vieveila

nobody told me about lightning up the sky in purple waves or surrounding myself with pearls of glass, copper wire and midnight coffee could make my lungs feel so much like blue painted porcelain and nobody told me that letting colours fold over my mind like a blanket (with a scent of old leaves, damp air and apple trees) or turning my eyes into little black buttons and my hair into yarn could make me feel so productive while white shadows and fading traces of ghosts, transparancy etched into a silver web, catching flying specks of dust in the air, convince me that drowning is a good (only) way to stay down and I (wish I could) tell you in