tell me the story about the bones you found in the garden. tell me, how you dug your hands into the wet soil, skin frozen and chunks of dirt clinging between the hollows of your fingers. tell me how you shed your skin into this grave. how you ripped  yourself into a thousand pieces to become the person you are today. tell me about the crown of bones you found between the white rows of bleak ribs. tell me how it really was, how the night swallowed you whole that day, how you kneeled into brittle stone and blood. tell me how it felt to drain the life out of the girl. to kill her before she could talk. before she could rat you out. before she could say how much she loves you. tell me the story about the bones you found in the garden. but don’t tell me they were mine. please don’t.

people who suggest getting breakfast together as a hangout plan are the kind of people you want to hang onto