Reblog if you’ll always be Team ‘Blichellie’
nva:
am i allowed to be Team Blichellie if I’m part of it…?
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Reblog if you’ll always be Team ‘Blichellie’ nva:
blichellie:
am i allowed to be Team Blichellie if I’m part of it…?
↓
No One Loves Me, And Neither Do I. They met each other in a cheap hotel room and they fell through pre-stained sheets, adding their own dash of colour to the linen. The fought and fucked and bled and came together while you and I were out in the street huffing spray paint underneath their window. She hit harder than he did, but he fucked her in the arse with the biggest weapon in their combined armoury. Their wounds became infected by the dirt under their fingernails and she always wore the same heels and the matching thong that all paired nicely with the lipstick and the red teeth marks she left on his cock. They fucked and fucked and fucked. The only time they stopped was that time she needed an abortion, and even then, a doctor would have frowned at how quickly she was filling her still healing reproductive system with his cum. It burned her for a little while but the pain eventually stopped. She didn’t tell him, they fucked to hurt each other.
One night, her head rested on his chest and she felt his heart racing. Pressing herself to his chest, to gain clarity of the effect she had on him. He pulsed as her nails dug into his arteries and she relished that feeling that people who are alive must have. “You’re alive,” as she searched for her glass of whatever-as-long-as-it’s-strong-and-brown and he pulled his pants to his hips, belt undone yet still slung in the loops. We always knew they were finishing up when we heard the metal ringing, underneath our streetlight, your filed down pistol in your belt as we rode acidic rainbows that burned lines in our brains. “Do you know what love is?” He shook his head with a firm jaw and deaf eyes. They didn’t hear her, as if he were scared to look at her when her lips moved. Their armour was perfect, physical hatred to protect themselves from each others emotions. He’d never had a more satisfying lay, and he’d heard someone say making love somewhere in his life. He left his heart at the door and peeled hers off with her clothes, making sure to carefully hide it under the pile. “No one loves me…” she whispered softer than a dying humming bird, “… and neither do I.” She’d spent a lot of time loving things. She loved the wrong men for the right reasons and drank all the cheap bottles expensively. People always wish they had an off button, and she found hers in the bottom of a bottle. The blackout had always been the same, foggy vision becoming a hazy blurring into unconsciousness, coming to with her underwear tangled in her heels and a used rubber on the floor. Safety first, they said. She loved the way the razor blade left intricate lines on her pale skin. The thick drops of blood that ran steadily down her alabaster, and the taste of ionised heavy metals bubbling on her tongue as she licked herself clean. Lines and curves over thighs that many a user-and-abuser had tasted, and left humanity’s dying seed upon. She loved the way the drugs decapitated her. The rush and the “fuck” of the crystal nitrous oxide hit making her pupils as sharp as the needles and pins she used to take that disconnected head and placed it underground, far, far out of reach. She swung from the spirals on a constant balance change, up and down, until she reached the end and flew high off the vertical, only to topple forward into three days of crawling over empty syringes and not feeling the little slivers of glass finding a home under her skin. He left the money on the pillow next to her, as he had always done. “I’ll call you soon…” was his last words to the closing door and the dull flicker of failing electrics in the hallway. As she dressed herself, she found her heart soaking into the floor. She committed a personal crime that she swore she’d never allow, she cried. Her weakness broke the levee of her strength and not even the tides could hold the flow as it poured over skin like all those droplets of blood had. I thought she was the toughest fucking bitch alive, you thought she was fucking crazy, but when I heard those tears falling over the sound of the rainy, city night, I wept too. Maybe it was the toxic come down from the sealant glue, but my emotions spilled out and washed into the gutter. The back door to the hotel opened. The back door to the hotel that never opens, and she stepped out into the street. Her make up ran down her face as the clouds forced themselves upon her. She walked toward our usual spot and as she entered the light, you faded to the shadows. She saw me crying into the kerbside, and walked toward me. Her white shirt now completely see through, letting her perfect nipples show. She bent those long legs down beside me, and kissed my forehead. She left me there, under that streetlight. I never saw her again.
No One Loves Me, And Neither Do I.
They met each other in a cheap hotel room and they fell through pre-stained sheets, adding their own dash of colour to the linen. The fought and fucked and bled and came together while you and I were out in the street huffing spray paint underneath their window. She hit harder than he did, but he fucked her in the arse with the biggest weapon in their combined armoury. Their wounds became infected by the dirt under their fingernails and she always wore the same heels and the matching thong that all paired nicely with the lipstick and the red teeth marks she left on his cock. They fucked and fucked and fucked. The only time they stopped was that time she needed an abortion, and even then, a doctor would have frowned at how quickly she was filling her still healing reproductive system with his cum. It burned her for a little while but the pain eventually stopped. She didn’t tell him, they fucked to hurt each other.
One night, her head rested on his chest and she felt his heart racing. Pressing herself to his chest, to gain clarity of the effect she had on him. He pulsed as her nails dug into his arteries and she relished that feeling that people who are alive must have.
“You’re alive,” as she searched for her glass of whatever-as-long-as-it’s-strong-and-brown and he pulled his pants to his hips, belt undone yet still slung in the loops. We always knew they were finishing up when we heard the metal ringing, underneath our streetlight, your filed down pistol in your belt as we rode acidic rainbows that burned lines in our brains.
“Do you know what love is?”
He shook his head with a firm jaw and deaf eyes. They didn’t hear her, as if he were scared to look at her when her lips moved. Their armour was perfect, physical hatred to protect themselves from each others emotions. He’d never had a more satisfying lay, and he’d heard someone say making love somewhere in his life. He left his heart at the door and peeled hers off with her clothes, making sure to carefully hide it under the pile.
“No one loves me…” she whispered softer than a dying humming bird, “… and neither do I.”
She’d spent a lot of time loving things. She loved the wrong men for the right reasons and drank all the cheap bottles expensively. People always wish they had an off button, and she found hers in the bottom of a bottle. The blackout had always been the same, foggy vision becoming a hazy blurring into unconsciousness, coming to with her underwear tangled in her heels and a used rubber on the floor. Safety first, they said.
She loved the way the razor blade left intricate lines on her pale skin. The thick drops of blood that ran steadily down her alabaster, and the taste of ionised heavy metals bubbling on her tongue as she licked herself clean. Lines and curves over thighs that many a user-and-abuser had tasted, and left humanity’s dying seed upon.
She loved the way the drugs decapitated her. The rush and the “fuck” of the crystal nitrous oxide hit making her pupils as sharp as the needles and pins she used to take that disconnected head and placed it underground, far, far out of reach. She swung from the spirals on a constant balance change, up and down, until she reached the end and flew high off the vertical, only to topple forward into three days of crawling over empty syringes and not feeling the little slivers of glass finding a home under her skin.
He left the money on the pillow next to her, as he had always done.
“I’ll call you soon…” was his last words to the closing door and the dull flicker of failing electrics in the hallway. As she dressed herself, she found her heart soaking into the floor. She committed a personal crime that she swore she’d never allow, she cried. Her weakness broke the levee of her strength and not even the tides could hold the flow as it poured over skin like all those droplets of blood had.
I thought she was the toughest fucking bitch alive, you thought she was fucking crazy, but when I heard those tears falling over the sound of the rainy, city night, I wept too. Maybe it was the toxic come down from the sealant glue, but my emotions spilled out and washed into the gutter. The back door to the hotel opened. The back door to the hotel that never opens, and she stepped out into the street. Her make up ran down her face as the clouds forced themselves upon her. She walked toward our usual spot and as she entered the light, you faded to the shadows. She saw me crying into the kerbside, and walked toward me. Her white shirt now completely see through, letting her perfect nipples show. She bent those long legs down beside me, and kissed my forehead. She left me there, under that streetlight.
I never saw her again.
