Dear Mathilde Corbeil,
I miss my computer.
Empty house, empty stomach.
bcbg is driving me insane—> turning into something unfamiliar.
I want to feel, I want to cry. I want to scream, I want to fuck.
Tall ceilings, hollow cup. bones protrude, acid ribs. pink blankets, grandma wine, ocean stares. wet skin, rooftop air, warm sun.
dirty people, the grime of bad energy, sweltry eroding
running after your foot. snakes around my ankles, snakes around my ankles.
I miss Alimaa egch.
Intrigued by confessionals, I might go this Saturday.
or the wizard
still trying for that.
The thing I want.
STOOOOOP, dont do anything about it.
I always like her better.
like this for example, maybe I’ll find something in it later.