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
caught between a rock and a hard place by lupus-astra, literature
Literature
caught between a rock and a hard place
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