paraLytic staLks♥ My L key isnt working ive just realized! i like this font though Sad face only the capital L is visible..

AS YOU GET CLOSER TO THE END OF THE PYRE, SLOWLY THE BURNING STARTS TO SMELL LIKE HOME- im still sick & hands burn & feet like crucifixion, i get more paranoid, i recover, repeat the cycle & I hate it / i love being absent & Not much else "holy holy holy , holiness is empty in itself its full of holes Like the sun burning inside oout / " - He was the sun. Everyone knew he was going to burn out eventually, but no one knew how many eons it would take for him to burn. He set himself on fire at both ends–his hair and the soles of his feet, and he was bright like the boy Christ, and like Jesus the carpenter, he built his own cross of pine wood–charred black smudged across his face and hair. To burn is to clean. To burn is the most hollowing way to die, but if it’s done, you’ll surely go to heaven. His blood is made of wax, red and clumpy strings like a drenching web on your legs– And this boy was the farthest from God, as a mother to a child–he was the outsider, the fly on the windowsill, that dances through her nursery rhymes as she rocks him to sleep–. Doomed to something he shouldn’t have been aware of–A tiny bug given the awareness of God so vast it pours out of every pore in its miniscule frame, shattering it, squeezing the life out in a frantic spasm of burning light, robbed of flight, his wings penetrated by the light from outside: which for the first time, he understands. He tried to hold his passion like a lantern, trap the holy beast inside of his body–but his greed choked him round the throat, like a stomach-acid licking the base of your throat and lips. He didn’t use the light like a lantern, so careful not to spill a drop of wax-blood, so the ones behind him drowned in the swampy muck-river, slogging through knee deep, then chest deep, so cold it runs in your blood, stabs a rattle in your chest and a prickle in your fingers as the blood drains away–God of the hollow swamp, angel of the river. But the people were blind again, so they saw his resistance as a blessing. “Thank you for protecting this light, thank you for leading us to the other bank.” Because the light that leaked through his wings let them see just ahead, barely– So this tribe of Eurydice was led and betrayed by their hallowed saint, adorned christ-boy–Orpheus sinned by turning back. The second coming was the glance he’ll make, to see if the rest will follow: to see if they are still behind him. And the moment he turned and they saw the extinguished flickers in his eyes, they wept and drowned, for they knew it was over.

Dont know an explanation of this webpage: i want a smaller scaLe to collect imagees, sort them into tiny boxes and write alot where no one wiLL read it, and i can update whenenvr and not have much coherendy , like my substack but smaLLer scaLe "bitsbyt3s" is very good art, its people being hugged by empty hands/spaces cut out of them w stars on the bodes sometimes! i like it

He told me that whenever we make eye contact, we wil haev 2 have a staring contest so he can see that im not looking at him Like the girl who abused him

As a joke, because I am visually similar to her

A FOERMER CLASSMATE OF A CLASSMATE HAS BEEN MISSING FOR OVER A MONTH / SHE JUST DISSAPPEARED INTO THIN AIR. I HOPE SHE IS ALLL RIGHT. I THINNK ABOUT HER EVERY DAY

and otherwise im doinng so well, writing more, here is something ive just started:

Girl Harpoons The Sun God

There was much speculation where the peculiar girl came from–if she was a regular, struck down with some unfortunate wasting–swamp disease and left to rot in her own pale skin. She was untouched by the sun and her sockets were reflective like dual pools of stagnant cave water framed by the lightest lashes. Perhaps cursed with some odd recessive gene, though no one would know as she, as an infant, had arrived floating down the river in a basket. She was caught in the draping leaves of a weeping willow and sheltered there, herons and waterfowl forming a protective circle round the wicker basket until local fishermen arrived. This proved quite difficult, as the birds nearly blinded both fishermen with their sharp beaks and beating wings. They gave them quite a hard time, and seemed intent on keeping the basket-girl. In the end she was liberated from their overhanging wings and willow leaves. Pond muck and wilted, honey-scented flowers swirled through her hair, twisted almost deliberately ( she had impressively lengthy hair for such a young baby.) She seldom blinked and never cried, growing up raised by the whole town, naturally falling into the position of hearth-tender as she aged. She was the daughter of everyone and no one. They named her “_” which meant something like “river-born” in the local language (or perhaps “angel” when referring to a residing species, “angelfish”, for the long strands of their milky-white fins and dark mottled spots resembled her hair and curiously animal-like eyes. Like a dog that had learned how to be human. Always watching, waiting at the door for someone to come home–the whites were never visible. She was never afraid. It somehow made sense that she had no blood parents in the village, for she had a strange and wild nature about her that could only be expected from someone seemingly birthed from the maw of the river itself. Swallowed in the blood-salt water, hatched from a gelatinous mass of fish-eggs that sprouted into her eyes, and spit out of the river belly onto the backs of waterfowl–such were theories tossed around among residents, jokingly so–but strangely enough, if a goddess entwined in seaweed and draped with insect-shells had descended onto the dry banks and claimed her, no one would have been surprised. There was always a murky sun-halo round the edges of her hair. She always fed the ducks, mallards and herons that strayed close to the bank, breaking the silky water as they streamed towards her like fish to bait. It was speculated that she could get them to eat even ash from her hands–chunks of black coal streaks she washed from her delicate hands in the stream, collected by tending the hearth in the heart of the village. They would eat charred bread scraps, and she would share with them as she tucked her body in the crook of low-hanging willow, and sleep for hours in the sun–or disappear into the reeds like a naiad, emerging as the sun set with a basket full of pale flowers and dripping with water-plants, snails clinging to her bare legs. She would pluck leeches off of her limbs and throw them into the river, disappearing with a plop and being devoured in a spray of bubbles by the surface-dwelling catfish. And her stagnant pond-water blood would be returned to the river from where it came, a rebirth and propagation of her essence within the bellies of pale fish with cold eyes. She had a cottage, which was built overtime in exchange for various favors–though she hardly needed it as she seemed to live under the willow tree she arrived at. Just like a naiad never straying far from its life source, she could always be found draped among the many branches, weaving a crown of slender leaves, her hand dragging aimlessly in the water. Mosquitos never touched her, for her blood was like poison–she would pick up waterbugs and hold them, or watch them cling to her hair with mild interest, their tiny legs waving and prickling gently against skin. As she grew older, she seemed to attract more and more insects–waking up, vacant cicada shells tangled in her hair–which she would pluck out delicately and place in a glass jar on a shelf. This started as a problem for her food supply, as ants would spread into the grain and pickled jars of food. They quickly abandoned this once they found where she slept, and would stay around her for so long they would starve and die (much to _’s distress.) She would have rather had them eat her only food than to watch them dry up and die on the floor, turning into dust. There was a rumor she made a horrible pact with some god, and the cursed insects were being forced to serve as protectors, forming perfect battalion-lines round the edge of her silhouette like white string laid to outline a dead body. She would hold dragonflies in her cupped hands, pressing her ear close to hear the humming of wings and letting them go slowly to glimpse their iridescent carpaces flash in the sun like jewels. Bees swarmed to pollinate the few flowers scattered around her cottage, and soon there was much more greenery than necessary. Vines began creeping up around the edges, adding the effect that her resilience was being slowly swallowed by green. The swamp grasses turned bright, flushed fluorescent glowy green under the frequent rain, and trees bearing fruit flourished over mossy carpets and rotting wood. Petrichor and damp, muddy earth scents swirled through the air, and the air hummed with warmth and scattered cold chills. Anyone could disappear for hours in the low-hanging trees, gnarled wood dripping with sap and rich with honey.