neverworlder

This is the cartography of half-eaten plums in the dark; how we shipwreck our hands into each other— deeply shaken and unholy things.

Now they want to make a film For anyone lacking the ability To imagine the body, head in oven, Orphaning children […] they think I should give them my mother’s words To fill the mouth of their monster, Their Sylvia Suicide Doll

‘We don’t fit in, you and me,’ he said. 'We’re both oddities no one knows what to do with. But we fit together.’ He took her hand, pressed her palm to his, then laced their fingers through each other’s. 'We fit.’

I’ve got a romantic’s heart strapped inside of a cynic’s chest and no where near the courage to do anything about it. Everyday, I go to war with a body that gives like the trussel on an old sewing machine, and write soliloquies to the seam of my ribs, all because I am too afraid to lift my shirt and actually touch it.