I just wrote for an hour, pulling teeth to extract the words buried within my stubborn lips. And I wrote, wrote, wrote. I have nothing to show for myself now that I’ve discarded it. I care naught about the context of my writing any longer because Mania has taken hold, digging into the skin. Goodbye, Low. My mother’s malady has found me at eighteen.
I lay awake, roused by the gentle sunlight peering through my curtains. The mattress is plushy and soft under my sore body and I’ve tucked the cool covers between my thighs. I can hear my friends’ sleeping near me, their rhythmic breaths on the floor beside my bed and although I feel nothing but platonic for these two fellas, I’m happy to have company. Company in this loneliness is always welcome,...
It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.– Sylvia Plath (via epikhi)
vocab-ysk: To torment with, or as if with, the sight of something desired but out of reach; tease by arousing expectations that are repeatedly disappointed.
What torments of grief you endured, from evils that never arrived.– Ralph Waldo Emmerson (via true-i-talk-of-dreams)
My image of the ‘ghost,’ including everything conventional about its appearance...– (via sacreamour)
My only company My only friend And in her silence I meet the end She whispers words I cannot hear But I still feel her Drawing near She’s all I’ve got My only love He’s gone away My little dove But wait, just wait He’s back again But then he says I’m just your friend Then misery, whoa Here you are I missed you so You went too far I’m...
Women who are too sexual aren’t taken seriously, and women who aren’t sexual...– (via etherale)
There’s a call in the night A spectre’s chant Who beckons me To hear his rant He calls to me And whispers my name He rips off my mask He knows my game I scream and I cry I pray and I pray This chanting of his Will lead me astray I’m all better now Look how I’ve healed I cry as I know My fate is sealed He plasters the title Calling me whore He tears my...