— survival isn’t powdered sugar. it tastes of copper, ashes, lake mud. survival tastes like the fistfight of every time you got told you weren’t worth enough to make it. survival tastes like the fistfight of every time you pulled yourself out of bed anyway. // a boy in the dawn, his dry lips knitting hymns: let this day make me wolfish & clean. baptize me in the blood of all my anxieties. i want to return from the journey breathless but alive. // how many days have we stood still, holding the weight of planet-sized sorrows in our lungs? no longer. this is the noon where we take the hospital bracelets off our hearts & teach ourselves how to run again. (x)
What food do you despise the most?
I eat pretty much anything, but smaller versions of larger things freak
me out. Like poussins. Also the idea of a chicken omelette, that’s like
eating mother and baby together.