I'm a decaying piece of organic matter, but you can call me Claire. I'm a bookworm, isolated in the depths of non-reality, I live in splotches of color and orangey sunsets-- sometimes even in the absence of color at all, like a boring newspaper spread on Sunday mornings. I breath and long, intricate sentences come out, weaved neatly of beautiful adjectives and solemn metaphors. I whisper activism in my deepest sleep. I am alive in the most ways possible, I have an eye for beauty and an ear for music. I sit alone sometimes and ask the world why I'm here, and I still haven't got much of an answer. I will never give up on asking. I will never stop thinking, and I like that about myself.
Keeeennannn Raaavvee.
You’re so close to me that when you left I felt our hands tearing apart
My entire left side, flesh ripped and second half extracted
Tore off and handcuffed, dragged off,
I feel the absence of you and it aches me
It aches my poor swollen skin and bone
It hurts my heart that’s bleeding out from where you once were
It’s safe to say you are my friend,
still my second half
After all, if someone were to rip out your heart
it would still be yours.
