#:)cc

               sometimes, he wakes up with the feeling of a wet warmth dripping out of the HOLLOWED and torn cavern of his throat to stain his fingers below, a scream that was never released escaping at last. his bird-wing heart is caught between running out of time and beating out his chest, where he’s sure it’ll burst open, UGLY and pulped like a ripe fig against the jagged edges of his rib cage that have been brutally eviscerated. sometimes, he has to trace the flat of his stomach to reassure himself that the skin is still firm and there, marred only by the SCARS of the orphanage that for some reason never healed despite the tiger’s regenerative power ( sometimes, he wonders if that was on purpose ; a REMINDER of how he’ll always be marked of that time. ) he wakes up, and it is with the memory of ivory fangs puncturing his paper-thin flesh like a balloon, a wild animal gaze that holds no emotion but BRUTALITY against the prison of his body that cages one so mighty, the hot heaving breaths fanning out against ravaged limbs.                          ( i hate me too. )