#obwords

I was raised inside, born in August, which is mostly all right because it decays quickly.

I remember my dress floating thunder beneath me, a thrush's hymn in the mist, I remember boy’s gift to girl: a shot-gun and its silver bullet, is this the heirloom I will pass down generations? is his pride my only mortal joy?

I am only a girl but listen, you are not to blame for their blackened dreams. dear girl, rain becomes acid at your touch.

If silence is just a theory, I want no more of your theories. I want to be like a plant, something that grows itself toward light.

I am a slaughterhouse, which is to say, I am the god who is not girl’s god.