Journal Fragments #3

I wanted to kiss the softest spot of his neck, the one who is deeply connected to the darkest part of his being and make him feel like poetry. [...] I lurk in the unfathomable depths of the abyss and he makes me feel like the eeriest poesy.

Ribcage

I've been scared for so long.
I've been scarred for so long.
I am scared to the point I can no longer hold my pen without dropping it due to my shaking hands and shivering body. I can hear my own heart severely pounding - rather than beating - against my ribcage. It wants to find its own way out of my slightly withered body, among the crimson pulsing vein, ready to clog the sink and the tiniest fragments of myself.

Delicio-me em minha dor assim como alguém agoniza incessavelmente com o terror de uma veia recém aberta.

Wounded Child

A pale-milk and bloodstained child

hid behind white curtains pretending 

to be a ghost, because then maybe 

"they" would go away without hurting her. 

Little she knew about the death

she was about to face.

Little she knew about the ghost 

she would become.

There's someone in my head, but it's not me.

"I wonder how so much hate can fit inside a person; I wonder how I haven't flooded everything around me with hate."
"You already have, dearest. Everytime you cut, burn or punch yourself, everytime you starve or push people away, that is when there's no longer space for hatred inside yourself."

With eyes wide open

I can feel my neck artery

pulsing, jumping, 

trying to free itself and 

flood the bathtub with its

imposing crimsoness. 

My hands are shaking and 

I can barely write; 

all I wanted was to free this

goddamn artery and be free;

free of the agony of existing, 

of the knots in my stomach and 

spider nests in my throat. 

All I wanted was to be free of 

the pain, the guilty and be able 

to shut my eyes and finally rest.

Because in death, one cannot reach me,

touch me, or make me feel

like I am the most disgusting 

ghostly monster that has ever existed.