(no subject)
the winter is brittle. it chokes and grieves on the bones of autumn. and there is this silence. a thick, bitter silence invading the marrow of the inevitable and the tangible, pasty between pale fingers. this child, this silence, comfortable in the wells of winter but fumbling awkwardly in your arms. and how do we keep our hands to ourselves? how do we keep from strangling each other? how do we stop our fingers from poignantly arching about the neck of this stillness? there are things here, buried and alive,
and fragments. fragments of the selves we broke. we shattered and sacrificed on familar shores in the name of love and vengeance, in the name of silence. how do we break down these walls? and how do we keep from screaming? how can we keep from aching when the wind comes? in the winter, everything is grey. in the winter, silence is a child-king and screams are forbidden. we are storms and glass and constant change.
13 pictures;
i am a hint of silly and a dash of sex. and i'm a little nervous.
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plus every single flaw.
and fragments. fragments of the selves we broke. we shattered and sacrificed on familar shores in the name of love and vengeance, in the name of silence. how do we break down these walls? and how do we keep from screaming? how can we keep from aching when the wind comes? in the winter, everything is grey. in the winter, silence is a child-king and screams are forbidden. we are storms and glass and constant change.
13 pictures;
i am a hint of silly and a dash of sex. and i'm a little nervous.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
plus every single flaw.