i think if you cut me open i’d bleed letters, my heart beats similes and my breathing is a hyperbole. my elbows don’t quite fit anywhere, and i don’t know why that is important, but it is. i wear my heart on my sleeve almost too literally, but i always end up wearing the same outfit. that pitter-patter you keep hearing is probably just my mind running to the christmas morning that is the way your hand holds a coffee mug and how you squint your eyes when you’re really listening. if you snapped the strings of a violin, one by one, that is how i feel right now. i don’t know how not to be confused, and i also don’t know how to be comfortable. when everything should be at rest i’d rather run, and i’d prefer to snuggle up into chaos and uncertainty.