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In a green, green room there was a telephone. And a red balloon. And a picture of Ted Bundy with his unibrow. There were three little bears, sitting on chairs, and at least twenty victims. And a little toy house, and a young mouse, and a comb and a brush and corpse made of mush. And a bald man whispering “hush.” Goodnight moon, goodnight tomb.
I’m not interested in being the figurehead of anyone else’s failed relationship.
after two failed suicide attempts—solidifying what an amateur killer he truly was—he was arrested.
I wish I could have one nice interaction with everyone and then disappear.
heat of the unfilled space where Polly slept.
the only possible reprieve from worrying about finding them dead is them dying.
a soup of myself,