I would rather bury a sphere into my heart, as I gaze over the velvety red liquid let the blood crimsoned silk stain itself the symbol of my verging desperation.
The fluid nature of women, how they are limited to being perceived only through a superficial lens. In reality, women can be powerful, magical and even horrifyingly beautiful.
Sometimes, when I’m tired of now, I go back to eleven years old. It’s summer, and I’m swinging on a tire swing.
how did your delicate soul ever fall for this decaying corpse?
My guitar’s metal strings, your sonorous touch; both a pain laced with pleasure that I have only grown to crave.
It’s hard to answer the door, having to deal with company in a house built for one.
But greatness dwells not solely in grand acclaim, nor beautifully polished trophies, being proudly displayed.