"how can i tell you i gut people for a living.
that everything you say is likely to end up as evidence when i rewrite history.
over and over again."



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✟ st. abby ✟

Last Login:
March 26th, 2024

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Gender: Female
Status: Single
Age: 23
Sign: Leo
Country: United States

Signup Date:
July 28, 2017

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04/19/2023 09:03 PM 

from grey-eyed athena to swift-footed achilles, everyone has their epithets.

vodka girls with tastes passed down from brother to sister,
from rubbing alcohol to strawberry lemonade.
pouring ten years plus down the drain.
drunk words are sober thoughts that mean nothing when you got an empty bottle in your hand. 
she is a lesson i am doomed to learn over and over again.

good little catholic boy, the patron saint of springtime, the apple of his father's eye.
forever protected from the threat of being decanonised.
too virtuous, too pure to be tainted by my corrupting touch & sinful words.
untarnished, always the prodigal son. 
fortune in your favour that you outran me.
these careless hands would have torn you apart. 

the bad guy of the story. a pretty villain with prettier ocean eyes.
the scent of a jacket doused in expensive cologne.
the sight of my bared neck makes your palms itch and your hands clench. 
you don't even have to ask. i already know my place.
underneath you, your heel, whichever.
oh, to talk a girl out of her clothes and out of her right mind.

he-who-could-never-do-wrong, the dreamwalker who visits during restless nights.
my greatest pleasure, my greatest disappointment.
the blueprint to abandoned plans.
i burn your effigies everyday, just as promised.
though a gravedigger, i do respect the dead.
what works? all i see is despair.
an ozymandias you will never be.
you got that, honey?

and you. code that cannot be parsed. runtime error. you're still in development. stuck in the debugging stage and the last person left no comments.
we'll have to wait and see who you decide to be.
well, beyond the warmth a hand pressed against the small of backs.
a payphone i whispered my confessions into but didn't have a quarter to continue the call.
or you could just end up being bloatware.

...then there's me. the perpetual victim, the final girl, the scorned hero, the eternal tragedy.
never in the wrong,
always the martyr for the cause.
the weakest bearer of the heaviest persecution complex.
the sole sufferer, the biggest problem.
the reason why children lose their wonder, and why innocence doesn't last as long as you'd like.
the thunderstorm on a birthday or baseball game.
i'm the job you never land, the guy who doesn't call back, the invitation lost in the mail.
the bills piling up as you miss another lotto number.

too proud to let anyone catch a glimpse of the rain cloud lingering over my head.
but i hope you notice anyway.

i'm the poor in spirit that will never reach the kingdom of heaven. 
st. peter locked me out a long time ago.
abby

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✟ st. abby ✟

 

Apr 19th 2023 - 9:22 AM

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i'm like if david foster wallace was a girl and a mediocre writer. this is my infinite jest, but not any good.

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