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take me to snurch (snail church)

CREATURE????

Suvirin Kedberiket, @worldsbeyondpod / “The Sun Is Still A Part Of Me”, Jennifer Willough

I got one for Ame, now i just need an Eursulon poem

guys, the male loneliness epidemic can be solved, we just need to hate all women even harder

You wanna know where I got my username?

Well there was this one fuckin banana peel-

Desire for trans people

lord the peasants are so loud today

I wrote this in a notebook when I was supposed to be sleeping. I had no idea where this story was meant to go and I was very tired but I thought you guys would like it anyway <3

Imagine performing your own autopsy. Seeing your perfectly clean naked corpse lying on a metal slab as cold and lifeless as itself. As your hands make the first incision, the skin snags and damages your scalpel’s blade, as if your body is still trying to prevent others understanding it, still as stubborn from beyond the grave as it was when it was alive.

Despite its…your resistance, after plunging and slashing and prying with your now ruined scalpel, practically begging for the flesh to open up to you, to tell you what happened to us, to just let you in, the skin gives way. Practically caves in, even, and a wretched stench fills the ice-cold room.

Gazing into your own gaping chest cavity, you see atrophied muscle, liquefying organs, decaying tissues and thick, gunky blood. Your body was only in storage for about a day and a half and found dead an hour before that. Nothing could rot it that fast, especially in cold storage. Your eyes water, but whether it’s from the smell or the fear that one day you will become this, are already becoming this, you can’t tell.

Nothing could make your body rot that fast. Not if it had just died. Maybe that corruption was there all along. Maybe it’s already within you. Maybe you brought it upon yourself.

You swear your body looks at you, it’s expression a mix of resentment and pity. It knows. It knew the whole time. They say ignorance is bliss, but knowledge of ignorance is purgatory and you must either learn, condemning yourself, or stay a fool forever.

There is only one way you can save yourself. You rip your shirt off and turn and plunge the blunt, mangled scalpel into your own chest, eliciting a reflexive gasp despite the cold numbness spread throughout your body. It slashes messily, like a rake across soil, and you see a puff of fungal spores burst from the wound.

You fall to the ground as faceless assistants haul your body into a metal storage unit, like you dragged the corpse from. The last thing you see is a single tear falling from the corpse’s eye before you are locked in the cold steel coffin and you are forced into darkness.

Hours later, long after all your internal functions have ceased, you hear footsteps draw closer. As you are pulled once again into the light by the assistants, you see your chest fully unblemished and out of the corner of your eye, you see yourself enter the room with a fresh scalpel and a haunted look in your eyes.

We just knew.