i don't want to have to be the one who mourns everything when everyone else has clearly forgotten. it's mortifying. it's mortifying to be the one who remembers

i reached into your stomach and tore the wings of the butterflies in there. they lie dead now. but since i am kind in a way no one has ever thought of, i sewed your stomach back together but not your heart. your heart remains torn you don't deserve to love me.

i am numb to your novocaine love.

i have loved you, in every life, i think— scatter my atoms across the universe, and still, they would know your name. softly, i become endless, in you.

(i ran away. i ran away again.)

you are the knife that i turn inside; that is love. that, my dear, is love.

i never was a child. i was pulled right out of the sea and the salt, it never left my body.

in the garden i will die; in the roses, they will kill me. i was going, mother, to pick roses, to find death.

you used to be alive now you're almost mythic.

i am numb to your novocaine love.

i never liked that song, but once i knew it was your favourite, i listened to it on repeat. and it became one of the best songs i've ever heard.

what i feel for you— it beats words. it beats worlds. i promise.

i, who have seen you amid the primal things, was angry when they spoke your name in ordinary places.

if you must die, i'll envy even the earth that wraps around your body.

a nameless girl in the freshest summer greens; a saint, an angel.

i'm so afraid of losing something i love that i refuse to love anything

ignore every instinct to flee. remember: you are a monster too.

the people i most strive to please do me the worst injuries.

what if tomorrow doesn't come? how long will our friendship last?

in the garden i will die; in the roses, they will kill me. i was going, mother, to pick roses, to find death.