Falling is sitting still. My hands, they tremble in unforgivable nature, they whimper for their own touch, just like how you begged, beg, are begging. My neck down, marbles rolling in the bicep, forearm, thumbs like scarecrows when you see them. And when you can't, they are lightposts, they are houses built for warmth and suffering, for laughter and beds. And when you can, they are here to work you instead, your mind and your flesh, your hollowness to explore and your fullness to consume. If I have grown to fill the space of some god in your eyes, am I not something divine? Or, if I have grown to fill that space in my own, am I not wholly God?
©another
A