No walls to tower over your chest. No hours spent studying your glass reflection to pick apart your shell until your insides are on display, shattering ribs and blank window stares. Did you let yourself go? Can I set myself free... Our analytical minds, like birds picking at what's wasting in the skull, a slow disintegration into the body of the earth. She spits your pieces back out, and you begin to find yourself, desperate and confused, searching for another shell that will crack you until you're empty again. Lust is torturous wonderment with ribbons plastered around our eyes.
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