Prison is a state of mind

Notes: I wrote this rushed and not thinking, i was gonna write a rant abt a post i saw and it was gonna be centered around scarabia or smth

♾️ begin ♾️

all of them, disgusting and guilty.

you don’t need to be bloody to be dead.

it's so sickening, living in a dungeon but everyone else isn’t like you.

you’re the inmate, not them.

Fuck them all.

was it cause i’m younger? Do they look down on me? They say they dont but this whole hell hole is filled to the brim with liars.

none of them care about me, they all want to drain me of my life.

why else would the blot trace their angry faces.

why else would they hit me with a baseball bat?

throw dirt and sand into my eyes?

drown me in the dark ocean?

throw me across the land?

poison and taint my skin and veins?

Restrict and cage me?

take my own mind away from me?

and labor me like i was nothing more important than a footnote in a large encyclopedia?

theyre all older, they should read the entire thing, why do i have to keep slipping them notes?

i don’t want them gone, rather I want to see them suffer in my prison.

Embracing that edgy teen rn

“he loves me, he loves me not” (small snippet of me writing)

seeds of sick adoration ripped and thrived in his throat, tears of bittersweet honey ran down their tanned cheeks as they hunched over the garbage bin.

their grip on the bin was as deadly as the grip the disease had on their poor body.

white daisy petals slicked with blood and saliva, they stained all that they touched, harmed the body they grew within.

pollen coughed and heaved its way out of the scarabia student’s body, iyad wasn’t allergic, but this time pollen was deemed fatal for them.

for every time they met eyes, another seed was planted.

for every conversation they shared, the sprouts would extend to stems.

the dreadful silence between the pair would act as bees, buzzing to nurture the growing vines, encouraging them to bloom flawlessly.

the botanical properties fought endlessly to leave iyad’s throat, leaving them bruised and poisoned for their fault.

iyad’s mind spins as the haunting story that implied that flowers, the flowers tell you if he loves you or not.

iyad looks down at his garden. he closes his eyes. 5 white, blood stained petals.

“he loves me…”

“he loves me not…”

“he—“

”Iyad?!”

—

how is it? is it good or cringe

anyways, none of my ocs are safe from me💗

tag list: @venaue @babyghoul138 @beneathsakurashade /nf i just wanted to have some moot opinions