𝘈𝘋𝘋𝘐𝘚𝘖𝘕 𝘊𝘖𝘙𝘋𝘈𝘠

i can observe my own body cut open, without suffering! see myself all the way down to my entrails; a new mirror stage. i can see to the heart of my lover; his splendid design has nothing to do with sickly sentimentalities.

freedom is a length of rope, god wants you to hang yourself with it.

( long fingers delicately pull at the wrapping — when was the last time she’d been given a present? hard to say. ) Are you — are you sure? It just feels wrong, opening something if you have nothing.

I — didn’t get you anything.

…why?

Squirming away from the touch like she’s been scalded. “Fucking — what?”