#theseidjits

look at you, the girl who would be king. you refuse to believe in heaven and bury yourself instead within mythology's ancient intricacies, because darling, if you're going to play pretend with something, at least make it beautiful. you're the bravest coward I've ever known. you laugh at horoscopes, but still draw constellations on your wrists in class. astrology is greeted with an eye-roll, but secretly you love to see the stars like chariots, cassiopeia's throne, draco's tail, hercules' burning bow. you have recurring dreams of being immortalised in the night sky, majestic, distant, eternal. you awaken with misty eyes every time. look at you, the girl who would be king. the immortal dreamer, the secret optimist. in your reverie you tread atalanta's footprints, weave ariadne's thread. sometimes you feel like the heroine. sometimes you feel like you need to be saved. that's okay. you are made of glass. you are made of stone. you are so beautiful.

I'm baaack!

tell me you’ll build me a heaven here, out of dirty lace and newsprint fingers (because they won’t let me in now, will they? and that’s your fault. everything is your fault, the way my heart whispers so loudly I can never sleep, the way the holy water spills over my fingers because my hands shake when you’re not holding them) and I’ll have to share your toothbrush, because I left everything of mine at the altar (I even took off my shoes and hung them from the cross by the laces before I ran) so tell me you’ll pick the pieces of stained glass out of my feet, and we can spit cherry stones over the balcony into the graveyard, burn these sacred pages one by one to stop our wayward souls from shivering, and map out our heresy on this mattress with desecrated mouths whispering holy, holy, holy.

when they ask if you’re okay and you reply on autopilot, thinking, I wonder if alcohol bounces on ice thinking, I could take myself apart lay out all my bones in rows to bleach in the desolate sun that rose once somewhere in the whites of her eyes when they ask if you're okay and you're not sure what the answer is but you do know that her name is both symptom and synonym for the disease that is going to separate your atoms one by one, slowly, slowly when you curse every voice that isn't hers and every gaze that isn't hers and every touch that isn't hers but you seek them out anyway, turning them over gently in your bruised fingers like pieces of seaglass that remind you of a freedom you can't quite remember when you tell them you're okay, thinking of how hers is the only name you will ever write in steamed up windows; symptom and synonym and symphony