the funny thing about
humans is that
we think we are
invincible and immortal
gods.
no—
we're all
roadkill,
living in
a tainted world
where cars drive
too damn fast.
and me,
well,
i just try to
get by without
being hit
more than once.
How to love a girl who can't love herself. by lupus-astra, literature
Literature
How to love a girl who can't love herself.
one.
When she cries herself to sleep
six out of seven nights a week you must
say nothing. You must simply take
her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
pale cheeks and wait for her to
slumber at the sound of your heart.
two.
On the days where she wishes she
were part of the stars, tell her
no. Tell her that there are too many
lights in the sky and that just one
would be forgotten the moment you looked
away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
the way she is: completely human.
three.
Don't let her think about the scars
that no one but her can see. If she
says
Oh,
little godless girl
you talk like
the roots
of your powerhouse
are showing through
your teeth—
you’re no nymph,
or autotroph
breathing &
surviving off
your own carbon
dioxide.
It’s been 64 hours
50 minutes, &
33 seconds
since this whole thing
started
& you’re already falling
apart.
You left your skilless
tongue
in the waste basket
by the bed,
your limbs
spread &
weeping
in the alley.
You are your own
flailing masterpiece
& by definition
your work deserves
no title.
I
Catholic school can really fuck you up.
Petty insults;
“you have ugly hair”
“got milk?”
Breasts at the age of nine.
Bullying makes you someone you don’t want to become;
hide all that blackness in your heart
with overly cheerful hyperactive personalities
(that make others think you’re a little strange),
quickly forgotten.
Friends can’t tell when you just want to
scream
and cry
and be alone
because of how deep you’ve dug yourself in.
Afraid of yourself, you think and think, and THINK,
until you are terrified you’re going to give in
to those dark thoughts -
(and if you do, then y
How to pretend that you are a writer. by lupus-astra, literature
Literature
How to pretend that you are a writer.
Act like you're not
okay when you are and
that you are when you're
not. Run barefoot in
the snow. Stand out
in the rain for an hour
and think about anything
and everything you can.
Fall in love with
riddles and things that
aren't real and the
way some stars
shine. Cry when
you realize that life is
just one big sham and write
one hundred cliché poems
about it, and then write one
that you actually mean.
Use profanity. Be the
one fucking introvert
in a room full of
extroverts and scream
shit just for the fun of
it. Swallow every goddamn
metaphor you ever dreamed
of and write them down
with your own blood.
Eulogize your own
misery. Put a
It's not hatred, it's incredulity. by lupus-astra, literature
Literature
It's not hatred, it's incredulity.
when i was ten years old my
teacher asked the class,
"if you were god, what would
you change?"
and i remember
biting my lip so hard
that it bled. carefully,
i wrote about
how i would teach
kids from an early age on how to
love yourself and no one
else and that there is no such thing as
an almighty power that will pity
you and answer your desperate prayers
at three a.m. because you're the only one
who has that kind of control.
when i handed it in she just looked
at me like i was the
monsters under
her child's bed. the next day i
was sitting in her office wondering
why it was so wrong to
talk about what's in your heart at a catholic
school
tedious sleep...
what am I a spider?
or a fly?
writing teardrops on blank walls,
how long have I been in this hell?
granted I'm numb from the novocane,
all the way down to my core
like an apple gone bad
spoiling the rest of the barrel
theres no cure for hallucinations.
or the phantom ghosts that scream
like banshees.
I slip through the shadows
and fall asleep to their disturbing lullaby.
no waking till its over
Rain.I think about rain a lot.
But not in the usual way that most people think of it.
I imagine the rain falling,
Harder and faster than anything.
Killing thoughts and pain in an instant.
Not to mention all of those bad memories springing up
like weeds in the back of your mind all the time.
What would this rain look like?
The invisible flashes of needles,
Or the all too visable blade of a knife?
Sometimes when I think I scare myself.
Letter after letter falls
From untainted lips
They never even once had chance
And now have lost their grip
They tumble through the darkened space
Like angel with broken wing
Unto the poor whitewashed paper
But whom is worth nothing
The cloud-paper is vastly thinning
Gone from the third eyes sight
Far beyond the swollen moon
Into the tears of night