Grace Kelly pictured at the Foreign Press Awards (now the Golden Globe Awards) in 1956.
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You wear your face like a tomb
names and dates carved into
worry lines; I lay flowers on your lips.They wilt when you don’t speak
for days, decomposing on
your tongue and you swallow them.The seeds in your belly
crack, steeped in acid—lining
your stomach with curling tendrils.They wind their way through the
notches in your trachea, double
helix of python and prey.It’s sunny out when you finally
break, the tunnel collapses
you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe.
“Grave News” by Andrea Chan, from (parenthetical) issue one (via wordsonpagespress)
You’re seeking something, but at the same time, you are running away for all you’re worth.
Depression is not Lana Del Rey music,
with smeared black eyeliner and tears running down your face. It is not a blood-stained tub, or the blade sitting across from you. It is not being rocked back and forth by a boy as he kisses your head and whispers “I love you,” repeatedly in your ear. Depression is not the dread you feel when the person you love the most doesn’t text you back. Depression is disgusting. It is low and filthy and dirty and it eats you away, bit by bit. Depression is the stale smell of your room and your clothes, because you have no energy to clean anything. It is sitting in the bathtub for hours as you feel that dirty type of clean, letting the hot water run down your body in no aims to stand up and turn it off. It is the hunch in your back and the the defeated slouch in your shoulders, the kind that your parents always try to fix, exclaiming “Sit up straight,” but what good does that ever do. Depression is the hours spent lying in your bed, trying desperately to fall asleep but never being able to. It is your eyes being so heavy-lidded and the circles under them that don’t fade, even after a good nights sleep. Depression is the sinking feeling you get when you enter school and your mind is already set - why would you care about your grades when you don’t even care about your life? It is the darkest kind of dark, the kind that intoxicates your brain and turns your best friends to enemies, your family to people you simply push away so they don’t have to hurt just because you do. It is the raw feeling of emptiness, the kind that gnaws at your very insides and leaves you nothing more than a walking skeleton, incapacitated and incapable of feeling anything but sorrow and sadness for nobody but yourself. Depression is the deepest hole you could ever think of, the only one you could ever think of because you dug it yourself. It is being not only unable, but unwilling to pull yourself up, having the darkness swallow you whole. Depression is not rain. It is being unable to see the sun, even after the rain has passed.
It is 2015. Stop romanticizing depression. (via lighthowell)
me as detective
me: victim is 6'1"., his body..Has already turned into a ghost…..
police officer: sir. that’s just a sheet we covered the body with