Daylight drains sanguine in tubes like a corpse’s emissions at the morgue. I will not be so easy for him to break, I say as I gnaw on my bespoke hands. Above the stairwell of my blue heart, a portrait of Dorian Gray, aging like archeology.
Daylight drains sanguine in tubes like a corpse’s emissions at the morgue. I will not be so easy for him to break, I say as I gnaw on my bespoke hands. Above the stairwell of my blue heart, a portrait of Dorian Gray, aging like archeology.
Miniature Moon 