:-( i keep my threads torn, the glitter is damp with old sleep, i wear my heart like a stained ribbon. the world thinks i'm pretty because i smile when the stitches pop. i whisper my sins to the static and the static answers back: you are beautiful when you rot.
☠ old ascii eyes stare at me from the forums. i type confession after confession: "i love broken things" — it prints as a scream in red. the dolls have been fed with lullabies of magnets and nails. i call it fashion, they call it fear.
"i am not sick. i am curated."