Open Starter

“one day you’ll stop being surprised that I’m saving your ass. again, might I add”

Addictions || Open Modern Starter

sarcasiisms:

              Sweat soaked the sheets tangled around his legs, constricting
              more and more with each desperate kick. Acidic need burned
              the back of his throat, along each rib bone and in the tips of his
              fingers. His body twitched without ceasing, ranging from the
              slightest tap against the mattress with his thumb, to complete
              convulsions with an ARCING back and dramatic limbs.
              occasionally the pain dropped away, fading into a lukewarm
              irritation beneath his skin, lacking the aggressiveness that
              otherwise  c o n s u m e d  him. The darkness of the room
              isolated him and completed his depressive loneliness, but
              paranoia and hypersensitivity were all that awaited behind the
              curtains and out the door. Eyes rolling, sometimes between
              clenched eyelids, sometimes visible to the ceiling, there wasn’t
              an escape from the wretchedness that this need had
O V E R W H E L M E D him with.

              There was a solutions, only ONE, and half way through a
              convulsion, he rolled himself towards the edge of the bed, free
              falling without any kind of grace, and landing sprawled on the floor,
              attempting to seek out that solution. But the door creaked open, and
              it was the suddenness and unexpected nature that jolted some
              kind of clarity through the haze of withdrawal. Setting his palms
              down against the cold hardwood floor, flattening all ten digits with
              enough force to make them ache, he pushed himself up to sit against
              the bedside table. He didn’t care who was approaching him, but he
              was aware of the aid that they could provide to him. “You gotta help
              me,” he croaked, struggling to push words through the  i n f e r n o
              in his throat. “I need a hit. Just one.” His body started to shake again,
              but the prospect of acquiring his solution gave him the means to
              suppress it more easily this time. “Just one. Then it’s done.” He was
              trying to convince himself of that, more than anyone. “Just one hit,
              just to get me through now. Please. I’ll fucking do anything.”

Addictions || Open Modern Starter

              Sweat soaked the sheets tangled around his legs, constricting
              more and more with each desperate kick. Acidic need burned
              the back of his throat, along each rib bone and in the tips of his
              fingers. His body twitched without ceasing, ranging from the
              slightest tap against the mattress with his thumb, to complete
              convulsions with an ARCING back and dramatic limbs.
              occasionally the pain dropped away, fading into a lukewarm
              irritation beneath his skin, lacking the aggressiveness that
              otherwise  c o n s u m e d  him. The darkness of the room
              isolated him and completed his depressive loneliness, but
              paranoia and hypersensitivity were all that awaited behind the
              curtains and out the door. Eyes rolling, sometimes between
              clenched eyelids, sometimes visible to the ceiling, there wasn’t
              an escape from the wretchedness that this need had
              O V E R W H E L M E D him with.

              There was a solutions, only ONE, and half way through a
              convulsion, he rolled himself towards the edge of the bed, free
              falling without any kind of grace, and landing sprawled on the floor,
              attempting to seek out that solution. But the door creaked open, and
              it was the suddenness and unexpected nature that jolted some
              kind of clarity through the haze of withdrawal. Setting his palms
              down against the cold hardwood floor, flattening all ten digits with
              enough force to make them ache, he pushed himself up to sit against
              the bedside table. He didn’t care who was approaching him, but he
              was aware of the aid that they could provide to him. “You gotta help
              me,” he croaked, struggling to push words through the  i n f e r n o
              in his throat. “I need a hit. Just one.” His body started to shake again,
              but the prospect of acquiring his solution gave him the means to
              suppress it more easily this time. “Just one. Then it’s done.” He was
              trying to convince himself of that, more than anyone. “Just one hit,
              just to get me through now. Please. I’ll fucking do anything.”

she     tread     a     path;
on     fractured    glass
through searing flame
and  on the  other side
her     broken      bones,
and      blistered     skin,

                                                      was her ARMOR

                                                            was her SWORD

                                                                  was her WINGS

                                                                                                         credits; (◆) (◆)

//okay but do you know what would be hella rad? if someone made a murphamy child muse. that would be hella rad

                         ^im  B A D  _behaviour

                                                             ^{but i do it in the}  B E S T  _way