something claws at my insides tells me your affections are misplaced that they're only evidence of more deceit that your sweetness is a blanket for salt they make me wish i'd spent more time forgetting than forgiving.
YOU ARE READING
vestigial.
Poetryyou speak of death as if it is the start of life in your stories, but you portray it as the end of life in your drawings.
chapter nine.
something claws at my insides tells me your affections are misplaced that they're only evidence of more deceit that your sweetness is a blanket for salt they make me wish i'd spent more time forgetting than forgiving.