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she resolved to never call something good again. if something was truly good there would be no need to call it good, and it wouldn’t pressure her to think so. it would help or hurt her, that was all. things were only good if they drilled to the end of time and could be accounted for on your final resting day.

love is a language, she thinks, and when one of us dies, we will be the last speaker of a dead language. the ability for one other person to understand you in this world. to be known.

they go outside in the bubble of each other, the bubble is this: instead of fixating on the hundreds of unstable shadow perspectives, you focus on one person looking at you with love, all the way there and all the way back.

it’s us, the void bitches of worm county

i haven’t spent my life inside my own body. always peering from t like a rat in a ruined building, at the bright lights invading.

i wish seven angels were kneeling around my prone body saying we will take care of you forever.