R3v3rie - ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Reverie ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

writer in the dark & liability -lorde

</3

"Am I supposed to be grateful to have survived this?" -Brenna Twohy, from "I know Its A Little Late," Forgive me my salt.

i’m going to start screaming and crying pretty soon. like i am so SO tired of caring SO much for people who don’t even have the courtesy to officially end things.

i just keep getting abandoned over and over and over again and i will end up in the psych ward oh my god.

a loud playlist to rival the noise in my head

(1.30.23) - head hanging out the second story window, i let the strawberry smoke fill my lungs. i glance at my watch. 120. it hasn’t lowered all day. i tell myself that it’s just a bad day, that i’ll quit again tomorrow.

the pennsylvanian winter chill hits my face when the breeze blows. there’s a bird calling that i recognize but can’t quite place right now. texts from my only two friends lay unanswered because i don’t know how to tell them what i’m feeling.

i silently wonder if the devil ever feels cursed. if he too sometimes didn’t have the strength in him, because being rotten at the core is truly exhausting.

an ache of pain disturbs the thought. the all consuming anxiety follows. this semester feels as if it will kill me. learning to walk again while desperately trying to memorize an entire taxonomic language is just too much.

i try to glamorize it, to revel in the tasks the women in my books love. to tell myself that this is the life of a girl in the scribe quadrant, that dragons are real and true love exists.

my cat jumps up, she sticks her head out too and sniffs the breeze. she is the only solace my soul finds these days, her and the fluffy stories i fill my head with when i try to outrun these thoughts. the ones where i have a friend group who loves me like family and a man who sees the stars in my eyes. the stories where i am not seen as a monster, but as gentle and kind.

i want to die, to be quite honest. i am in the wrong reality. there is no found family waiting for me, nor a man to write me letters assuring me that i am nothing but angelic golden light. there is just fatherly pain and the weight of the world on my shoulders.

i love car rides for the same reason i hate them; they give me the perfect space to finally think. today i’m wondering if 0.5/2 parents is really all that much better than 0/2.

atleast the 0 can’t disappoint you ig.

to my mother who won’t read this: honestly fuck you.

4.23.22 - Springtime Winter (excerpt)

I tell him how my dad is clearly trying to kill me, by leaving all of the windows open. I feel a passive pang of ideation. I don't tell him how I wish that it actually would.

‘everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it’ is cute and all til u have bpd and go genuinely psychotic when someone abandons you

‘Prowling Cats’ by Tim Southall

i was so real for this