my language is a tongue that licks the remains of my heart, my language is the after taste of bitter lemons stuck on the roof of my mouth.
my language is a tongue irreplaceable, indefinable and infinite, it keeps me on the edge and wraps around me like warm nights in spring.
my language hurts when i speak, kicks the back of my teeth when i beg for it to be let out, my language is a blubbering mess of words that i don't understand anymore because your language has contaminated mine.
i stomach my language for days on sticky humid nights, most when i talk to you, it stays / and stays / and stays and then gradually i forget, forget the meaning it was supposed to hold when it was still in my stomach.
on some days my language is the air i breathe, it's the oxygen that runs around in my lungs and the blood that i feel flows on my wrist, my language is a remain of the remains.
and neither was wylan. or matthias. and inej hadn’t taken on the crow and cup tattoo that full members of the dregs must all carry. yall keep on acting like you have to be a gold-star dreg to be a main character in the novel then ur not gonna be left with any main characters
aw yee. hey punks i changed my url (again) so here we go
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scent: vanilla | lavender | grapefruit | cinnamon | coffee | sea breeze
sounds: piano | violin | acoustic guitar | guzheng | old vocals | flute
places: curled beside the fireplace | snuggled beneath the sheets | picnic at the beach | downtown shopping streets | the stage before a performance
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jason: dust to dust. ashes to ashes. but you have never been the type to forgive
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