i. Concept: We’re sitting by the root of a tree and the grass is glowing about our feet. I have flowers laced in my hair and my heart is warm ii. not from the sizzle of weeping lava, the smouldering of ignored feeling, and not from the pulse of thick blood bubbling out, bleeding across soft skin, but, from the sun and precious books made of comforting paper. iii. Her, my brain: why don’t you… can’t you… see this article… this man died today, was just shot by police… your vote makes citizenship… of me and them… our friendship is slipping… has slipped, covering the town in earth: people are missing… where are you? Me: *sighs* idk iv. Somewhere between melting point and success or somewhere between fairy magic and html, the girl, fights subtly, not to be enmeshed in apples and essays and Instagram and oil paint and u… she teases her soul from her chest, although she tries not to (mind you, the tears are dry), and leaves it in places she’s never been and with people she’s never seen, rather, met. Will they fight with her? v. It’s the least you could do… Seen: 12:42 vi. And I ought to take a bite of this peach. I ought to dare, but just because I’ve unlearnt everything in relation to you, or to them, my heart still trembles when I think of me in relation to them… or you… Or you, when we have violets in our hair. Sometimes, I feel it scraping against rib bone and I learn why they told us that we feel from our hearts, where our bodies are constant, steady and sure, and not from our brains, where we are soft and squishy, and where tissue is made of little more than concepts. It’s a shame they lied, I misunderstood for so long, let my heart and brain become one… I like that about me… but, me, or her, and me, we… ought to be, considering the girl we were, so much more than neurons and red blood cells. ✱✱✱
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