there is an arrow jammed into your heart and you try to pull it out but drops of blood are running down the shaft and staining your hand. we don’t sleep on clouds, clouds watch over us like secret angels on the brink of something big. they flap their birdswings and drift into the atmosphere, getting lost along the way. we scream with bloodied throats at rain that falls like daggers, silver and sharp and making our flesh crawl. the gods look down upon us, their divinity crushing our backs until our spines have dwindled into a pile of matchsticks. inside caves are crystals and silence, broken so easily by just a little noise. it calls to us like foghorns, and we paddle our submerged souls like schools of fish. butterfly wings are precious commodities, sewn together by the needle of the universe. god is a seamstress, we are all woven.
child, this is the language of the universe // j.d.k.
(i am high as all fuck right now so if this makes no sense that would be the culprit!)
