The lucid, gorgeous heartache.
The impossible feeling that courses through- the black scampering creature and i, detached, by the snow.
Swoon with the negative hours.
The passing of months: only anxiety. The weather does not fucking touch me.
I believe its manifestation would complete me.
or ruin me (people are so god damn fucking dumb, you know, how they ruin things they see?)
Please! Not until my blood stains your skin.
The idea is the glitching dream.
Me, the Masochist in heavy chains.
You, derailed, deranged.
Everyone can see you bleeding.