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leechteethwrites · 2 hours
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when your card declines at therapy so they bring out your past friends that have ended friendships with you because of one argument and wouldn't communicate and resolve the issue but gave numerous chances to their master manipulator boyfriends that hated their guts
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leechteethwrites · 5 hours
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a piece of something i wrote from when i was 16
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leechteethwrites · 9 hours
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painted my childhood cd player today :') i miss phoebe and boygenius so much
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leechteethwrites · 2 days
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I want to be loved more than I want to be alive
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leechteethwrites · 2 days
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Fyodor Dostoyevsky // Alanis Morissette
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leechteethwrites · 3 days
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BONEDOG | by Eva H.D.
Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything’s worse once you’re home.
You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful.
And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn.
You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth’s gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of…
Anyway…
You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time…
Well… Anyway… You’re back.
The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness.
You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone.
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leechteethwrites · 3 days
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ouch
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Mercy, Mercy Me, John Murillo
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leechteethwrites · 4 days
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a piece of something i wrote
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leechteethwrites · 4 days
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i hope this finds you before April ends :)
part of a recent poem i wrote—April April
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leechteethwrites · 4 days
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a piece of something i wrote
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leechteethwrites · 4 days
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Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.
@dog-teeth/nobody - mitski/@ lilrainpoety on instagram/little weirds - jenny slate/@blossomfully/@chaandajaan/strawberry blond - mitski/wishbone - richard siken/salt - salma deera/unable to find a source/mia hollow/the unabridged journals of sylvia plath/nobody - mitski/crush - richard siken
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leechteethwrites · 5 days
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a piece of something i wrote
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leechteethwrites · 6 days
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a piece of something i wrote
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leechteethwrites · 6 days
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Mary Oliver, from “Marengo.” [ID in alt text]
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leechteethwrites · 6 days
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hozier, the lesbian you are
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leechteethwrites · 6 days
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oh to have a gf
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leechteethwrites · 7 days
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a piece of something i wrote
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