standing, eventually, they retract and falteringly desist one final look. tired eyelids scream, water floods, day-to-day, water floods. the weather mimics; the clouds are thinning. claims of change, though almost entirely the same. walls close in, oppression threatens, no flashlights, shrouded by gloom and achromatic fabrications of dark thought... fiction or wild exaggeration? echoing intrinsically: "it isn't me", the sentiment forces consequence. stomach ingesting poison, and paper repleted with ink, her soul softly flows out amongst blood through skin; unnatural, staccato carvings act as gateways for melancholy and, ultimately, a permanent, self-absorbed release.

​

stitched by moments passing, now desperately clutching for this iota of warmth, she turns to the closest willing, and firmly latches on with a hollow blend of empty words and genuine affection. she is plagued by an idea, an idea which she surmises, and which repeats itself time and time again - an idea which derisively drains her of sleep - "nobody loves you". sun-flares through california trees are beyond reach. you are absolutely, and deservingly, desolate. but there's nothing wrong with loving things that you can't hold in your arms. and there's everything wrong with your approach.

​

[last online 8 years ago, reflections are detached versions of ourselves]