it isn't hate, i suppose, just the hot temper and surge of being forlorn.
it isn't hopelessness, just fear of pain and of dealing pain.
the world is a strange, unspeakable place. i make myself a blanket. one short stitch at a time.
the things i long for are too hard to name (though i know exactly what they are). i have their textures close at hand. the colors i love best are tucked deep in my heart and folded against my eyelids. certain voices have nailed themselves in side my ear. there are days when their deep purr is all i hear and all i care to hear.