(Source: corpseonpumpkin.com)
Bright violet droplets of blood sprinkle down on the uncut wedding cake, describing a chorus of howls and horror of the guests. And by the end of the night there are more paramedics and police personnel around than anyone that I can actually recognize.
The water only really gets warmer, but never quite boiling, so I scrubbed the poor koala for twenty minutes on a timer, hoping it would stop the bleeding, but the wire sponge dug into its wounds ever more. When the timer went off the sink had already filled up to the lip and had splashed across the entire the kitchen floor, its tide seeping into my shoes, climbing up my legs. I blacked out scrubbing the koala bear’s wounds.
Mi manzano para el diablo ha sido cosechado.
Debatable calculations and equations in the sea, floating by on gentle unsolved waves.
I hear this beautiful pattern of voices inside my head that chorus and condemn me with an almost clockwork consistency. Fear and frustration and a myriad other realms of adverse thought will surface and compound and in small pops they’ll explode one after the other, seemingly without an end in sight until at last, I can re-discover myself, peacefully, by overdose of medication or something.
There is not much worth agonizing over in the old house. And there is not a thing to fear but skeletons and ghosts. Tied to the whipping post in your head, anchored to the ever-present past, you can stand up for yourself however much you like, but you know it’s only postponing the inevitable crash. Give up.
The electrical remnants of her exist as peculiarities in the piano room, where oviparity behind the substructure of tangibility has produced a multitude of subsequent occurrences throughout the house.
I think you’re bleeding.