And · In · All · His · Perfection.

And time is like that momentary rainbow, the foam atop your frapp before you turn into santa, the dew on the lucid emerald swords that are callously forged into the earth, the chanel clutch you promised you'd buy me, the waiting and the waiting and we will all raise our hands and celebrate to the shatters of yesterday's future and tomorrow's past. tomorrow will be my safe haven.

I am the patron saint of lost causes.
Aren't we all to you just near lost causes?
Aren't we all to you just lost?

its amazing how loud the silence screams, no warn no warn no warning.

to spend hours and hours: head a whirlwind in itself and find you alone again. the basement it reeks of your old perfume and the love we used to share and i'm really tired and frustrated i can't study what on earth. to think, and to think why not. (why not)

you sit alone in the dark and you pretend you're asleep, trapped in an eternal wonderland where perfection is nothing but expected and you hold back the tears and but then your hands creep into the spaces that should have been there, to soft and imperfect and tainted and you stifle a sob, you are so disgusting. your arms encapsulate your head, again and again it hits the floor, this time you dont try not to cry. the pen into  your hand and you go again, again and again into, if you hit hard enough- scratch hard enough, perhaps it will go away. and you crawl to the mirror and in the sliver of moonlight you peer into yourself, into a pair of frightened brown eyes and your vision shifts to the other parts of you you wish were never there and a certain feeling engulfs you, you cant place it. tears run and eyes close and once again it hurts. it hurts- to pinch to pull to tug to slice to wish to look, it hurts to fucking look. and god tells you you are beautiful but are you, will you choose between the reality that is what you are. every single minute, hour, day, second and you are broken, the round and the hate and you detest you, tell me how to help. i can't save you. it will go away, it will only but go away. (leave her alone)

everything in its time: i thank god for you, for all your love and concern and you have made me the happiest in a long time. thank you, thank you thank you. when i hold your hand my heart frenzies i laugh to myself because i care about you too much and you make me more content than i should be. thank you, for being you for always surprising me with beautiful words and beautiful smiles and beautiful things. you have done more than i expected and you amaze me. one day we shall run away into a steered course rainbow and do the things weve always wanted to do. miss you as long as youre not by me. and till my phone titters a certain distinct harmony.

as long as youll have me.

pangs.

light up little girl, your cellulite does nothing but illuminate you, your pork sausage ankles strong against those buoyant against stormy seas. light up little girl, why cry over split milk, you wipe and wipe and wipe it away but it remains, traces and sin of your past sins, light up little girl, break it open, tear it down, enter shards of shattered dreams and pick up the pieces, scars make you stronger for life. because he believes in the little girl, and thus you must be strong strong stronger than you are, plunge headfirst into a downward spiral and dont get up. dont recover, you know you want those bones and skin and you want people to gasp and cry over you and you want to feel light like the wind and you want to fly. don't recover because you know you love the attention. don't recover, because you are scared you'll never go back. i feel sorry for you, my very own little girl.

(all the time i was writing this i was thinking of you)

chapter after chapter ink on ink we plough forward, hands scalded and cheeks scarlet, crafting our legacies on scraps of parchment, expensive costly no doubt. we laugh and chide the uncertainty that smothers the bricks and concrete, red yellow blue pink gold a distinct contrast against cold and unfeeling, 'these peasants, with no parchment'. then a particular image strikes us, the form of which is our own, a magic so new and so fresh we squim in discomfort, hellfire. the relation it is identical they are identical they are the same. and the parchment shall not divide flesh and bone because, sharing is giving no? (sometimes i baffle myself).