my heart is a haunted house surrounded by a moat of my own digging, kept empty of warmth so that I will not miss it come winter. skin hunger; the feeling that if you do not touch another human soon you will lose your mind. it hurts, the absence of it, but less so when you have only ever been cold. and then, in you come. throwing open the windows, sweeping ash from the hearth so that you might light a new fire. and my skin sings for you, my bones ache for you, but the ghosts stalking the hallways tell me that we will not leave this place alive. —AUTHOR UNKNOWN
