You and I are everywhere.
We are made of atoms, and those little fuckers are everywhere, holy shit there’s armies and armies of them.
I want your atoms and my atoms to touch. To turn into each other.
Our micro cells will combine and the most beautiful dust will form, I’ll be even happier not to clean it.
Think of how spiritual that would be. Little pieces of us coming together and leaving our bodies where ever they choose to go.
The heat given off will be so holy, we’ll be in the place with angel feathers and golden streets. Flowers won’t just be growing in the ground, they’ll be growing in my veins, and fuck I can’t wait.
But you don’t want my skin. And you don’t want me.
You don’t want to be the clay that fills my cracks, you don’t want to clean the mess I’ll always be. You think I’m too broken for you; too closed off, please don’t agree with my mother.
The thing is, my skin cells are padlocks that are waiting to be open. My heart is a bee waiting to sting and die.
My body is a tree, way too deep in the forest, but it will always be too fucking ready to fall down for you.
But like trees, grass, and the moon, I’ll keep going with or without you.