i slip up and tell you my favourite colour is angel bones and my favourite feeling is you. i am either a compulsive liar or hopelessly hopeful. there is nothing resplendent about being wrapped tightly in skin and clothing, and stuck in the fetal position until sentient rigor mortis sinks in.

i am hiding starstrings in the scratches in my throat like bleached leeches latching onto leaking veins. you would tear down the wallpaper like some sort of wild child, claws or talons or overlong fingernails, and run them lengthwise from ceiling to floor. you were uninhibited, you scared me - you were beautiful.

i fantasise about watching the tendons peel from my elbows and cascade down my fingertips, unravelling like a child finding his mother replying to his letter to santa claus. i feel like a honeybee on repeat, infinite beeps and buzzes running across my nerves until i realise how easy it would be to snap my own neck.

i stand with my skin dropped round my ankles, ready to pull my feet loose and leave it behind. i could be like you, maybe. i could be beautiful, too.