scripturiency

your mother's collection of empty glass bottles the stench of alcohol clinging to you no matter what you do the burn in the back of your throat the long stretches of time you do not remember afterwards and this is fine, this is good if you cannot remember what you did then you need not regret it if you cannot remember the look on his face then it cannot hurt you your growing collection of empty glass bottles the look on his face the many and varied things you cannot remember the eloquence you retain but the inhibitions you lose everything you lose, you lose everything but the drink, and so you drink to forget, you forget the burn in the

your half-moon mountain range nails. the blood, your blood, red and sticky, and a metallic aftertaste of pain. your pain. your blood in your mouth. you spit it out, but everything still tastes like iron. pain that tints everything slightly red. sleeping, dreaming, losing stretches of time to sleep and pain and healing. the novelty of your blood has worn off. your blood isn't a stain you can wash out. long stretches of time, stolen by nightmares, dyed red with pain, offered as a sacrifice to your own exhaustion, as if it's holy. your heartbeat, loud in your own ears. your pulse. you are a metronome of a person. stretches of time measured

here is the beginning here is the crying here is the leaving here is not the end there is not the end either the end is hidden between the door and the slamming the light and the shadow the smoke and the cough the tears and the crack in his words here is the beginning laughter, open doors, light beginnings only last long enough for everyone to notice something is happening here is the beginning growing into something bigger than itself and it is hiding partly from the shadow partly from the crying but mostly from the leaving it does not want to go it likes it here here is not the end the end is hidden and the beginning is hiding if the

this is the joy you let slip between your fingers because the things you don't think you deserve are always the easiest to let go of if you think about it, this will explain every single one of your exes you don't think about it you don't like to think about the past it's easier to let go that way let it slip through your fingers you don't let yourself stop to think about what you might be missing it is both easiest and hardest to lie to yourself

you need to realise good things do not, will not, cannot happen. not here, not now, and especially not to you. especially not after everything you've done. you are damned. there are holes in your hands. if you squint, you can almost see the nails. you know what this should feel like. you should hate it. you shouldn't feel blessed. you are not blessed, you are damned. were damned. you are now redeemed, and this is the price you must pay. it's not so bad. you can still breathe, mostly.

you have given your heart to a man who has not even noticed you have never seen him smile when you're sober and that should not be an incentive to drink you are well-versed in destroying yourself this is just another coping method you feel like you're holding a loaded gun you're far too drunk to be holding a gun this is nothing more than another coping method he is nothing more than a way to destroy yourself you have never been very good at knowing what's good for you you have given your heart to a man who is steadily becoming your main reason to drink he has not even noticed you're far too drunk for this

i want to hold you down until you admit that you're better than me that i don't deserve you (i probably wouldn't need to hold you down i just want an excuse to be that close to you)

she is wrapped in her best friend's hoodie, and it smells like his laughter and his boyfriend's aftershave, and she is trying not to cry, but that's nothing noteworthy, she is curled up in a corner, wrapping a hoodie around herself like a bandage, as if she's bleeding, as if she can hold this back with the right amount of pressure in just the right place, she's waiting for him to get home and hold her tight and remind her of all the reasons she isn't dead yet, she's sure he'll be able to think of far more than the two she's managed so far (his laughter, his boyfriend's aftershave) she is trying not to cry, she's curled up in the cor

if you could bury a part of yourself without noticing, regretting, or hurting for it's absence then you would be a graveyard of a person you would keep yourself locked away in coffins you would, on average, never breathe never move, never see the light if you could bury a part of yourself without hurting for it you would be six feet under by now you would have dug more graves than anyone wants to count

you were alive, and then you were dead, and now you are stuck somewhere in between, dreaming of chains and hooks and screaming, god, so much screaming. but no, not god. no god here, and you never realised you'd miss him. you never realised just how much he was holding up, you never realised the absence of him would be so undeniable, so in your face, so painful. you never realised the absence of holy would burn. you were dead, and you were alive, and now you don't know. now you aren't sure. some days, you forget you still need to breathe. you forget you are once again capable of breathing through the pain. you forget the pain has stopp