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Survival’s funny. Some wear it like a whisper, others like a scream.
broken things make the sharpest weapons … so long as you fetter them to yourself so they don’t fly away.
Life doesn’t pat me on the head and praise me for making connections. It thunks arrows through hearts. Stabs bellies. It makes damn fucking sure I know loneliness is the only acquaintance I’ll ever have, waiting until the roots of connection bore deeper than I’d like to admit before it rips out flesh and bone. Sheds blood. Stops hearts.
“I’m not your secret. I’m your truth.”
His words are dust in my boots, but his actions are fucking stones.
