sea queen house ghost

aesthetic: standing in the kitchen in cute underwear at terrible hours of the night staring at a tiny piece of my mother’s favorite glass in the soft part between my thumb and finger: someone write a poem because i can’t

i broke a glass and it’s almost three o’clock and there’s glass in my hand and the feeling makes me want to throw up and i have no idea what has been wrong with the last three days and usually i can tell and i can’t and it’s awful and there are no owls or coyotes and it’s the last day of september and bugs are dying and now there’s glass in my hand

i’m always fighting four am

there’s a cricket in the house and i’ve spent the last forty minutes sitting on the floor trying to coax him out of this gap in the baseboard he’s hiding in because he’s alone in here and i want to put him outside so he can fall in love but he’s scared and keeps running back inside every time he comes out to sing and i move a tiny bit and i’m in tears 

i can’t crack my knuckles i can’t crack any of my bones virgin skeleton etc but sometimes i want someone to break my fingers 


i. when i said i’d make you a crown of thorns and you didn’t speak to me for three days
ii. turning your pockets inside out in the kitchen in the middle of the night, it’s all broken bolts and cotter pins and river silt
iii. this is the kind of love you’ll never grow out of, it’s making you wake up sick in the morning, you can’t breathe around it 
iv. us in the front yard where the dogs have left blood and fur on the wet grass, and it’s still dark
v. the sound of windows breaking all night
vi. when i have to lick the words out of your mouth, when the ghosts of your baby teeth are still cutting me
vii. you cracking your knuckles, letting the wheel spin under your fingers, god forbid we both come out of this alive

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