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look at the weapon i’ve made of myself. you want to cut yourself on me, don’t you?

save your prayers, god is not here with us now.

these violent delights have violent ends.

a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

i am selfish, i am broken, i am cruel. i am all the things they might have said to you.

he is not his father.

you hold me close, inside the slaughter.

love opened a mortal wound. in agony, i worked the blade to make it deeper. please, i begged, let death come quick.

i am so weak in your arms, but, for once, i am not afraid.

i believe in god sometimes, but i believe in god the most when i imagine a god who has my mother’s laugh.

i made you. every part of you comes from me.

what is love if not rot?

you won’t stop packing your bags, even with one hand inside me.

i shot an angel with my father’s rifle. i should have set it free, but i let it bleed, made it into taxidermy and hung it on my wall.

why’d you do this to me? i was your baby. you made me.

i’m afraid for a lot of things, but mostly, most sincerely, i am afraid of being completely unraveled by you, and you finding nothing you want in here.

a husband or a child can be replaced, but who can grow me a new brother?

we are going to burn together, but you are going to perish alone.

i still don’t know how to love someone without swallowing them.

blood shed so long ago it has, with age, acquired the color and texture of rust. sad, ominous stains, a threat, a menace, memorials of pain.