dazedomine

одинаковые вещи, одинаковые люди,

“I won’t glorify or romanticize heartbreak, for me it was a kind of death and I was forced to keep living.”

Open hands are out of season. These days, everyone I know talks about coming at their hearts with their fists. I try to talk about myself that way: violence and timbre, teeth to pink underbelly, all ache in a skin suit. Bravado is a bad look on me– the fabric doesn’t hang right. I only bark at the things that scare me; I was born to be a soft, bruising thing. Like a fresh peach. No turn of phrase could suit me for the battlefield. Not when the hunger I feel is less fire, more symphony. My heart hums like the thrall of a cello. It sings and sings and softens.

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