just another thought

I’d almost forgotten that feeling I once got after every film ending. 

after every heart-pounding climax and serene equilibrium and rolling credits, 

it had once left my skin a foul sort of sensation I couldn’t place, 

like a dread, a buzz of lingering adrenaline maybe? 

If such a sensation could be so foul. 

I’d forgotten, because I didn’t feel that anymore. 

Not until recently, 

and only now in my, not old, but older and wiser years, 

I come to understand it as the 

sensation of reality seeping back into my skin, 

after such a narrative, 

such a story, 

such a storm of emotions, 

comes a blank day, 

of no sun, no wind, no rain, 

just bleak reality. 

And though I am older now, I still cannot 

bring to terms if it was a sensation I very much


or if it was dread indeed, 

and in dread I buried a loathing for reality. 


Midnight drabbles; devotion

There’s a beautiful simplicity,
in falling so deeply,
into something,
a melody,
a narrative,
a person,
a sort of ecstasy,
where your perspective worsen,
and to the sleepless nights,
and the pitiless fights,
you suffocate on this simple devotion,
blindly drown yourself in an ocean,
whilst you’re still breathing,

Quick trick

Let me show you a trick,
something small,
something quick,
of which I light the flames,
show you a game,
where my body burns,
and my skin turns,
itself into gold,
yes it’s heavy,
but my heart is steady,
as my weakness died,
and the monsters in me rise,
to make an aberrant out of me again,

Midnight drabbles; Over

Are you ever so overwhelmed,
with absent thoughts,
and deluded visions,
and mindless dreams,
and drifting ambitions? 

there’s just so much of you,
in this crippling,
and so very bleak,
you’re overflowing,
over knowing,
that it,

Self-loathing; a flavour, a fire

Loathing tastes like a lime peel at the back of your teeth,
it tastes like cigarette ash,
and the nicotine,
is so addictive,
with each breath,

Self-loathing though,
tastes like blood,
a sweetness at your tongue,
metal at your lips,
makes the monsters want to kiss,
the hate from you,
just to spit the poison,
back into your lungs,

feels like a flame,
underneath your skin,
a fire so entrancing,
that you want to peel back your skin,
claw open your ribcage,
stare at the flames through your skeleton,
just to watch yourself burn, 

we just love to burn, don’t we,
we burn because,
it’s beautiful,
the fire,
the pain,
and the rising,
from the ashes,
that sometimes never comes

Midnight drabbles;

who is this person I’m wearing,
this suit of meat, a made-up pretty-thing,
with bruises on her skin,
scars in her heart,
and eyes like a shield,
such a heavy weight to carry, this body,
with all of it’s layers,
fragile bones like twigs,

I carry around this thing like a puppet,
this mass of human flesh,
this raging storm of emotions,
a mouth of sweet words,
& awkward stammering,
the facade aches away at my core,
bores me,

Come on. Play with me. 

For there are times when the shield comes down,
and this human pretty-thing,
with brittle bones,
a weak mind,
and a tired soul,
stares back at her monsters,
monsters like me,
with eyes like a wildfire,
promising to engulf the universe,
you will give me strength, she says,

It’s the first time I smile,
the first time I speak,
Vixalia Visé, my sweet. 



Stop hurting me;

So I can love you,

Without hating myself for it.

Because yes,

There was once a time, my love,

Where if you should slit your throat,

I’d be the one to bleed.

Midnight drabbles; insomnia

My insomnia holds my hand at night, 

whispering sweet nothings in my ear, 

be careful, be wary, be brave, my dear, 


There are days when it brings friends, 

and I find my monsters in the dark, 

weighing down my bed, 

filling up my head, 

with such heavy thoughts, 


And I haven’t got the fight in me to tell them to leave, 

Because sometimes you just need, 

something there, 

to tell you they care, 

even if they’re lying


I lie awake at night,
wondering if you might,
be thinking of me,
if you too see,
the darkness that now shrouds the,
brightest of our memories, 

how much it lingers,
to remember your fingers,
in my hair,
and yet my heart cannot repair,
itself from the crippled remains of me,  

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