Work Text:
..Aaron kisses me, and every missing piece of myself
c l i c ks
reconciled
Yes, I do
I do remember the realization of wholeness.
I gaze somberly at the page until the trance dies into the unreadable black scrawls. Frost bites my skin as I ward over the hearth-like warmth of my fairytale. The vent ahead raises its monotonous humming, reminding me of my occupation, my entrapment, what little has changed beyond my worsening body odor and abysmal madness.
12 books.
Each a portrait of a life that is not mine,
A girl whom I will never be.
I cradle them in my arms, feeling maternal.
All these false comrades.
All these romantic passions.
I tear every last page until girthed by a snowfall of fragmented papers.
Art is half creating, half destroying.
You tear yourself apart and stitch the pieces in another world.