“I find myself walking down this lonely path, a path I know like the back of my hand. The same hand you begged me to crash into your body repeatedly, leaving digit constellations so beautifully.”
I find myself walking down this lonely path, a path I know like the back of my hand. The same hand you begged me to crash into your body repeatedly, leaving digit constellations so beautifully. I went bruise gazing and painted you with a violent, violent universe of lessons of your past, present and future missteps. With each mark of your flesh flashing your life before our eyes and this is the only point in my life where I didn’t feel spiritually blind. Your skin so tight that it bruised my hand in a way to commemorate our love and my abhorrent plans. To hear and feel your breath become so heavy your body collapses into an abstract galaxy that I know I created. Art by my bruised, numb hands. The hands of a creator. Thinking about it now, you could have just told me where it hurts, your misery, but you knew I’d rather see. I’d rather see.
