amethyst

“cannibalism is a metaphor for love”, “cannibalism is a metaphor for lust” ok but when do we admit that sometimes cannibalism is just a metaphor for «i’m so fucking hungry»? and not the poetic kind, not the «i’d die to taste the flesh of the love of my life» kind, just feral and consuming hunger. though maybe, if it was her, i’d let myself be devoured.

🤩 id

Conclave (2024)

how i feel when my irl friends start asking me about my telegram channel like i’m suddenly on an interview or something

не до конца понимаю, когда мне всё равно, а когда просто устала от того, что не всё равно. подозреваю, что второе звучит хуже

how i look writing 20-page essays defending regulus black like he’s on trial and i’m the last competent lawyer in the wizarding world

“so what’s for dinner?” well, depends. how rude were you today?

my hands only stop shaking when i’m asleep or dissociating. sometimes both

i have dreams of you asking me better questions, u were never as curious as i wanted.

🤩 🤩 call me by your name summer or whatever it will be

if you think therapy is hard, try dating someone who eats his feelings.

i. the idea is that the agonizing squeeze of misfortune after misfortune is the normal. seeing my own body cower beneath me; the dagger cold in my sweating palms, indenting my flesh with macabre intention. i plunge it through her neck and crimson spurts forth like i've struck a spring. ii. the glinting blade is not the only thing that reeks of metal. the blood pooling beneath my feet, coating the floor in anguish. i watch as the last semblance of life twitches from her frantic limbs. she wanted this. i didn't. iii. i kill me to preserve her innocence. i'm glad to have laid waste to my own self before she could be soiled by another's sins. iv. then i witness her arising and yet again i pick up the dagger to send her careening back into torment. that is her eternal state, bloodied by the hands of her own soul. v. someone for whom happiness is an omen for upcoming suffering does not deserve to eat of the sweet flesh it is made of. the fruit of joy must be picked by those that can appreciate the fleetingness of the taste. maybe i just haven't the affinity for it. thus, i must kill and i must die; the taste of blood in place of fruit.

pairing is so good it feels like coming home and bleeding out at the door cr

people talk about self-care like it’s candles and yoga but for me it’s skipping dinner, listening to portishead and rewatching hannibal while whispering “me fr” every time will graham looks like he hasn’t slept since 2007

some girls have a romcom main character voice in their head. i have hannibal lecter telling me i’m unwell in the most poetic way possible