they do not raise us so much as they split us open, leave their fingerprints pressed into the soft cartilage of our hearts. they make us wars, they make us revolutions, but not out of choice. it is survival, an instinct grown sharp like teeth. we are their unfinished confessions, their half-healed wounds dressed up as children. and when they look at us, it feels like their eyes hit something grotesque: a mirror that weeps blood so dark it smells of rust and meat, flies buzzing at the corners where the glass has begun to decay.        BY @ROTTEDPOSTMARK ON PINT