𝖯𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖺.

(Your throat is raw from screaming to a god who isn't listening)

We couldn't let go but confessions were swallowed as well. We couldn't say it.Too sacred to voice how we felt. Strangulation perhaps. That's the closest.
Us is not the suitable word anymore. I am an extension of you; you are an extension of me. And the knife that is going to tear us apart is getting sharper and sharper as we sand it's blade. Every word a piece of the sandpaper. But we are not connected by flesh and blood. Are we? We could just part ways. Wave goodbye. Let go of eachother's hand. Yet I can't. So I wait for the knife to cut through our intervened fingers. Sounds like an amputation one will probably survive from. But I might bleed to death as a result.

Get up baby it's time to think about our wasted potential.

One is wishing and praying, the other is begging and yearning

Every time an alternative person dresses within the boundaries of social norms an angel losses it's wings.

"But who prays for Satan?
Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?"
-Mark Twain

I talk about my dreams (nightmare tbh) as if they are a 6 season long psychological horror series that I'm truly invested in

The misery of being apart

"May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air."
- Franz Kafka

But what am I without my yearning? An empty shell of a person? Only able to feel, to breathe, when I'm gasping for air to spell out the misery a decibel louder. As if everything that makes me human shuts down. Only able to turn back on when the fire that sets my being on fire becomes unbearable and I'm forced to puke every itching word on a piece of paper.