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@firstalternate

ᴵ ˡᵉᵃʳⁿᵉᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵛᵒⁱᶜᵉˢ ᵈⁱᵉᵈ ʷⁱᵗʰ ᵐᵉ

 20+ MDNI || dark themes
firstalternate.carrd.co/
Joined June 2021
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ever since i was little i knew something was wrong with me
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ً (@kreophagos) profile picture
ً@kreophagosSep 28
how awful, finding yourself in his eyes; in his mouth; in his lust for taking. you eat from the same rot-touched carcass, poison yourselves on the spoils. you're asking him, is this who you are? / you're asking yourself, is this who i am?
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ً (@holyaches) profile picture
ً@holyachesAug 8
we became wretched， dear younger self. will you forgive me?
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ً (@holyaches) profile picture
ً@holyaches7 Jul 2025
he gift—wraps self-sacrifice and calls it love; he has never known how to love any other way. he has never given his heart in scraps—— it has always been laid bare， whole and beating， on the altar.
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Willpower, gunpowder, concussive thunder. Pink, orange, red, orange dreaming red.
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What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be alive. Something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead.
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The bear loved the deer, it was obvious. It ripped the deer's throat out, and then licked the dying deer with the most passionate affection. I thought of you and me.
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I am beginning to see the body as a well / and your absence as a thirst that pushes its hands down my throat, lifts the bucket, drinks and drinks.
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(You're writing manuals on how to be ferocious but you're coming apart at the seams.)
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I thought about being placid, how quiet and comfortable it sounded. Someone who was never anxious, never tortured by doubt and indecision, someone who never stood as I did, hopeful, eager, frightened, tearing at bitten nails, uncertain which way to go, what star to follow.
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I remembered the long days I grieved for him, my hands empty and idle, plucking the air like birds peck at dry earth.
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I am full of suicides, of rotting corpses, of brittle skeletons, infecting the living parts of me. I am dead, though I do not die.
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I am in love with you. I wish to cut you open and eat you whole.
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I will lose you. It is written into this poem the way the fisherman’s wife knits his death into the sweater.
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one dull gold bounce and you're there.
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one thing i can promise you: coming back from the dead is a bitch. every single time.
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I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it – to be fed so much love I couldn’t take any more. Just once.
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Name one thing about us two anyone could love.
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the future burns slow like a cigarette to my lungs, and when i go home all the emptiness fills me up
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Repetition is the very foundation of prayer. You repeat the same phrase, the same word until it moulds itself under your tongue and becomes music, and becomes sacred. Love is the same, and its meaning has a way of building itself through sincere repetition.
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