BREATHING DECAY IS SURPRISINGLY PRODUCTIVE ; flowers are still flowers . . . even if it’s just ROT blooming on the walls. it feels good to birth something for a change, when all you’ve ever done was turn everything to dust as you brushed your hands over it. tracing the contours, memorizing the shape ; a part of you hates it, THIS GIFT FOR BRINGING DISASTER ------------ but hey, we can’t all be the cure, can we ? some have to be the poison, and being a cancer comes in handy in a world that’s only constant in its tendency to go to hell and fall around you. it’s not that you need salvation . . . god knows you’re beyond it.
( THE TRUTH IS, sometimes you wish you were midas instead. ) // HELLO, EMMA.