❀

Sometimes I wish my stomach was made out of some soft clay. I’d dig my fingers in and gently mold it away, let my organs spill out. I’d carefully hollow the rest out like gutting a pumpkin, take out all the pieces that hurt and rot and replace it with something beautiful. Maybe I’d try and grow a plant. I could use the old organs as fertilizer maybe, put them to good use for once. I’d have to keep it from consuming me completely, but it’d be a part of me, branches growing out of the hollow rungs of my ribs and soothing my lungs with fresh oxygen. If it could grow fruit I’d eat it, just for the innocent intimacy of consuming oneself. Like if cannibalism was softer, sweeter.

I don’t even know if this fits the category, but I’m incredibly bored and dysphoric  /: