thecoymistress

there is a bird sitting on every heart, and with each subsequent beat it looks as if it is caught in fear, and becomes very still against the shadow of something massive when you age, there will be inevitables. sooner or later it will be a week of afternoons before you can fold yourself up again, and breathe in the artificial quality of dreams once more, because the things you know are not ones that can be put to paper, they are abstract and boiling, like something red erupting underneath the sea, the sheer white ricochet and spasm of childbirth. they are an exhibit in the museum no one understands, and that the lear