good morning i’m still furious about game of thrones
when she ready for round two but you look down and ur meat like
you wake up each morning with shaking hands, searching. you forget the sound of your father’s voice. you think it was around the same time you gave up your bones to silence, as though you ever had a choice. you breathe, you sleep, you pray. you find bruises on your knees you don’t have a name for. you catch a boy’s eye, set your heart on fire. you burn the quiet edges of your rice-paper skin, shame licking your wrists like gasoline. you wonder what your mother would say if she saw you, barefoot and lonely, hands held up to the moonlight. it’s a test. it’s all a test. you stay up till four in the morning on your hands and knees, scrubbing ashes from your sheets until your nails bleach white, wondering if this is it. you turn your pillows inside out with frantic hands and think of your father’s promises, not knowing what it is that you’ve lost, only that it’s gone. sirens wail outside your window and you almost scream, In here. in here. in here. there are no miracles. it should have been more beautiful than this.