you’ve manifested magick in the mundane, but it is still only 6:22 p.m. on a Thursday
a gateway to sugar— a poached void — mimes a barren sternum
this is just your heart trying to get comfortable inside your chest in short, in essence— in all the words I try to say to make this sound\\\\ ornate
you are headed the right direction you are always encouraged to articulate you are built for self-destruction you are built to clean up the mess you made
