I wanted to touch you, your forehead, your wrists, wanted to press whatever I could to your pulse and feel for a shift in the beating heart of you. Some first-cigarette alteration. Bigger muscles. Darker lungs.

She reaches for his hand and gets so close that she feels the way his shadow cools her skin before he arcs away.

You drop to your knees and you press a palm to god’s cheek in supplication. Your eyes are clenched shut and his divine flesh is warm beneath your searching hands.

The third worst ever day of your life is when you walk into your childhood bedroom and even the memories are gone, gone, gone, gone.

This is a tragedy. You’re the eponymous heroine. You’re going to die in Act 5.

I will find the loch ness monster first.

She arches forwards into him like it’s enough just to touch him, enough to pretend like matching each curve of his body could ever bring him back. We hear her frantic breathing in the break between sentences. Nothing is eloquent. All is lost.

you died on a sunday. i loved you to the sun

The prophets will call this beautiful. He can still taste the blood between his teeth.

on growing up gay and how it SUCKS!!!!

in which i visit my old house and make it everyone’s problem

a study on grief growth.

a rule: never try to tell a man that he is not a god.

a shadow framed by the light of the moon, a silhouette softened by the shift of the ocean, a boy suspended in sharp tandem between land and sea.

that pale thing, a creature more than a human, jutted ribs and hollowed eyes and a skeleton which doesn’t fit in its body, which is clawing to escape her skin — not her.

here is what they don’t tell you — icarus laughed as he fell.

do we dream in different languages, I wonder, as if it matters. as if anything matters, but this, and this, and this.