I am writing words because speech is often too much. Writing to a black haired girl I have dreamt of, damage done. Aloe shatters in an explosion of feathers, lost out in between my tears. My weakness is something I call a strength, what broke was tempered steel beneath her gaze, wide-eyed in love. The Mother Mori bends her back, back at me again and I enter her, conquered. Do you even read me? I've started moving from your well of gravity and am writing a story of my life with myself as my own unreliable narrator. Would I slide into you? When it's never been a problem, the lack of your insides wrapped around me suddenly becomes one. Butterflies flutter around the butter that has begun oozing from the wound you have made in me, like a sweetly scented rot, a gorgeous gangrenous gap in my skin, attracting flies. When speech becomes too much, I write. You brought me to life by reading me. When you don't read, this dies.