i'll never understand why gentle souls suffer but i like to think she was too good for this world and was needed elsewhere. im glad you aren't suffering anymore. im sorry emma.
sadness and heartbreak and fingertips so hot and rough they melt my skin, i want my tears to burn my eyelashes and i want my knuckles to crack and rip open my thighs, i want passion and rebellion and police sirens and whirlwinds and asphalt.
i need:
compassion and tenderness so thoughtful it makes my heart bleed, i need slow and bandaids and paint and canvases and muse, i need love and life and light.
my thoughts have become wasps and my brain is a nest and the angry red jagged lines keep weeping from my thighs, and all i have to say is, sorry. sorry. sorry. because i cant change, and i cant stop my hands from trembling; and the dark rings under my eyes are big enough to swallow me whole and i wish they would to save me— because i cannot save myself.