I think while I was in the womb there were complications and my brain was cross processed.
If you kiss a boy who dies a week later during the exact moment his heart stops can you taste the dead in your mouth?
Downthrough
Downthrough
Perception jig! Our eyes look flatter and less sphere shaped, I must look larger on the internet in pictures, but I'm tiny, have not yet reached 5 feet!
My room is stacked with saint candles now, it's the light of God (just like the meaning of my name) in 97 cent wax and paper bags. In stickers against cheaply made glass I find comfort while it burns while I sleep, and soon I'm guessing it won't feel the need to regress and the flame'll reach my covers, chemical burn on my skin like I let go in a darkroom.
And my name is as cheap as the things I surround myself with. I live up to something so plastic with my fake facades.
Underexposed Tungsten photographs in square matted format all over my room, all over my paper journal, I want to deal out my head like a deck of cards and let the rest of me numbly float around until it goes Under from this fast paced Elysia, wrapped up in samples of french indie pop, no visitors.
"His writing is so narcissistic and so self indulgent he might as well masturbate all over a page..."