Untitled 2


it didn't look like a scratch as much as it did a butterfly. without wings, of course. and he thought it strange, when the ring had streaked across his jawline, that the metal on skin made him feel much more alive than the angel dust sprinkled in his blood. or perhaps, it was the drug taking over and the metal adding that little extra something something.

so when he was on the floor of his flat two hours later, reflecting upon this, while watching his reflection on the million dollar picture window, that he thought to cry.

five hours passed before he got up. six hours passed before he got dressed. seven, no... , .... , eight, before he got undressed. and hid himself under white covers. after he had locked his doors, that is.



afternote* /i don't like this, it's too choppy/