...dear you, you have filthy ocean water green eyes- murky and sad. you think they are ugly and would prefer a plain color like brown or hazel. i however would trade these mud puddle eyes in exchange for yours. p.s. (because theyre beautiful in an ugly and broken sort of way)...
dear you,
darling you have whiskey breath and cigarette smoke clings to not only your clothes but your skin. it makes me want to envelop myself in you and your scent. you smell like the ashtray my grandpa kept on the porch out front. p.s. (you smell like the cancer that killed him but i love you none the less) &n
Tick Tockshe’s lightning and flamboyance, dancing pirouettes, around a clock which ticks off, every guy she’s been with for that day, and now she’s nearing the 6 o’clock mark.Tick Tock
she’s alcoholic drinks and speakeasy clubs, fabric stretched too tightly over skin, exposed in places where her porcelain should not be seen, sh
Rib Keysi. he runs his fingers along my ribcage. their dancing, and playing tag whilst he pretends my bones are piano keys. i imagine that every time his finger tips tap the hollow bones rather than an echo it produces a twinkling sound. a song of stars and the moon and the sky. “the piano makes such a beautiful sound…” he murmers and i believe he’s talking to himself until he looks into my eyes and says “but you make a far lovelier sound, my dear.” and we kiss.Rib Keys
(now im playing a song of colliding stars and exploding moons and everything’
Hurricane, Katrina.00a. katrina. is what they name her, it's a random selection, as it is with all the others of her kind. going in alphabetical order, to keep track of them. but sometimes people forget, that names have meanings. and hers means pure. oh that was a bad choice...Hurricane, Katrina.
(a very bad choice.)
00b. because she is far from pure. she is hectic, chaotic, and destructive. nothing of purity, by the standard definition. but she is pure in her mother, Nature('s), eyes. for she
whimsical thingsshe can't sleep at night, so instead she watches the stars from her bed and writes poetry in the folds of her mind. she watches the sky change colour from darkest purple to a light blue and watches as the stars dissapear one by one. she feels redundant, watching the sunrise.whimsical things
- we're sitting on her bedroom floor and she's got a spoon and a lighter, a syringe and a lack of something to keep her happy. sometimes i think, when we're here, that she should write her poetry down. that she could escape some things. i never tell her out loud though; we just shoot heroin and fuck with the stars. we shoot heroin and fuck with ourselve
bright eyes - collabthere’s a girl whose lips taste like a half moon and her fingers like the sun, just two minutes and thirty three seconds before dawn. you know the way you feel, when you’re standing outside in the near-dark with a cold chest and cold toes, waiting for the sun to appear from behind the horizon. when there’s a whisper in the leaves and murmurs from the grass, and the mud; it’s filling the gaps between your toes and you’re crying. it is just like her, you think. just like her fingers with cracked nails and calloused fingertips. - there’s a girl whose got bright eyes and makes you think about eating tea abright eyes - collab
sorry
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Founder of =Inked-Page | Staff for *100ThemesChallenge, #LITplease
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...up the ass!
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:iconApocalypticCouture: = new account.
I love art... Do you? <3
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i'll definitely check out your gallery
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We're All Mad-- The Cheshire Cat.
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Feet, why would I need them if I have wings?
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