you, the moon— or something like that— something always out of reach, something I cannot grasp desperate with my hands— the open flame, maybe? taunting, bright, flickering, flickering, flickering. or the undercurrent of the river? dragging me down, letting the water wrinkle my skin like every forgotten love letter crumpled up in a landfill somewhere. are you the wolf in the closet? the secret, the danger, what the body longs to become. the crack in the temple floor? unholy and defiant, always whisperingi’m here, i’m here, nothing stays pure forever.
Emily Palermo, Metaphors and the Like (via starredsoul)
















