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BLACK VOID, DESOLATION IN MOON-ECLIPSED. (@BJINWOO.)
The blue pill in my hand like a secret, a sapphire teardrop on a cold anvil. Yes, I speak in the wilted tongues of violets, their crushed petals pressed between the ribs of my chest. Their purple bruises smear my breath, did the river once love the driftwood it tossed onto its banks? Did the algae love the stone it painted slick and green? Bless the salt-stung tongues. Bless the bones that ache beneath this weight of living; spilling in thick rivulets, slow as honey. I am no river, no algae, no stone—only the rot that creeps into the cracks, filling what was already fractured. When my tears carve valleys into my cheeks, tell me, starmaker, do violets grow where angels fall?
BLACK VOID, DESOLATION IN MOON-ECLIPSED. (@BJINWOO.)
The blue pill in my hand like a secret, a sapphire teardrop on a cold anvil. Yes, I speak in the wilted tongues of violets, their crushed petals pressed between the ribs of my chest. Their purple bruises smear my breath, did the river once love the driftwood it tossed onto its banks? Did the algae love the stone it painted slick and green? Bless the salt-stung tongues. Bless the bones that ache beneath this weight of living; spilling in thick rivulets, slow as honey. I am no river, no algae, no stone—only the rot that creeps into the cracks, filling what was already fractured. When my tears carve valleys into my cheeks, tell me, starmaker, do violets grow where angels fall?