whatever occurs, recognize it as right.
everything is right in its own nature, which is ceaseless notion in change. if we don’t struggle with this reality, then wherever we are, we will be happy. even when we get old, we don’t make a big deal out of it. you stand up and your back hurts, and you think “yeah, that’s about right”. it’s right, so don’t fight it. when the pain stops, you might think “ah, that’s better”.
but it’s not better.
you’re still alive, so it will hurt again.
…
the media feeds the focus of “firsts”- really, of any data’s endpoint. we’re trained to believe that while they may not be the important ones, they’re special. you always remember your first. or, at least the emotionally intelligent people do.
it’s a fucking lie. i don’t remember my firsts. what i do remember is trying to associate them with meaning. with anything to differentiate them from all the rest.
i don’t remember my first burn. my first lesson. my first analysis. i don’t remember the first time i touched someone, or the first time i let someone touch me.
honestly. it should have been a dead giveaway when i started to remember my firsts. for someone to worm their way into my soul, into my heart. to change my carefully protected mind and how it processes that fast. it snuck up on me. back then, when it was light and smoke, sun and ash, i couldn’t tell that this was the one. my First.
it was a crisp, beautiful autumn day. the kind that hangs in the air with a thickness, a coziness, and at the same time feels fresh.
the first time i saw her cry. i remembered it. stored it into my mind naturally. filed it away under “Important” without a second thought.
what i don’t know is where i was then. longer hair, of course- slightly frizzy and a little lighter. it could have been gray tights and a triangle fitting top. black framed glasses and converse.
it was like any other day in many ways. i had had at least five sparks by then, of course. the difference was this time i remembered the First Spark with this one.
he made fun of my laugh. i was younger. desperate. clumsy. scared of heights. but i felt seen. i dipped my fingertips into the pool- relishing in the surface tension, even if i didn’t know it at the time- and felt the compulsion to dive in.
i didn’t know then. that he would be the one to remember. the first one i’d ever remember. maybe the last.
sometimes, when the silences stretch, when the purple of the sky catches my attention, i think about that day and wonder if i was already too far gone.
…
i am so grateful for my her.
through my entire childhood, all the manipulation and lies, all the gaslighting and invalidation, and all it takes is for someone i love, someone who grew up in the same household as me to look me in the eyes, wipe away my tears, and say “you have every right to feel the way you do”.
and then it fits. i believe myself. i know my anger is well-deserved, and i cling to it like a lifeline. I cling to it like it’s my heart, misshapen parts and ugly arteries, and the only think that keeps pumping boiling blood through my strained body. the only thing that keeps me alive.
sometimes hope isn’t the thing with feathers.
sometimes it bites with teeth and stings with claws. sometimes it’s the feeling of pressing a knife to skin and wishing to break it.
sometimes hope is covered in sweat and tears and blood. sometimes it stands up, disheveled and broken, and says “i’m not giving in”.
…
*i did not want this to be a lesson*
*i wanted this to be love*
third times a charm. that’s the saying. my mom says all bad things come in threes, so hopefully this will the last one.
it comes the same as before. a drop in the stomach, cold poison creeping into my center, and a yawning void in my heart strong enough that i breathe faster, hoping the intake of air will fill the hole.
it’s the moment in which i truly realize you aren’t my future anymore.
the only thing that’s clear in the moments after, besides the tears, is the knowledge that i’m
going to hold onto this forever. people have layers, and the way this takes over my heart and soul in an instant, i know that this has cracked through the deepest one. the worst pain is being
homesick for someone who was never really your home.
hope will tear me asunder. it will soften the blow, block our reality. and if i make it numb it’ll rip me
apart. that makes it sound easy, even though it’s the hardest thing i need to do. but it’s the only way. what i’m doing is going to kill me if i don’t.
a way out is logic. it doesn’t heal, but it helps.
even if he showed up, fresh flowers and wilted apologies, there would be small, soulless part of me that would refuse. and id focus on that.
i don’t want someone who comes back.
i want someone who stays.
and all i wanted just faded away within words.
…
they say it’s his loss. logic says it’s his loss.
but he didn’t lose anything. he still has his world, his soul.
i feel like i’ve lost my life, in a way. i’ve lost my mind. i’ve lost my motivation to keep going. my world.
my life will exist without him for a week, a month. a year, and i will master not thinking about him.
but no matter how much i shield myself, time and distance and strangers, it won’t take much. i wonder what will do it-a picture online, similar shampoo, a sharp jawline and brown curls- whatever split second i experience, suddenly i’ll be plagued with a rapidly sinking stomach and the relentless question, “what did i do wrong?”
…
“there are plenty of ways to die, but only love can kill you and keep you alive to feel it”
* Leo Christopher
….
it’s not a want, it’s a need.
i needed to be what made him smile, breathe, exist.
and with time, i was. the right conditions, sunshine and space, and he loved me.
until i discovered the one thing that meant more to him than i did.
.
“did you love him?”
“yes.”
“how much?”
“does it matter?”
“why does it not?”
“because it wasn’t enough to make him stay.”
…
i don’t know when i became a secretive person. there was a time in my life when my mother knew every single thing about me. there was a time when my father kept all of my secrets close to his chest. i don’t know why i stopped trusting him with them. when i cry at night, my mother can’t put a name to the things that hurt me. i never meant to hide so much.
….
i had a dream that someone asked me to describe love and i didn’t talk about you. that terrifies me- to think that somewhere out there might be a version of me who doesn’t think about you when they bite pitted fruit.
i want to cry thinking about it, but i also want to be them. i want to crawl inside their chest and grow until i fit into them.
i want a future for myself where i am the only one who haunts me.
…
it’s your privilege to find me incomprehensible. i gave you my minutes; let them remain ours. i hope i haunt you.
…
the first time that you touched me
something new stirred
and it was the feeling of being loved back.
i wish i’d met you halfway;
maybe then i’d be yours and you’d be mine.
and nothing felt more liberating than this love, the kind id live for, for i was so used to being abandoned before you came along.
my entire being awakened with a new soul,
and it was the only time i could open my eyes and you’d be right there with me.
…
there he stood looking at me
in a way no one had ever looked at me before.
my hands were shaking as i typed out my knotted past,
that i will not always be so easy to hold onto,
for my wet heart catches on many thorns.
some nights i am quiet and no one can pull me from my weeded mind.
some nights i’ll forget why i try and lose my balance.
some nights i’ll tear too deep with sharp claws and apologize for the mess i made.
on those nights the one thing that could ever drag me out of my own labyrinth is that look. no one has ever looked at me quite like that.
…
“tell me a secret.”
“what kind of secret?”
“any kind.”
(there is a light in your eyes and a dark in your soul, and i wouldn’t change a thing about you for all the treasures in the universe. your very existence is a paradox, a contradiction i spend every waking hour studying without a thought to understanding.)
“i don’t have any secrets.”
“everyone has secrets, soph.”
(you have haunted my thoughts and my dreams for too long. you take up more space in my endless mind than anything else. i’ve memorized the slant of your brow and the wave in your hair, the sweep of your lashes and the rhythm of your steps. i look for you blind, deaf, numb, and mute, in this world and any other.)
“alright, here’s a secret: i’m afraid.”
“of what?”
(oblivion. crowded rooms and faceless people and bloody eyes and being alone and authority figures and you. i’m terrified of you because you destroyed me, easily, and you had no idea. i’m less afraid of dying than i am of fully losing you and that scares me too. that this feeling will never go away. that it will continue to swallow me whole, eat away at my heart and soul.)
“heights.”
“you’re joking.”
“i think i’m scared of falling more than anything else.”
“tell me another one.”
(i love you.)
…
mom can you come get me things are getting bad again and i feel every insult like a sharp tooth and i feel my dreams rotting under my fingernails and i feel too much all the time or else i feel nothing at all and doesn’t seem to matter if i eat and dance and rest or if i go home and cry and cut
mom are you sure when i was born i was a person and not just a vortex. always hungry. always swallowing. no matter how much goes in me i always end up empty.
…
you are going to break your promise. i understand. and i hold my hands over the ears of my heart, so that i will not hate you.
…
the number of hours we have together is actually not so large. please linger uncomfortably by the door instead of just leaving. please forget your scarf in my life and come back later for it.
….
i’m in the car with another good-hearted boy, and he won’t tell me that he loves me, but he loves me. and i feel like i’ve done something terrible, like robbed a convenience store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled myself a grave in the dirt, and i’m tired.
…
what if i am someone who does not know when something is over? what if i am the last one standing when others have left the theatre, the sprightly battlefield, the busted love affair? what if i look for a sign and a sign doesn’t come. or a sign comes but i miss it. what if i feel like i have to make a decision on my own and it feels like a body blow, falling back on myself.
…
he doesn’t look at me as he rants, and that’s the first sign.
as his hands gesture, as he uses filler words in the same way he makes fun of my sister for, as his syllables slap harsh against my face, i’m grateful. grateful he doesn’t look at me. i’m zoning out whenever he’s in the zone- a switch of energy, like we’re taking turns. taking turns being selfish. but i’m his kid. he raised me to be selfish, and raised me to turn a blind eye when he takes without thinking. and now, i can see and i wish i couldn't. ignorance is bliss.
as my eyes slowly refocus, i realize i’m staring at my old pill bottle on the kitchen counter. it’s adderall. id hated taking it at first. he’d always praised me for having the same mind as him- endless streams of chaos, the inability to be soft and malleable, the strain pushing outwards towards our skin from our mind to our muscles. when i started taking it, fixing myself, as my mom and therapist and the world urged me too, i lost a little value. i couldn’t relate to him anymore with a quiet world. he’d pressed his pain onto me and i’d built my identity around it. without it, without my ability to go against my brain without protection, i didn’t know who i was. i was forced to look in the mirror at myself. i couldn’t get lost in thousands of layered thoughts and pressing the blade from the pencil sharpener into my arm and stolen sips of gin from my parents cabinet. in a world where i am normal, where i am unbroken, i wouldn’t exist.
….
she’s one of my favorites now. i love her in a way i’ve never been able to love anyone before, and i’m so thankful it’s not romantically. it’s the fully two way street friendship i’ve ever had. i trust her. when i tell her my opinion, i trust her. when she tells me she doesn’t like what i pick or what i do, i trust her. i trust she won’t leave me. i trust she’ll be there for me, and she’ll put me in my place when i’m not there for her.
she’s taught me to stand on my legs. she’s taught me how to be stable on my own, and that we can lean on each other anyways. not because we have to, but because we can. she doesn’t heal me, she helps me heal myself.
a few days ago, a ladybug landed on my hand. my mind snapped to connection when i realized what it was. it was small and lucky and strong and it meant hope and i loved it. my little love. it didn’t have to be pretty or smart. it was good because it just existed.
and it stayed on me. it's thin stick brown legs padded over the curve of my wrist, stopping occasionally on the cool pink of my nails.
in this moment, i gained new knowledge. she yelled and i knew she wanted it out. i let it stay for a little bit, before i walked outside and coaxed it into the big black box outside on our deck.
it took effort for me to rid of the little thing. it stubbornly persisted in its goal to stay on my skin. i wished it would walk over the veins on my wrist, trail over my scars. i remember all the threads pulling at my brain like it was a puppet simply relaxed at our newfound friend.
eventually, i had it crawl off. i cried. i grieved for not the little bug, but for myself. a little loss of innocence, i think it was, letting go of a creature that represents hope and stability, and a rare one at that. it’s a rare one, to know it’s worth just by existing. like chloe.
when i got back into my room, she asked me if i was crying over a bug. i said yes. later, i lied, connecting it to my dads mom. while i did think of her instantly when the bug landed on me, it was still a lie. but for the first time, i didn’t lie to make chloe think i wasn’t weird, or increase my value in her eyes. i lied because she needed logic and structure in the moment. i lied because i knew that even if i didn’t lie, she’d still love me. i knew it, and i didn’t just want it.
i guess that’s the point of it all. security and hope are starting to merge for me. i’m forging a path, a blade crafted from the blood i’ve split. my own or others, i couldn’t tell you.
i’ve always craved the day when i’d wrap my hands around the handle. now, i get to rest easy with the new knowledge that that day isn’t just a dream.
…
i destroy myself so other people can’t. it’s the worst form of control but it’s the only form i know.
there’s a sort of clinical satisfaction in seeing just how bad things can get. it’s the most rewarding form of meditation. objectively observing your breaking points. how many days can i go without eating before they pump food into my stomach? how many times can i press sharp things, words and glass alike, into my veins before lifeblood comes spilling out? the desire to be sicker, to prove that you are sick, is indicative of sickness. a well person doesn’t desire to be sick.
…
i collect scars because i want proof that i am paying for whatever sins i’ve committed. i don’t know what they were and i don’t know who i’ve hurt. i don’t know how many scars is enough.
…
i feel drawn to all the wrong things. i like to steal, i enjoy lying, and i have to formulate any semblance of identity- god, politics, ideals, ideas. i live for the entertainment of acting, trying on lipsticks and personalities for whatever situation i find myself in. internally, i settle into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and i accept
it. i like to play as an interesting person. to truly be interesting is too hard. my friends, my community, my people, they all don’t really fit. they wear pins and laugh at the wrong times and their feet send shockwaves in the earth when they walk into the future. forward.
i exist only in the soft, hazy spaces in the cracks they leave in their footsteps.
…
i say trauma doesn’t define me. i grew up with pets, smiling parents, and the kind of money where i never saw our grocery stream slow. but every time a man yells i am seven years old again. i made it out of my 4 bedroom house alive, raised by the voices in my head. i grew up letting people do those things to me too many years. my anger formed into a hard pearl sitting in between my ribs, incoherent and childlike. my home is a ruin and a cemetery. my earliest memories are of loosing my mind, in my old kitchen, my kindergarten glasses, my blue flannel bedsheets. i watched the best parts of myself die in the house i grew up in, and i visit them in dreams.
…
my father is a good man. he is good when i compare him to his own father, and i’m not so selfish to think that’s not enough.
i know i am his child. we’d bleed for anyone who held us tightly enough. he points his finger and interrupts me when i am not as forgiving as his wife, and i feel more connected to him than ever. he yells at me for walking on eggshells that he placed in the hallway, and i smile.
he knows bible verses by heart. he spent his mornings at church at my age. growing up and seeing my parents flaws made me an atheist. i don’t believe in God anymore. i don’t believe in my father anymore.
…
i cant say i truly blame him. i can go through the motions. i’ll curse him out to my friends. scribble out his smiling second grade face with black sharpie. i’ll sign his name in blood on the contract of my skin. i can put on white rubber gloves, gently place his twisted warm heart on the scale, and celebrate as it bears all too heavy on the cold metal. but i can’t say i blame him.
he presses selfishness into his words like i do empathy into mine. he looks into my eyes for my reaction as he bites too deep, relishing in the holes his teeth leave behind. it’s the only way he knows, the only way we know, to satisfy the intangible tangle of emotion rooted in the few inches he manages to hold between us. i know i’m supposed to focus to the pain he’s caused me, but i wish it was my heart on the scale instead of his.
i teach him to lie. my firecracker student learns too fast. he tells himself that he has the upper hand. he won’t accept that i’m the only true danger to him because now he finally has something worth losing.
why should i blame him, anyway? we all eat lies when our hearts are hungry.
…
there are time when i do not choose healing. i’m stubborn. i choose self destruction instead hoping i will i learn what is like to have wounds again. and i learn again and again and again.
…
i already miss her. not because she’s leaving, or because she ever will. but sometimes, i grieve for her because she is an almost to me. i feel it in a way that makes me tired to my very bones. it is hard for me to let her pull me up out of rock bottom, anyway. there’s comfort in knowing there’s no further down i can get. i lay my head on the hard stone and relish in the familiarity of the harsh edges pressing into my temple. even when she stands above me, coffee eyes and sugar sweet smiles, i don’t grab her hand because i know it’ll burn her. burn both of us.
i live down in the cracks, and she lives tip toeing on the surface, on another plane i would die trying to get to. there’s a disconnect that i have no motivation to fix.
…
her system goes into shock when she sees him because what he did. mine comes alive when i see him, not because of what he did, but because it brings back every feeling i’ve tried so hard to push behind a patchwork wall. i force mine into shock to match hers, because if i try hard enough, sometimes i can flip the coin. press the love so far down it becomes hate instead.
…
my hope sits on your left ring finger. a marriage band. its lost its small silver ball over the past year. it’s rusted over with time and new people and forgetfulness.
but you keep it on anyways. so that when i see it i know that i’m still yours. it’s a small marking, but it’s the only one we could afford when working on stolen minutes, borrowed time.
…
“they still write poems about you, you know?”
(i know. what i need to know is just how close you and i are. how connected are our minds.)
“why?”
(not “why do they?”. i’m asking “why do you?”. and you look at me with seastorm eyes. windows to the soul. its a simple gesture, effective and brutal. knocking my knight off the board with a pawn.)
(the moment swells between us, bursting with sweetness like some unknown earth-fruit, and then-)
“you’re a tragedy, soph. people love to dwell on those.”
(i exhale. your desire to be right outweighs any worry about giving me this new knowledge of your reality.)
(i think you’re always going to be right about me. and faith has always been my favorite form of love, anyway.)
“better than a satire, like you.”
(it’s weak. a sharp jab with no real power behind it. but it’s also a gift. letting him have the upper hand. and maybe i’ll tell myself it makes him easier to exploit, to manipulate. but we both know that every day i wake up and wish the blood on his hands was mine.)
…
i want a new beginning.
tomorrow, when i use my body and cleanse my skin and batter my brain, the knives in the kitchen will still be there. the scars on my back and legs will still be there. and you will still be there in the mirror, shaking fingers and trembling teeth. i’m young and bright and i want to die.
i fall asleep and i fall in love with the endless voids surrounding us all. the sky and the sea.
wordy petals brush against my skin and hard thorns poke into my mouth and they tell me to love it, the flowers, the people.
blue is my color. i am Spring.
…
when you kissed me i felt hot wax on my skin
i wanted it to leave a mark because that’s how i knew i loved you
because i wanted to be burned, stamped, if only to have some semblance of us in the end.
…
i’ll take you any way you can give me. whether you come as a lover or an executioner, i am ready to receive you. id rip my pomegranate heart out of my chest, hold it out in front of you red and dripping, and watch you pry and lick it open. then you’d walk toward me, smile, and press your bloodied lips to mine.
….
when he looks at me, stupid warm fake curves, i close my eyes and listen to the blood thundering in his veins. it’s so close to the surface, so depthless, that it runs like a wolf towards a lamb. even when he looks in my eyes, the closest thing i can use to connect, he looks at me, and doesn’t see.
but for me, it’s not about anything so shallow as physical desire. i want him in a way of flesh wanting to knit itself together over a wound.
we both know how it goes —
**i say i want to drown in you** and you hold my head underwater
**i say i want you inside of me** and you split me open with a knife.
…
there is no god who could give me my purity back. i will always be the virgin-prostitute, the perverse angel, the two-faced sinister and saintly person. i cover vertical scars and mouth-shaped bruises alike with concealer. i am a man marked for sorrow.
…
the worst part of lost love is that i remember it.
i walk around all day thinking “i’m going to die in the universe you loved me in.”
i get so jealous of euthanized dogs.
i forgive him like one. endlessly loyal. i am dead and he’s killed me again and i’m just happy he’s here.
….
suffering feels religious if you do it right. an intimacy that you can only get with heartbreak. to love someone is firstly to confess: im prepared to be devastated by you. forgive me, mother, for i have sinned. as my scarred knees scrape the marble floor, kneeling below him is my ultimatum. each nerve in my body goes electric and the devotional blood drowns out the faint screaming of my brain to get up. his hands drip red, and i know deep down i’ll let him break me over and over again.
show me your thorns and i’ll show you my hands ready to bleed.
…
all my heartwarming, soft daydreams are fucked up because of you. there’s parts of me that will always be tainted by your hands your hands your hands your hands your hands your hands
…
the morning after, i woke up so in love with you i didn’t know what to do with my body, which was far from yours….i wish i didn’t know how this happened. i woke up that morning and you were the blood in all my poems.
….
i fell in love with you on purpose. oblivion lay a thin sheet over my understanding. i jumped, knowing it was a cliff with my eyes wide open.
i think i want to believe that i was fated to be your victim, but i also believe that we are only fated to do the things we’d chose anyway.
that’s the problem.
id chose you in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, i’d find you in choose you. i have never surrendered myself entirely anyone but you. the few times i let my heart speak, i was pressed against you, overflowing with grief and love and a peace that is beyond imagination.
…
i have too much love for him and he doesn’t want it. and i can’t have it because he tells me it’s not mine, and i can’t give it to anyone or anything because it’s not theirs. it’s his, all his and there’s nowhere else to put it. the weight of it crushes me and i have no where to put it.
…
i didn’t fall in love. i feel through it. i came out the other side two years later, hands full of bloody lilies, waking from the dream of a bullet tearing through the middle of my body.
…
i don’t believe in love at first sight. but the first memory i have of you is familiarity. like “oh, hello, it’s going to be you.”
….
what i feel for you cant be conveyed in phrasal combinations. it either screams out loud or stays painfully silent but it beats words. it beats worlds. i promise.
…
i swear to god i’m not obsessed but i keep having these dreams where i see you and the ache of wanting you swells up in me like i’m on a raft that’s sinking and when my fingers undid your coat your sigh undid me it’s not that i’m in love it’s just that i can’t even escape thinking about you when i sleep
…
don’t walk past me like a stranger, i say. and i laugh so he doesn’t know that i’m begging, that i really mean how am i supposed to live without you when i started living because of you.
…
an echo of a person is not a person at all, and the slip of a memory between my index and my thumb is the light at the end of a never ending tunnel.
can we not go back to who we once were?
…
they tell me i don’t need solutions. they tell me i need an outlet, for the grief that crests in my throat and floods through my limbs and stops my eyes from crinkling when i smile. they tell me i need someone else, to hold my hands while i sit there in blinking horror, staring at the hole in my chest. some things cannot be fixed. they can only be carried.
…
i like to tell myself that i wasn’t really in love with you but even on the days i forget to take my pills i still remember your license plate.
…
addiction is tricky. for example, a person who quit smoking for 6 months spent 20 second alone with a man smoking a cigarette. they gave in. what i’m trying to say is i think i still love you.
…
missing you comes in waves. tonight i feel like i’m drowning. i think of all the old stories of people dying of lovesickness. a man dies shortly after his wife despite being perfectly healthy. a cancer survivor commits suicide once she leaves her. a young woman, newly 18, follows her boyfriend into the grave.
it is a sickness. i’m homesick for arms that won’t hold me any longer.
i throw up in the tub and my eyes water and my hands shake and it’s not enough. i scratch bloody lines into myself, breaking the skin, and it’s not enough. i press memories into papers and leaves and words and objects and it’s not enough. i still carry it with me, a marble throbbing hard and unavoidable in my heart. that part of me is always waiting for you. no physical pain i can put myself through will ever get that out.
…
he is rich, royal heart and dimples, and he stains everything he touches with dark purple blood.
the reason he is eternal and addictive is his divinity. divinity will stain your fingers and your mouth. it will swallow you whole and spit you out, wine-dark and wanting. you will reach for it again and again, greedy human fingers clutching at everything i can reach. the divine will curl its way through your veins and take you over, and it will not leave you quietly. i feel divinity in my bones like aching; like fire.
…
in front of my mother and sisters i pretend love is cheap and vulgar. i act like it’s a sin- i pretend that love is only for the ones on a dark path. but at night i dream of a love so heavy it makes my spine throb- i dream of the lover who touched me like he was separating salt from water.
…
my tongue got stuck to the icicle when i licked it; and when i touched the candle flame my fingers came away red and blistered.
he made wings and flew so his Greek skin, polished and bronze, could be golden. he pushed up up up to the sunlight until his eyes burned and watered, till his muscles gave out, and still his skin wasn’t as golden as the sun when he died.
we do not touch what we want because we respect its power.
i remember his hands looked bigger than most peoples were in proportion to his wrist. he had bony fingers, long and thin, made to brandish something other than a sword. his eyes widened when he touched me, kneading my skin and soul. he looked at me then. his eyes didn’t see me as an equal but rather something to hold.
god should have made me lethal when he made monsters out of men.
…
you’re asking me what i like for breakfast and i’m telling you about how when the worst thing happened, i didn’t even cry. you’re handing me a ticket for the school play and i’m passing you a bundle of letters that i wrote to the void that when i was 14 and scared. you’re passing me my coat in the library and i’m half laughing about the psychiatrists office and how’s there actually a couch and it’s made of blue tweed. you are trying to do the normal things and i am throwing up dull pieces of truth onto a screen. i can’t lie anymore, these are the things i’ve done and they’re mostly sad. these are the places i’ve been and they’re mostly awful. this life has woven itself into the notches of my spine and i hear it creak every time i stand.
…
in the meantime, i’m looking for you in the edge of the garden. i’m looking for you when i come home. i’m looking for you at the end of my story. i’m looking for you.
i think that you know.