We scream for absolution,
for the holiness that was stolen
from us when the weight of the
world was dropped onto our
shoulders, and we were told it was
our fault,
our fault,
our fault.

We crave blood;
we want to rip out our throats
and seep into
the earth,
the sea,
the sky,
to live inside this world,
be a part of this eternity
that cannot fit
between the lungs and the stomach,
in that gaping hole beneath our ribs.

We claw for sacrifice,
for burning down our cities,
these broken, evil things
covered in the dust of our own
corruption, painted with the
guts of our brothers,
all in the name of peace.

We want to be reborn
in the fire of the old world
as titans with spines,
as gods with teeth.

We, who have written
our sins in the stars.
We, who have dreamt
the entire universe into being.
We, who will live forever.

Emily Palermo, Prometheus.  (via starredsoul)
Despite what you’ve read, your sadness is not beautiful. No one will see you in the bookstore, curled up with your Bukowski, and want to save you.
Stop waiting
for a salvation that will not come from the grey-eyed boy looking for an annotated copy of Shakespeare,
for an end to your sadness in Keats.
He coughed up his lungs at 25, and flowery words cannot conceal a life barely lived.
Your life is fragile, just beginning, teetering on the violent edge of the world.
Your sadness will bury you alive, and you are the only one who can shovel your way out with hardened hands and ragged fingernails, bleeding your despair into the unforgiving earth.
Darling, you see, no heroes are coming for you. Grab your sword, and don your own armor.