lupus-astra

this bitter taste in my mouth— it's a dying fire, and the ashes are lingering on my tongue. i wake up each morning with shadows beneath my eyes. dark bruises that hide everything with a flourish yet reveal all to anyone who looks close enough. the girl in the mirror is my enemy; her smile isn't all there and it is painted like a doll's, but not nearly as beautiful and enchanting. sometimes, i get the feeling that if i clench my fists tight enough, time will stop. but i know the gears of the clock that is wedged painfully inside of my rib cage will continue to grind slowly and sluggishly, because while i am not as broken as i once w

by all the gods, is she lovely— the sweetest lullaby i have ever heard. and her fingertips soothe this raging nightmare which roars inside, a decaying dragon that one too many knights have slain. if i could worship at her feet i would. alas, her temple is guarded by pale clouds and a witch's moonlight; only ravens may find their way into her tower and break her chains with a featherweight kiss. i do not feel her embrace every time the darkness whispers. no, it is only when the ice in my veins burns hotter than the sun and my voice is lost in the supernova that hides itself behind a black hole. it is only then that she is there,

i. to be perfectly honest, i've got a rabbit's heart. you know, the kind that freezes the moment it senses danger. kind of like a january midnight where all is still and the only thing you can taste is the rawness of your uncovered fingers. and it aches and aches until your fists refuse to loosen, before finally it stops beating and you're slowly dying inside of yourself. ii. once upon a time i fancied myself a she-wolf. ivory fangs that bit down on desperation, silver eyes that could see through hell itself, and a blackness nestled peacefully inside my chest, sleeping all day and waking only when the full moon rose. but i have learn

this girl dreams far too much; her bed has turned into a nightmare graveyard, full of wilted roses and broken spines. wanderlust is a toxin. one that fills her lungs with each breath and with every poisoned heartbeat, she yearns for a world with moons of gold and a silver sun. yet— she would rather listen to those sweet nothings than have the philosophy of reality shoved down her throat. this girl does not want to live in black and white; no, she craves color and the freedom it tastes like and if the chains that that shackle her starving soul refuse to unlock, she will tear them apart with her own two hands.

Her brother had fallen in love again and of course this time the unfortunate girl was a priestess of his. Just as every other mortal Apollo became infatuated with, her end would come swift and true by the time his passion decided that she was no longer amusing. Artemis loathed her brother. He was a disgrace of a god and yet, in every corner of Greece, the humans worshipped him. They sacrificed their finest of cattle and ram, wrote the most profound poetry in his name, even prayed for his light to bless their children so they may grow strong and healthy...but they did not know the true Apollo as Artemis did. They did not know how his heart w

sometimes i just feel so small and insignificant that eris herself could plunge a knife through my heart and i would hardly even notice. time does not heal all wounds because if it did then by now the constant and cancerous eclipse that hides under my skin would have faded away long ago and if i am being completely honest, i would flay myself and destroy it with my own bare hands if i wasn't so fucking afraid of everything. this war is far from over. the ghouls are winning again and i'm not sure if my dragons or my wolves can keep on fighting for very much longer. so please; please, don't leave me alone to the thoughts that have a mind

I dream of wolves every night. There are times when I simply watch them race through cold, shrouded forests. When I stretch out a trembling hand and silently beg one of them to place their muzzle against my fingers so that I may feel true strength with my own skin. When my heart pounds louder than a summer storm as they sprint together in one pack, their breaths stirring together in savage harmony. When I long to run alongside them, my soul more free than I could ever possibly imagine. And then there are times where I am one of them. I can taste the crisp moonlight on my tongue as my paws kick up half-frozen mud; I can smell the fervor of t

I don't want to die. No one does, I suppose. It's a natural human instinct to keep on living. But that doesn't stop the hands of fate. The hands that, as soon as their cold fingertips brush against your skin, you're gone. The hands of the ones they call Angels. They aren't real angels. Real angels don't exist. Just as God doesn't exist. There are no benevolent beings with crystalline white wings and halos burning with heavenly fire - there is no supreme existence sitting on a golden throne watching from above. Not anymore, at least. If they ever did exist then we killed them long ago and as punishment, the universe created the Angels that

the sun was a fool when he thought himself worthy enough to be blessed by the temple that was your lips. mad, they all whispered. mad, like the delirium of a fever that burns hotter than the summer flames, turning skin to paper and bones to dust. but no - not you. for you shone bright and the words that fell from your tongue should have been enough to bring all armies to their pathetic knees. not you, my dear. the future danced along your fingertips the way fire flirts with kindling. and if the rest of the world turns their faces away; if the rest of the world sneers with a scorn that would make a snake hiss in displeasure, i will