Amelia
Joshua was twenty years old when he found her in a fox den an acre away: her body a storm, gnarled and twisted and hard, and her smile half-broken like windows of an old house. He clawed his way out when her hand twitched but was pulled under within two sharp breaths.
transferring
under #suicidal storytellers
What? We buried the corpse hours ag—
(Source: madeofskin)
06092012H
She was pushed off the fourteenth floor; but as anyone could see, no one had been there.
victoria(n)
hallways echo, lined by
fickle oil lamps: we
keep our salt in iron
lockets in our chests
between a field of
rusting gears,but,
the noises in this place
have loudened: songs
the bloodstained parlor
plays and plays again. our
inventor died of fever in
the bedroom years ago and
still we hear her murder in
the watchful, peeling walls
why small towns have problems
”It’s only silence,” you said. Yes, yes, only silence—pounding, pulsing, palpitating like a migraine behind your cellar door. I sat in that dank hell forever waiting for you. You might’ve hated the cities with their rearing neon heads, clawing condominiums into your rural ground, but goddamn, did I hate the country—where the safest sound of all was the sound of that shotgun—the only sound I’d heard out there—shooting your neighbor who had risen from the dead.
300812
tainted tinted sheets blood-
baked in the angry heat but
always weeping always
bleeding with the secrets
they have seen
(via Untitled, processing by Ivana Stojakovic | Art Limited)
this is absolutely magnificent and is worth sharing.
Angel of Mercy
We became silhouettes there. The darkness we once inhaled began to pollute our breath entirely; and again and again, for longer, more violently, we folded into that rusting decay, pitted twisted against the blood of a tired sun.
things that classically go bump in the night:
- monsters
- demons
- ghosts
- vampires
- boogeymen
- my lack of coordination
