bugs and animals

parasocial connection. buzzing your hair off in the bathroom mirror. more, more, more; skin, bone, tissue, fat. more of a handful and less to handle.

what is there to see through a stained glass window? what is there to feel? what is there to prove?

the clacking of keys is the sound of divinity — the taste of loneliness is as close to holiness as allowance will let you. ‘here’s my hand, there’s the itch, but i’m not supposed to scratch.’

pink sinks and bloodied nail-beds line the walls. you’re not going to find what you’re looking for here. why are you here?