writing does not feel like it’s my own. I can’t express how I feel but I guess I express how many of my followers feel, and to them that’s good enough. It’s not to me, because it feels cheap. I feel cheap. And I’m sick of feeling cheap and feeling dirty and feeling bound and gagged and trapped and hearing people say “I know exactly what it’s like” and then act as if i’m automatically one of their good friends because they think they understand me when there’s only one person in this world who does. It hurts to write. I’m worse when I write. I relapse when I write, and when I’m actively on here I relapse three, four times a day. The majority of my followers doesn’t even follow for whatever quality my writing’s worth, but they follow it because they can relate. And that makes me mad, because it makes me feel as if I’m a shit writer and more like a funhouse mirror instead.
this site is so reminiscent of high school i’m not even kidding
we’re a community? o h n o yahoo is going to make tumblr MAINSTREAM with MAINSTREAM people?
pray for the morgue & i’ll see you all in hell
- You’re a broken radio with static-static hush-hush sounds for audiences to tinker with. You sometimes hear their voices while they play haphazardly inside you.
- You’ve cracked mirrors, because your skull is cracking too with all the pain.
- You have a dress of scars you can’t take off, but it’s your favorite dress so far because each wound is a success to you, because your body is a failure.
- You wane and hollow out your body. But the wind will still not echo you, and your footsteps still will trail blood for hounds to feed on you.
- You try to break your fingers still sometimes. Pain gets you higher than the stars who, along with god, have never loved you,
- and your reflection
is a dangerous thing.