|
|
These hands are desperate for me to stay alive. The cold touch of loneliness is warmed only by my presence, but I don't give a damn. He will open his chest to reveal his bleeding heart and all of his life will pour into me. His truths, his fears, all that he is will cling to me, desperate for rejuvenation and meaning. His eyes will not wander, his stare will not falter, and he will stay latched on to me. But I do not want him, I do not care. And when I turn to ice and he breaks away, I will not even blink.
i quite like it.
archives - gbook - notes - diaryland