an angel has no skin

Cities at night, I feel, contain men who cry in their sleep and then say Nothing.

“I wanted to kill the me underneath. That fact haunted my days and nights. When you realize you hate yourself so much, when you realize that you cannot stand who you are, and this deep spite has been the motivation behind your behavior for many years,
your brain can’t quite deal with it. It will try very hard to avoid that realization; it will try, in a last-ditch effort to keep your remaining parts alive, to remake the rest of you. This is, I believe, different from the suicidal wish of those who are in so much pain that death feels like relief, different from the suicide I would later attempt, trying to escape that pain. This is a wish to murder yourself; the connotation of kill is too mild. This is a belief that you deserve slow torture, violent death.”

—Marya Hornbacher

in a bunker underground.

laying in a pool of clean wishes, fragrances dangle in my air.

cool air wades through such thick atmospheres. though, dancing above the water... it has my pale skin spoiled in it's liquid chambers, entwined with colours of barely-there pinks. transparent water, transparent affliction.


my arm leans over one side of my chamber. my fingertips almost hitting the floor.

maybe not.