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Like being awake is a simulation.
some of the most extraordinary creations are born in terror. Wielded from molten black . . . if only the wielder is wise enough to see the lava for what it truly is.
It’s a man. But somehow, she knew that already.
She both hated and loved how carefully he tiptoed around the subject of her mental integrity. Like she was a rubber band stretched so thin and his hands were made of knives.
From between his teeth blooms a garden of desire, seemingly never-ending, as though he is poisoned by his unconditional love.
She steps into her bathroom, a small space decorated with fake plants. False sunshine for the struggling mind.
like she’s inhaling cheese graters.
Springtime is her favorite. It teeters on the edge of winter and summer, an intermission between the two drastic ends of the spectrum.
Over the picture of him jailed in two dimensions, far too few dimensions to encapsulate all that he is.
A Schrödinger’s box for lost souls?
The eternal dark you hold yet the amount of light you possess.
But that doesn’t mean it was the right choice. It also doesn’t mean it was the wrong one. And that is the beauty of the human condition. It isn’t so cut and dried.
