it's meee I'm your guardian angel hiiiiii đ okayđ so. in about six months, you're gonna die of starvation. đ„ș and if I don't protect you, I will get: #fired! đ«ą and that is No Good đ ââïž hahaaa So. đ I looked into causes of starvation, and it turns out: Your death is totally preventable! đŻ Uh oh! đ There's more than enough food to sustain you without interfering with anyone else's survival, but you're not allowed to have it! đ€š Whaaat? đ€·ââïž Apparently, your death is premeditated by thousands of things called "shareholders." So. đ I've been killing people,
I decided to write one of these because it seemed like a fun challenge.
Plaintext version below the cut:
Kim Kitsuragi
straighten your back, soldier. youâve been waiting for a chance, a smile hidden behind the shell of the world. your longing leaves you tender.
you gave up your fight. you burned out for this: mundane authority. you made yourself ice. I will keep control. I wonâtâ
I will stay perfect and lonely as the moon. when you touch, it is only burned out houses against the empty sky.
Harry Du Bois
under the weight of the world, alone, the sunrise brings you empty bottles, and regret peels away your skin. leaves you a raw nerve.
love left you, and you betrayed yourself. pale in the winter. melting in the springtime. your dreams, your memories flinch away from you
until you wake, hung over. your head aches. your burning lungs wish to become an explosion of fireworks.
Together
straighten your back under the weight. soldier of the world, youâve been alone waiting for the sunrise. a chance brings you a smile, hidden behind empty bottles and regret. the shell of the world peels away. your longing leaves you. your skin, tender, leaves you a raw nerve.Â
you gave up love. your fight left you. you burned out and you betrayed yourself for this pale, mundane authority. in the winter, you made yourself melting. ice, in the springtime. I will keep your dreams. Control your memories. I wonât flinch away from you.Â
I will stay until you wake, perfect and lonely as hung the moon over your head. when you touch, it aches, is only your burning lungs. burned out houses wish to become, against the empty sky, an explosion of fireworks.Â
germansingergirl
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theartofmadeline
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