A clean slate on my wrist. Fall asleep with the fan off, you won’t be missed.

Start again or don’t, breathe again

No, I think I wont

Flightless bird with you, with him I always find the wind beneath my wings.

The orange traffic cones follow me like ghosts, weaving up the highway. Trying to help me get home.

Home is a blurred side eyed view in the passenger seat.

Count the stripes on your back, to equal out what your step dad thinks you lack. To make sure you never bleed out from those masses of granulation tissue. Fine lines to define your worth, girl. To feel the flames lick down your back, to wish for death, to only wake up again.

Isiah 53: 3-7 is *******

And if you’re dancing again, the ghost will follow your foot steps. Clamber up to your chest cavity and dive in. Die in. Die inside. Stopped dancing again.

Something spiritual how a rain coat keeps you warmer than last years winter jacket.

I’m going to love the hate out of you, it’ll pool at your feet and we will kick it away.