Sometimes I look at my own photos and feel like a stranger.
βDo not confuse my bad days as a sign of weakness. Those are actually the days Iβm fighting the hardest.β
β Unknown
My knees buckle,
My mind, it bends
My mouth stumbles
Over the words it borrows
From others with less sorrows
Birth
I have my mother's rage.
The quiet rage, the unassuming one,
the rage which grips onto every molecule of your body,
until it claws and licks at your whitened bones.
The rage which sinks its sharp canines in you
which savours the taste of blood,
it craves it.
It lures your loved ones in carefully, it invites them into its stenching residence.
Sets out a nice cup of tea, or perhaps, the good tablecloth.
And when they think it's gone, the rage twists their necks,
and laps up the blood with its serpent tongue.
I have my father's indifference.
I sit and watch as it happens, smiling, as I watch and watch my house burn.
- e.u.
Andrea Gibson, Lord of the Butterflies
βa way to let go of my thoughts because I fear they might crush meβ ||they/them||
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