I see all things in this world as more beautiful than I, and I spin the details of their atoms in every paragraph and brushstroke. I wish I had 11 hands with 55 fingers so I could paint and write and fuck and feed and grab grab grab everything. I. Want. It. All. It must be mine. I want to walk away from the burgundy bags under my eyes and the periwinkle veins in my hands. I hope you’ll stay. I hope you’ll stay. But I would leave me too, if I could.
